The Director shuddered a little with the cold, and looked at his watch. Still 10 minutes until he had to go back down. The little man was very familiar with this place. He’d been coming here every few months for several years, not often enough to attract attention from the security guards, but enough to know the layout pretty well and become familiar with the view from every direction of the sky deck.
At first he’d told himself these visits were for reconnaissance, but after a while, he had to admit that they were to feed his obsession. The towers had been haunting his dreams for years now, starting even before the air crash fiasco, and the visits had become something like pilgrimages. He licked his lips, and thought he was like a cat playing with a mouse. The mouse was still alive, its legs moving weakly, still trying to walk, but the cat kept batting at it with his paws, not enough to kill it, but enough to keep up the signs of life until it was finished. Then the cat would bite into the mouse and crush the life out of its body. He could see the blood oozing out of the little animal, coating its fur. He could sense the rusty taste of raw flesh and blood in his mouth. He smiled without realizing it.
As he savored his thoughts, his mind turned to the operations in Chicago, where Hanjour and Jarrah were based. The work at O’Hare was a test, and he’d chosen that airport because it was one of the busiest, a place where they could try his hypothesis without drawing much attention. The Director knew because he’d scoped it out himself. As he’d suspected, the Americans, after a couple years of much more advanced scrutiny following the plane collision, had relaxed their security measures. As always, he thought, the Jews who ran this country placed money over everything else, and had pushed back against the kind of security strategy that might slow business but would advance passenger safety. Full inspections of foreign cargo were still sporadic; background checks of airport workers were half-assed and security checks of passengers were rather lethargic, with bored, overworked TSA officers unable to keep up with the constant intensity needed to thwart future plots. Yes, the Director thought, putting his hands in his pockets against the cold, things were going just as he thought they would.
After the brothers failed to smash the towers on that sacred day of Sept. 11, the Director had presented his new plan to the Sheik. Bin Laden, who hadn’t wanted to focus on the United States after the Sept. 11 operation went awry, agreed to center his plans on the infidels in Europe and the false Muslims in the Arab lands. Bin Laden had given the Director his blessing to come to the United States, and promised to continue funding him and the other two brothers, Jarrah and Hanjour, while they lay low, waiting for the right time to strike. Meanwhile, the attacks on targets abroad and Bin Laden’s regular messages to the public castigating the evil House of Saud and the Zionist entity would keep America’s eyes off the ball.
Indeed, the United States had helped their cause a great deal by attacking Iraq in 2003, which took the focus off of the remaining Mujhadeen in Afghanistan, where the Taliban government still offered protection. Sure, the U.S. attacks on Afghanistan back in 2001 had caused some ruptures, and a few key brothers had died, but the Sheik survived, and remained solidly in charge of the organization. And he, the Director, was safe here in America, living under his assumed identity, with all the necessary documents. Meanwhile, the chaos in Iraq had provided the group a new opportunity to directly target Americans, without the trouble of having to attack them in their homeland. At least not for now, the Director thought, smiling to himself again.
The cold grew more intense and the Director took the escalator back down to the warmth of the observatory. He was here to meet Hanjour. His team, he knew, thought he was insane to hold his meetings with them in this place, within feet of security guards in a building that had been specially protected against terrorist attacks since 1993, when he had planned the successful bombing that had killed six people. But he relished the irony of meeting here, plotting to finish the job that they couldn’t carry out in 2001. He formed the mental picture of a calendar, with a date flashing: May 2008. He had good reasons to plan the attacks for that month. Just a year and a half to go.
The Director fished a phone out of his pocket. It was a cheap throwaway that he’d purchased at Walgreen’s. He bought new ones every few days. No one ever knew his number except him. And no one ever called him. The Director called you, and you damn well had better be ready to listen.
He dialed. “Hanjour, where are you?” he asked quietly in English, standing near a group of tourists ogling at the view over New York Harbor.
“I’m near the elevators,” Hanjour replied. “I see you. I’ll be right there.”
The Director put his phone back in his pocket and waited impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other. He looked up and saw Hanjour, who had been scheduled to be the pilot aiming at the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, heading his way. Hanjour still had his thick, prominent dark eyebrows, and remained beardless. Like Jarrah, Hanjour had a clean record. As far as the Director and the Sheik could tell, neither of the 9/11 terrorists had ever been tracked down by the FBI or appeared on any watch lists. Even so, Hanjour and Jarrah treaded carefully. They kept themselves clean-shaven, spoke English as much as possible, wore Western clothes and even took jobs. Jarrah drove a cab in Chicago, and Hanjour had worked on construction crews and as a cook at a Middle Eastern restaurant. And of course all this was done under assumed names and identities, expertly manufactured by Jarrah. The Director thought they’d done a good job fitting in.
Hanjour approached. “Director sir?” he said. The Director’s colleagues were always careful to show the proper respect when addressing him. It wouldn’t do to have their heads bitten off. Hanjour, like Jarrah, wasn’t quite sure of the Director’s actual name – he went by so many - so they just referred to him by his title.
“What’s the latest update?” the Director asked. They were standing side by side, looking out over the harbor. No one paid them any attention. The Director spoke in English, which had improved slightly in the five years he’d lived here. It still was pretty poor compared to the English of Hanjour and Jarrah, but the Director never felt the need to put a lot of effort into his language skills. Even when he’d been at college in North Carolina in the 1980s, he’d gotten along fine without being fluent. But sometimes Arabic was a bad idea – it drew attention.
“I have some troubling news, sir,” Hanjour said. “We think Oak Street Beach is getting crowded.”
“Oak Street Beach” was the code word for the Chicago operation. “Getting crowded” meant someone – possibly a law officer – had caught on to what they were doing.
“What makes you think this?” the Director asked. He kept a veneer of calm on his face, but inside he could feel his blood beginning to boil. The damned incompetents! Always having his plans spoiled by incompetents!
“We have photos we can show you,” Hanjour replied, speaking more quickly, still in code. “Our people went to the beach the other day and they were engaged in volleyball practice when they drew some spectators.”
“How many?” the Director asked, trying to control his temper. Maybe he should have had this meeting in private, after all.
“Just two,” Hanjour replied. “Like I said, we took some photos. I have them with me.”
“Show me,” the Director said.
Hanjour produced a pair of pictures from his pocket. They showed two Americans, dressed in casual clothes – jeans and light fall jackets – behind a fence at what must have been the cell phone lot at O’Hare airport. The two men each had cameras in their hands, and one had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.
The Director looked at the photos and guffawed.
“Ha! They look like ghabbys,” he barked, reverting to Arabic for a moment to call the men stupid. “What are you worried about?”
“We know who they are, sir,” Hanjour replied. “They each run blogs.”
“What the hell is a… what did you say, blog?” the Director asked. This was unfamiliar English slang.
“Sir, a blog is a website. These two each run web sites where they post photos of airplanes. One of them has information on his site about the events of five years ago. Jarrah and I have some concerns about what they might do with any photos they take.”
The Director put his arm around his underling’s shoulders. Hanjour plainly felt uncomfortable with this but made no move to resist.
“My friend, my friend,” the Director said. “Let’s go back downstairs and discuss this a bit further. I feel we’ve seen enough sights for the day, don’t you? What a beautiful view this is.”
“Yes, yes,” Hanjour said nervously. “It is tremendous.”
The Director directed Hanjour away from the windows toward the exit, still with his arm around the man.
“Yes, I’ve always wanted to visit this place,” the Director said in a conversational tone as they approached the line for the elevators back down. “The view is worth the trip.”
“It is,” Hanjour agreed. The Director dropped his arm from Hanjour’s shoulders when the elevator door opened. The elevator whisked them back to the lobby in a minute, and, with their ears popping, they stepped out onto the street. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was beginning to go down behind the North Tower. Above them, the tower they had exited stretched toward the sky, looming above them and casting a long shadow over the blocks just east as the sun sank toward the western horizon. The streets were full of people rushing and taxis honking. Another typical November afternoon in New York.
As they walked over toward West Street to get a cab, the Director stopped and barked out his trademark harsh laughter.
“What is it?” Hanjour asked
“Look at this sign,” the Director said, motioning him over. Hanjour walked cautiously toward the Director, who was pointing at the sign mounted on the sidewalk. The sign read:
“Coming, January 2007: World Trade Center Condominiums. Your Chance to Live Sky High. See www.wtc.com for more details.”
The Director was bent over with laughter.
“Sh, sh,” Hanjour urged. “You’ll attract attention.”
“Right, right,” the Director said in Arabic, composing himself a little. “But just think, just think – people will pay to live here? These buildings shouldn’t even still be here. Oh, they’ve got a surprise coming to them.” He gazed up at the towers soaring into the darkening sky, the buildings whose destruction would culminate his life’s work. Then his gaze followed the bustling crowds of decadent and ignorant Americans on the sidewalk. A smile crossed his lips. “The sign is right,” he muttered to Hanjour. “It will be their chance to live – and die – sky high.”
CHAPTER 6
Jarrah in Chicago
That same evening, Jarrah drove his yellow Ford cab through the streets of Chicago, picking up passengers at O’Hare and dropping them off at a hotel downtown. It was only 4:30, but the late-November sky was already getting dark, the end to a gray, cold day. The weather forecast called for snow to develop over the weekend.
The hotel’s doorman signaled Jarrah, and Jarrah raised his hand to acknowledge. The doorman guided an elderly couple toward Jarrah’s cab, and Jarrah got out to help with their luggage.
“Going to O’Hare?” he asked, in his perfect, almost unaccented English.
“Midway, actually,” the elderly man replied.
“No problem,” Jarrah said, wrestling the man’s overstuffed suitcase into the trunk while the elderly couple boarded. He slammed the trunk door, climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. He eased the car carefully into downtown traffic and turned on his headlamps.
“OK if I play the radio?” Jarrah asked his passengers in a polite tone.
“It’s fine, just keep it down, please,” the man replied. Jarrah pushed the power button and National Public Radio came on. Jarrah had that as his default station because he liked keeping up with the news, and it helped his English. By now, after six years in this country, he was even dreaming in English.
“And there’s big news from Capitol Hill today, where President Bush announced the appointment of Harry Deaver to replace Donald Rumsfeld as Secretary of Defense,” the NPR announcer said. “Deaver, who has a long history with both the Department of Defense and the CIA, is considered an expert on fighting terrorism. But his first assignment in the administration, assuming he’s confirmed by the new Democratic-controlled Congress, will be to help improve the declining situation in Iraq, where continued sectarian strife has taken the lives of 250 Iraqi citizens and 28 U.S. soldiers over the last month. New York Times correspondent Nancy Hanson is in Baghdad, and she joins us now. Hi Nancy.”
“Hello, Bob,” came a woman’s voice. Jarrah listened carefully as he drove onto the entrance ramp to Lake Shore Drive, headed south. “Good to be here.”
Bob asked Nancy about some of the challenges the new defense secretary would face with the Iraq war in the coming year, and Jarrah’s attention drifted a little. The war in Iraq was the Sheik’s business, not Jarrah’s. The battle there against the Shiites was proceeding as planned, with the Sheik providing funding for some of the bombings last month. Jarrah wasn’t tasked with any Iraq strategy. Rather, he wanted to know more about Harry Deaver’s U.S. strategy. He knew from coverage of the plane collision that Deaver was far more tuned in to domestic terror threats than his predecessor, and that could have implications for the operations Jarrah was planning.
Finally, the announcer asked Nancy about the U.S. situation.
“Nancy, the United States has been surprisingly free from foreign terrorist attacks and threats the last 13 years. But Mr. Deaver said in a recent interview that he considers the U.S. to be very vulnerable, and that there needs to be a greater focus on terrorism. You covered the White House for many years, and you’re familiar with Deaver’s thinking. What do you think he plans to do here in the U.S. to lessen the threat?”
“Well, Bob,” Nancy replied. “I think first of all it’s important to remember that we haven’t been completely free from foreign terrorism in the U.S. since 1993. People tend to forget because it’s been a while, but we had the two planes hijacked by terrorists in 2001, and at the time there was some concern that the terrorists might have been targeting U.S. buildings and monuments. Now that’s never been proven, but Harry Deaver has always been of the opinion that those attacks were precursors to something else, and that perhaps terrorist cells still exist in the United States. I’d expect a greater focus on prevention of domestic terrorism if Deaver gets confirmed, and I think one thing he might want to urge the president to do is upgrade airline safety. But remember, Deaver’s focus is on the military, and domestic terrorism is really not on his list of responsibilities, so I’m not sure how much influence he can have on that issue.”
“And Nancy, what are your thoughts on Deaver’s chances for confirmation?”
“Oh, it’s almost certain he’ll be confirmed,” Nancy replied. “He’s popular on both sides of the aisle, and with his record and the respect he has around the country, I can’t imagine this will be an appointment that’s seriously challenged by Democrats.”
“Thanks very much, Nancy,” said Bob. “Good having you here.”
“It’s always a pleasure, Bob,” Nancy said. “Good night.”
“That was Nancy Hanson, the New York Times’ correspondent in Baghdad, where she’s been stationed this fall after spending 10 years covering the White House,” the NPR announcer continued. “Now we move on to Turkey, which is preparing for the pope’s coming visit…”
Jarrah mentally tuned out the radio. He was fighting traffic on the Stevenson expressway, headed for Midway Airport, and a few drops of rain began to fall. It was now fully dark, and he turned on the wipers. The passengers in back were quiet, and he stole a glance into the rear view mirror and noticed the wife had fallen asleep with her head on her husband’s shoulder. At that sight, he felt emotion stir in him briefly, and fought to stamp it out. He focused once again on the road in fron
t of him, where a brief opening allowed him to shift into the middle lane. He slammed down on the gas and roared past the semi that had been blocking him.
The report on the radio steered his mind back toward the Plan, which they still had 18 months to get into shape and carry out. He thought back to a conversation he’d had earlier this year during the Director’s most recent visit to Chicago, when Jarrah had driven him aimlessly around Chicago in his cab. The cab was an excellent place to hold meetings, as they had absolute privacy.
“It is no longer possible to hijack an airplane in the United States,” Jarrah had told the Director then. “The measures taken by the enemy after the failure of our holy operation would prevent that.” They had been speaking Arabic, which they always did in private.
“No, no, my friend,” the Director had replied from the back seat. “That’s where you’re absolutely wrong. The fact is, it’s even easier to hijack a plane now and accomplish our mission, because we know more about our enemy now, and because they think they know more about us.”
Jarrah, unlike some others in Al-Qaeda, wasn’t shy about challenging the Director. He knew the Director’s bark was worse than his bite, at least with those he respected, and Jarrah was confident he had the Director’s respect. The Director had told him more than once that Jarrah should have been at the controls of Flight 175, not Shehhi, and of course, Jarrah agreed.
But Jarrah found it hard to agree with the Director about hijacking. After all, hadn’t the failed September 11 attacks shown the U.S. authorities that Al-Qaeda was intent on hijacking U.S. airplanes on U.S. soil? And hadn’t the government taken appropriate measures to better secure airlines afterward? Surely, hijacking planes and flying them into the towers – the Director’s original plan – was no longer viable, and they’d have to find some other way to attack the buildings.
The Towers Still Stand Page 12