The Enemy Within

With an effort, Hassan Qalib concealed both his disgust and his amazement at the sight of so much godless luxury and so much waste. Everywhere the young Somali looked he saw excess and idolatry. Idolatry in the way these Americans taught their young to love and worship these mythical beasts, these cartoon characters. Excess in the half-eaten food they so casually discarded. The trash cans were full of hamburgers, hot dogs, french fries, and other foodstuffs that could have fed a family in Mogadishu for nearly a week.

Qalib caught sight of himself reflected in a storefront and scowled inwardly. He, too, appeared contaminated by this evil land and way of life. Three months on a typical American diet had added kilos of muscle and fat to a normally bony frame. The extra weight made him less conspicuous, but it also made him look bloated and alien when compared to the older self of memory.

To complete the masquerade as a park-goer, he wore typically American casual clothes: khaki slacks, brown loafers, and a light grey windbreaker over a more colorful Mickey Mouse-emblazoned sweatshirt. In his right hand he carried a large plastic bag full of gift-wrapped packages purchased several days ago from one of the hotel souvenir shops by another member of his special action cell.

Ahead of him the jostling crowds began forming lines as they approached a row of turnstiles and uniformed employees at the entrance to the Disneyland Hotel monorail station. He joined one of the lines.

With an effort, Qalib forced himself to smile politely as he showed a young white woman his Magic Kingdom passport. The ticket guaranteed him all-day admittance to the park and all its attractions. It also cost more than most people in his starving homeland earned in a month. The Somali was careful to smile with his mouth closed. Anyone who saw his stained and broken teeth would not have mistaken him for a college-age, middle-class American black man. She glanced at the passport and nodded him through the turnstile with a chirpy, impersonal “Have a nice day!”

Still smiling faintly, he took the stairs up to the platform and blended in with the other eager tourists waiting for the futuristic transport that would take them to the “happiest place on Earth.”

He did not have to wait long.

The sleek bullet shape of the train came into sight almost immediately, gliding noiselessly along a gleaming monorail that ran above the vast Disneyland parking lot and crossed the street to the hotel station. Doors slid open as soon as it braked to a complete stop. People leaving the theme park disembarked in a chattering rush. Only a smattering of them, Qalib noted. The arriving train had been almost empty. That was good.

Once those leaving were clear of the platform, he and his fellow passengers were allowed to board. Each car held up to sixteen passengers, and the Somali chose one near the middle. A man and woman holding hands with a bright-eyed toddler took the seat facing him. The door hissed shut behind them.

Qalib ignored them, and concentrated instead on double checking the routine the train attendants followed before departure. What he saw was reassuring. A single uniformed employee hurried down the row of compartments, hastily making sure the doors were properly secured. The young man paid little attention to anything or anyone else.

The Somali nodded to himself. Corporate cost-cutting had been shrinking Disneyland’s total work force for years. And now, with the start of the flu season, the park was said to be particularly shorthanded. That would make his task easier.

With a barely perceptible jerk, the monorail slid out of the station and accelerated toward Tomorrowland Station.

Several minutes later, after a rapid run around the back half of the park, the train braked as gently as it had accelerated, gliding to a stop at a platform overlooking a large artificial lagoon. The grey and white bulk of the Matterhorn loomed in the middle distance. The ride was somewhat shorter than he’d expected, Qalib realised, but still well within the time parameters laid down by his controller.

The Somali stayed behind when everybody else got off. Nobody paid much attention to him. Anyone with a valid ticket to the park could ride the monorail as many times as they wanted.

As he had hoped, there were only a handful of people waiting to board for the return trip. It was still early enough in the day so that tourists were pouring into Disneyland, not out of it. This time, as the train pulled out, he had the compartment all to himself.