by C. X. Moreau
Within a few days other members of the Brotherhood had arrived from Beirut. They came to celebrate the completion of Rifat’s and Awaad’s training. There had been a lot of talk of great victories, courageous deeds, and devotion to Islam and the Prophet. Rifat and Awaad were treated with a new respect by the members of the Brotherhood.
After a day of rest Awaad, his brothers Marwan and Ahmud, and the Syrian officer had driven to Beirut. Once there they had gone to a house Awaad had never seen before. Each day the Syrian had taken him for endless hours of aimless driving. He could now drive the two paths to the U.S. Embassy from memory, and he could recognize the building without fail from any angle.
Each day of driving had built his confidence and sharpened his skills. Yesterday he had told the Syrian that he was ready and they had driven past the embassy. The Syrian had taken the wheel in order that Awaad might take a better look at the entrance. Later, they had parked the vehicle and strolled down the corniche, stopping in front of the embassy long enough to buy pastries and fresh almonds from a street vendor.
As they looked at the photos the Syrian had told Awaad that he would be close by, saying that he would take photographs of Awaad’s moment of triumph. The Syrian had stressed, over and over again, that Awaad could make only one pass. He must not drive by the embassy, then return to it. The security guards would suspect a trick and possibly prevent Awaad from entering the embassy compound. Awaad knew why the Syrian would be close by, and why he insisted that Awaad make only the single pass. He thinks that I might not have the courage to do it. If he sees me go past the embassy he will use his radio device to detonate the bomb, and I will die anyway. Awaad smiled to himself, I won’t fail, he thought.
After he finished washing Awaad prayed. He knew that he was capable of the task before him, and asked only that Allah smile on him and grant him that many Americans might be in the building when he reached it. He heard the Syrian approach from down the hall and rose from the floor. As the Syrian unlocked the door Awaad smiled again. Today is my day, he thought, and mine alone. He looked into the impassive face of the Syrian, who asked, “Will you take breakfast with me?”
“No. I am ready now,” he answered.
“It is too early. We must wait until nine-thirty or ten o’clock so that the staff will be in their places working. Everything must be perfect. You may wait here until I call for you.” As the Syrian began to close the door Awaad asked, “Why do you lock the door? I am not Salem.”
The Syrian regarded him briefly, then shrugged. “As you wish,” he replied. Awaad knew that he would be just down the hall, sitting at his desk, facing the only door that led out of the small house. Still he did not like the Syrian and even so small a point as this, once conceded by the Syrian, was a point of pride for Awaad.
Awaad looked on as a shining black Chevrolet Blazer pulled into the walled courtyard below him. The Syrian officer went outside and spoke to the driver. The two men spent about one hour finishing the wiring of the explosives. The Syrian checked each connection that led to the various packages of explosives concealed throughout the small truck’s interior. Side panels had been removed, as had the box for the tools, even the spare tire had been packed full of explosives. Each package of explosives was wired separately to the switch that acted as a trigger. Ideally, the explosives would all detonate simultaneously, producing an enormously destructive explosion.
The Syrian officer knew from experience that the jolting of the vehicle could loosen even the best connections, or in other ways disturb the wiring harness. He had therefore installed three independent firing mechanisms. The secondary wiring harness was color coded black, and paralleled that of the first. It was virtually identical to the primary system, with one important exception. Built into the system was a pressure sensitive switch under the driver’s seat. This feature was activated by a toggle switch mounted in the rear of the vehicle. Once the driver was seated, and the toggle switch was thrown, the circuit was complete. Should the driver take his weight off the seat after the circuit had been completed and the system armed, the switch would detonate the explosives, killing the driver and whoever else happened to be in the vicinity. He would personally fasten the driver’s safety belt, which once locked, could not be unlocked by the driver.
The third system was also a precaution against a last minute change of heart by the driver. Buried within each pack of plastic explosives was an electric blasting cap attached to a thin receiver. A small wire ran from each blasting cap to the vehicle’s aerial. Should a driver fail to detonate the car bomb at the most opportune moment, the Syrian would be close by with a handheld radio transmitter and he would send a signal on a preset frequency that would detonate the explosives.
He was rather proud of his wiring arrangement. He had perfected it over the course of some months by the trial and error method. Until now he had not failed to do at least substantial damage to a target. Only rarely did the driver have an opportunity to actually detonate his own bomb, and thus bring about his own death. He had found that they tended to either not detonate it at all, or to do it too late to take full advantage of the explosives’ potential.
He had made something of a reputation for himself among his fellow officers. He was known as a man who did not fail. He was proud of his reputation, and he guarded his techniques and procedures closely.
He had refused all orders to return to Damascus and become an instructor for other officers. He had no desire to share his knowledge, and he knew it was a measure of the esteem in which he was held that he was not forced back to Damascus. No one questions success, he reasoned.
He again checked the trigger assembly, and the connections to the wiring harness. This was his most important mission and he had no desire to see it ruined by mechanical failure. The vehicle had been prepared during the previous week in Damascus by technicians skilled in such matters, and the preparations had been supervised by his most trusted sergeant, Farouck. The men who had prepared it had been held at a barracks outside of Damascus while the project was in progress and would remain at this barracks until the completion of the mission.
He insisted on such precautions to prevent even the slightest hint of his preparations leaking to a foreign agent. More than one Arab operation had been met by Israeli commandos just as they hit the beach in some secluded part of Israel. He was convinced that the Mossad had thoroughly penetrated the Syrian government and armed forces, and this belief, combined with his knowledge of other types of electronic and satellite surveillance, was enough to make him go to any lengths to protect his operations.
After the vehicle had been wired and the system checked and rechecked by Farouck and the technicians, it had been held in a warehouse outside of Damascus until he had called for it. Once he had contacted Farouck and instructed him where to bring the vehicle in Beirut it had simply been a matter of waiting and watching the boy for signs that he might not have the nerve to go through with the operation. Farouck had driven the truck from Damascus with an escort of two security vehicles. They had left during the early evening hours so as to avoid any aerial surveillance and, to anyone who might have cared to watch, appeared as no more than casual traffic headed for the Lebanese capital. They had arrived some three hours after departing Damascus and returned to Syria the next day after their crews spent the night in a comfortable hotel in the city.
As soon as the security men were out of sight, he and Farouck had driven to the house where the boy was being held. No one knew the location of this house, not his controllers in Syria, not the boy’s fellow militiamen, or even Farouck prior to his arrival. He did not communicate with his superiors from this location, and he had even taken the precaution of removing the telephone so as to ensure the boy could not make any calls from the house.
He had rented the house almost one year earlier from a Lebanese who was known for his discretion and who was an absentee landlord, choosing to spend most of his time in Paris since the advent of the violence in his native Beirut. The h
ouse was located in a modest but peaceful part of the city and had a small courtyard and large garage. A stone wall fronted the street and an iron gate was the only way to enter. The Lebanese landlord believed him to be a merchant who had relocated to Beirut to take advantage of the panic atmosphere in the city in order to make huge profits by importing foodstuffs from Syria and the Bekka Valley. The man had understood when he explained that he did not want to buy property, even at greatly reduced prices, in a city with so uncertain a future as Beirut. The Lebanese had offered to rent him this house, which he explained while modest, was comfortable and offered privacy and peace. He had agreed to the rental and paid six months’ rent at their next meeting. The Syrian had signed an option to rent for another six months using false identification papers he had acquired without the help of his superiors. At the end of the first six-month period he had simply mailed a cashier’s check to his landlord with a note explaining that he might want another six-month option and would the man be so kind as to forward him the paperwork. His Lebanese host had done so, the paperwork arriving promptly one week later.
During the previous six months he had used the house sporadically, but never in connection with a mission and he had never taken anyone to it. He had spent time there on occasion so as to give it the appearance of being occupied. He had also installed a timing device, purchased from a hardware store in Paris, that turned the lights of the house on and off in a logical and random manner. Although he had not met any of his neighbors he was confident that had they been asked by someone about the occupants of the house they would have answered that he seemed to be a good neighbor, quiet and never any trouble.
He had also taken care whenever approaching the house to clean himself of any possible surveillance. This he did by walking or driving a circuitous route that allowed him to detect anyone who might be following him. Often he would spend hours doing this to ensure that no team of agents, enemy or his own, was behind him. Although he had never detected surveillance in Beirut, he always checked for it, and now felt secure in bringing Farouck and the boy to the house.
After his inspection he was confident that the wiring had survived the trip from Damascus intact, and that the job had been done properly. The thought crossed his mind that this mission, while not his most difficult, was his most daring. He had not told Farouck what the target was, and he was not certain he would. Although he trusted Farouck and knew him to be reliable, there was no real reason to tell him.
He would ask Farouck to talk to the boy. He was interested in Farouck’s evaluation of him. He had not been able to find any common ground with the boy and that thought nagged him. Everything depended on him. He must get close enough to the embassy for the explosive to do real damage. If he drove by and the detonation took place on the street only minor damage would be done to the building and perhaps a few people would be injured or killed. He wanted a stunning event that would draw the international news media and shock the world community.
He sighed. All the mechanics were in place. He had done everything he could to ensure the mission achieved the maximum effect and success. The rest was up to the boy. He had been selected with care, chosen over the other because he was a bit more naive and had the light of a true believer in his eyes. It was a shame to waste him on this when the real test would not come for some months. But success today was critical, and he was more certain of Awaad than Rifat at this point.
Two hours later he strolled casually along the sidewalk, glancing at the sea as it shimmered in the morning light. The day was slightly overcast, and a chill hung in the air. He had driven by the location at least half of a dozen times in the past two weeks. No hotel was close enough to serve his purpose, so he had finally decided on a different course of action. Before he had always taken a room within sight of his target. Preferably a room on the higher floors, to eliminate any object that might interfere with the radio signal. He preferred to strike early in the morning. Men who have stood a long midnight shift are at their worst in the hours before dawn, and just before they are relieved. Weekends were also good. So were Mondays and holidays if the target were a Westerner. Like a lion he would wait in his lair for the pride to do his bidding. He would not eat until it had been done.
The first time he had expected the driver to detonate it himself, and this expectation had almost ruined the whole operation. The man had driven his vehicle onto the sidewalk in front of the target, then sprung from the vehicle and run. Automatically his hand had gone to the radio detonator and nothing had happened. He had looked on in horror as guards emerged from the building. Reflexively he had hit the radio detonator again. A split second later the target, and the bomber, had been ripped apart by the explosion.
Afterward he had been sick. Not at the idea of what he had done, but because of the fear of a near failure. The target had actually survived the blast, a fact that caused him more than a little worry.
He had spent a nervous few hours listening to local news reports and hoping for the man to succumb. While his prey clung to life he had debated his next move. Should the man live another attempt would have to be made while the security forces were at their highest state of alert. If he did not finish the job, and do so in short order, he would face almost certain reprisals in Damascus. To allow the man to live after a bungled attempt was unthinkable. The president of Syria had publicly declared him a personal enemy. To the rest of the Arab world that meant the man was marked for death. For an attempt to be made unsuccessfully was a loss of face for the president among his fellow Arabs. While the president seethed he would be made to pay for his mistakes. Better a chance of success fighting the security forces of his target than a certain slow death in some cell in Damascus. Mercifully, the man had died in his hospital bed within hours of the bungled attempt.
Since then he had worked constantly to refine his plan of attack. The key was that each target held its own unique set of circumstances, and these dictated variations on the general theme. He had also found that the older bombers were not the best for the job. Nor were those with even limited education. With men such as these it was always necessary to trigger the detonation himself. He surmised that they knew enough about life to treasure it, even if they came to the realization when it was too late.
He had found that younger boys made the best bombers. Especially those boys who were from the small villages. Perhaps because they knew so little of life, or that their lives were so without pleasure, they were willing to give them up. Again, each boy was different. Each one a puzzle to be studied, and shaped into a weapon. A mechanism really. He was the weapon, they were simply one of the components that allowed it to function.
The Syrian realized that this boy was perhaps a little different from the others. This boy was simple, but not without intelligence. The Syrian knew the boy disliked him, but also realized that he must do his bidding in order to accomplish their mutual goal. Long ago he had dismissed his own faith, but this boy had a real belief. Not fanaticism exactly, just a very strong, very basic faith. He thinks he is the one who is using me, thought the Syrian. He feels unclean associating with me.
Offering him the woman had been a mistake. He was not sure why, but it had been. He had almost lost him then. He had compounded his error by laughing in front of the boy’s brothers and the other members of the Brotherhood. But he was certain of this boy, he would detonate the bomb himself. That was rare.
Allowing him to train with the weapons was the master stroke. He saw the light in the boy’s eyes, and he knew then that he had struck this boy’s center and that when his moment came he would not fail. He smiled to himself. Presenting the boy with the pistol this morning had been another inspired idea. He had toyed with the idea of presenting it in the name of the president of Syria, but decided against it. That would have meant nothing to this boy who had his own reasons and motivations. The Syrian knew, without understanding, that this boy paid homage to a higher figure than Assad.
He took a seat at a table on the sidewal
k, two hundred meters from the embassy. It wasn’t an ideal position but he was well within range of the transmitter and he had a good line of sight to the front of the building. As he ordered coffee he patted the transmitter in his jacket pocket.
He fretted momentarily as a large truck drove by, blocking his view of the target. Such a truck would also block the signal from the transmitter. He scouted the street for a secondary location, and seeing none he decided to move across the street and stand on the sidewalk. He almost rose from the chair, then settled back down to wait for his coffee. An odd thought occurred to him, that it added excitement to the game if he waited where he was. He was equally sure the boy would detonate the device as planned, still, he enjoyed the thrill of the possibility of something going wrong. The stakes he was playing for added to his excitement, and the enjoyment of seeing his plan unfold.
His hotel was only a few blocks away. He had ordered a huge meal to be sent to his room, and champagne. French champagne, and turtle eggs. He was always ravenous afterward, something about the undercurrent of fear that accompanied any operation. Usually he liked to sit in his room and eat as he watched the confusion in the streets below him. It was not possible this time, but this would be a great victory.
His eye caught the vehicle as it rounded the corner, the boy driving smoothly in the right lane. He smiled. The street was clear, no trucks to block the signal or his view, even if he did need to use the detonator. He clenched his teeth, wondering if the boy would do it, fighting the urge to move his hand to his pocket and grasp the detonator.
As the black Blazer swung into the embassy compound a guard shouted. The vehicle jumped the curb and smashed through the plate glass doors of the lobby. A huge explosion ripped the air as an orange ball of flame leapt up the face of the building. Glass, paper, and rubble shot into the air appearing to hover on an invisible fulcrum high above the street before descending on the pedestrians below. As the rubble showered those on the ground and the sound of the explosion died away, a symmetric rumbling rose above the shouts of the people on the street.