With breakfast over, Jarrah called the lobby for a cab to take them to the airport, and he picked up the Director’s bags.
“No!” the Director said, shaking his head vigorously.
“What do you mean?” Jarrah asked.
“Put down my bags,” the fat man said. “I’m not going.”
This time, even Hanjour was incredulous.
“Why not?” Hanjour gasped.
Jarrah was speechless. He felt almost as if his legs couldn’t hold him up, and he had to consciously force himself to remain standing. So this is how it is, he thought. They’d been played for fools. He remembered the night the Director had announced his intentions to fly with them, and his own doubt when he’d heard that. It turned out his doubt was justified. But even as all these thoughts went through his mind, a feeling of relief that was nearly palpable spread through him. Handling the Director had been his main worry today, and now he wouldn’t have to. Arms folded across his chest, he looked at the man and waited for him to explain.
The Director stood up, all 5’4 of him, placed himself in the middle of the hotel suite in his pajamas and began gesturing grandly as he spoke in Arabic.
“As both of you know, I’ve been in constant communication with the Sheik,” he said, raising his chin at mention of the Sheik, his eyes ablaze. “He and I have planned numerous operations overseas while I’ve been stuck in this country. Remember the Bali operation four years ago? That was my plan. And the female American reporter in Iraq? I also supervised that. There were many others as well, and some still in the works.” He waved his hands as if the extent of his projects was too numerous to fully relate.
“I’m a valuable man, my friends, and by living here, I’ve been right under the Americans’ noses while they searched for me in Pakistan. Their search was useless, praise Allah, and the Sheik wants me to continue as operational planner in years to come. He can’t afford to lose me. Besides,” he added, with a shake of a finger, “I need to work on a plan to destroy the remaining tower after you take care of the first one.”
“So we kill ourselves and you stay behind eating omelets?” Jarrah asked, not even trying to hide his contempt. A hot fury burned up from his near empty gut.
“No, my friend,” the Director responded with a shark-like smile. “Remember, too, that you don’t just kill yourselves. You’re destroying the financial power of the United States and the country’s ability to pay for its crimes against our people. You’re warriors in the battle against the infidels here, and your names will live forever. And don’t forget the 72 virgins when you die.”
“Seventy-two virgins?” Jarrah said. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course!” Hanjour burst in earnestly. “The Sheik himself has said so.”
“Thank you, Hanjour,” the Director said gently. “The Sheik knows many things. And I trust him when he says today’s operation is the right thing to do for our people.”
He turned his attention back to Jarrah, his voice quieter but more serious now. “I’ve had my doubts about you, Jarrah, but I expect you to prove me wrong today. You’ve been hard working and loyal, and I’ve been able to count on you for many years. The Sheik sent me this note, and asked me to give it to you before today’s operation.” He waddled over to his bag, reached in, and pulled out a piece of notebook paper folded many times over. He handed it to Jarrah.
Jarrah unfolded the paper under the Director’s watchful eyes and started to read the hand-written words. Then he looked up quickly, doubt in his eyes.
“Is this really from him?” Jarrah asked.
“Certainly, my friend,” the Director replied with that same shark-like smile. “It’s as I said. Read his words, Ziad. The Sheik believes in you, and he believes you’re the right man to head this mission.”
Jarrah began reading again, trying to decide if he believed the Director. He’d only met the Sheik once, and it had been for only a few minutes back in 1999. He wasn’t familiar with the man’s hand writing or style of language, so he had no way of knowing for certain if the Director was telling the truth. His eyes drifted away from the letters, seeing them but not really reading them.
The voice seemed to come from far away, but it was inside Jarrah’s own mind. Even as the Director and Hanjour watched him expectantly, he felt as if he were somewhere else, back in the Middle Eastern restaurant in Chicago. Alev’s bright blue eyes were shining into his, tears dripping down her cheeks. He heard her say again, “Ziad, you’re not planning to hurt people, are you?”
Jarrah shook his head quickly, as if trying to stave off her question. The Director and Hanjour looked at each other and looked his way again.
Jarrah’s mind returned to the hotel suite, and to the note in his hand.
“My brother Ziad Jarrah,” the note read. “I have personally chosen you to lead this holy and sacred mission. Our martyred brother Atta has been shown his seat in paradise, and you will follow him. The blood pouring out of Palestine must be equally revenged. The world must know that the Palestinians do not cry alone; their women are not widowed alone; their sons are not orphaned alone. Take revenge on those who finance the Israeli atrocities and the atrocities against our people in Iraq and Chechnya. Remember, Ziad, despite what you may think from having lived there for so long, the American people are not innocent of all the crimes committed by the Americans and Jews against us.” The letter went on further, but Jarrah stopped reading.
He looked up. Hanjour and the Director were staring at him expectantly.
“Well,” the Director finally said. “Now do you believe the letter is from the Sheik? Because it is.”
Jarrah found that he did believe the letter. His deep anger at the Israelis rumbled within him as he read the words, blotting out the voice and image of Alev in his head. The words of encouragement from the Sheik renewed his confidence in their operation, and he felt a sense of righteousness that was almost like a jolt of electricity. He would avenge the victims in Palestine. He nodded to the Director.
“Good, good, my friend,” the Director said. “Ziad, you are in charge of this mission. Hanjour. You will take orders today from Jarrah in my absence. Understood?”
Hanjour nodded.
“As-salamu alaykam,” the Director said, looking at both of them in a fatherly way.
They stood there for a moment, feeling the drama of what was to come that day.
“You had both better be going,” the Director said after some time, looking at his watch. “It’s 6:50. You board in an hour and a half. You still have to go through security. I hope that pig head American got the materials on board as we directed.”
“He better have, for the money we paid,” Jarrah said. He turned to Hanjour. “Come on, let’s move,” he said. Hanjour nodded and picked up their bags.
“I will monitor from the ground and send you instructions as necessary, just like last time,” the Director told them as they prepared to leave. “May Allah be with you. You will both be in my prayers.”
Jarrah took a last look at the Director. The two embraced.
“I know we haven’t always agreed,” the Director said quietly into Jarrah’s ear. “But you are today’s Mohammed Atta. Please make him proud with your actions.”
“That is my aim,” Jarrah said.
They closed the door and left, and the Director stood alone in the hotel suite, the smell of omelets still hanging in the air.
CHAPTER 3
Morning in Manhattan
It was a clear winter morning in New York, and the sun had just edged above the eastern horizon, throwing the first rays of light on the skyscrapers of Manhattan. The two World Trade Towers stood as they had for 35 years, tall and proud, like sentinels watching the broad harbor before them. Over the years, other, smaller buildings had been constructed nearby, but the two towers remained the undisputed kings of downtown New York, and it was difficult to imagine the city before their construction, so embedded were they into its very fabric.
Up near
the top of Tower One, a number of Gladstone’s condos remained on the market on this opening day, but Gladstone himself sat in his own unit, enjoying breakfast by himself at a small table next to the windows in his kitchen. He’d already been down to the lobby that morning to welcome the other residents moving in, greeting each one as they arrived in custom limousines he’d ordered especially for this day. Now he was taking a short break to eat. He’d moved in over the weekend – being the developer of the place had its advantages.
The kitchen had all the modern touches – granite counters, stainless steel appliances, hand-crafted cherry cabinets and a special chamber for storing wine. In the other rooms, his collection of modern art hung on the walls, just as it had when the unit was a model. Gladstone – a bit of a health nut – had added some more personal items, including a $2,100 Blendtec blender for his juicing needs and an $8,000 Hammacher Double Espresso machine. Gladstone sipped a double espresso from that machine now and read The Wall Street Journal. The big news today was some sort of special announcement that was going to be made by Apple CEO Steve Jobs at the MacWorld convention. Gladstone read the article carefully. He’d been a Steve Jobs admirer for some time, and wondered what the man had up his sleeve this time.
Gladstone put the paper down, took a sip of his espresso and looked out at New York Harbor 96 floors below. Not for the first time, he wished the architects would have designed wider windows, but even so, he never got tired of the view. In the first light of day, the harbor’s water was a dark shade of blue, and he could see the Staten Island Ferry chugging past the Statue of Liberty toward the Battery, carrying commuters to lower Manhattan. Far beyond that, he could see the long New Jersey coastline, extending south and then east toward the ocean. It all seemed so quiet from up here. Gladstone knew he had to stop by the other condos soon to make sure moving day proceeded smoothly, but he wanted to savor the view one last time. He sat back in his chair and took another sip of espresso, trying to make this moment last.
CHAPTER 4
Security Check
Southwest Airlines Captain Richard Billings and First Officer Kevin O’Rourke went through security at BWI as they got ready for their first flight of the day – a 9:11 run to Boston. After that, it would be back to BWI, and then back to Boston, where they’d be done for the day. Billings had just returned from a three-day break, but O’Rourke had flown into BWI yesterday, deadheading on a flight from Chicago. O’Rourke was ready for a day off – this was his fifth day in a row on duty – so it was a Friday for him, even if the actual day of the week was Tuesday.
“Damned security check,” Billings complained to O’Rourke as they went through the metal detector after placing their bags on the conveyer belt. “Let me ask you – how much sense does it make for the airports to make you and I go through security every day? I tell you, it makes no sense at all.”
O’Rourke nodded as he retrieved his carry-on from the belt behind Billings. “You said it, Rich,” he said amiably. “It’s so damn useless. I mean, come on, we’re the damn pilots!”
“Well, it satisfies the Feds, I suppose,” Billings said. They walked down the hallway toward the gates, dressed in their Southwest Airlines uniforms and dragging their carry-ons behind them. “If you want anything to make sense, don’t ask the government to do it, right?”
“Exactly,” O’Rourke replied. They’d reached D-22, where they greeted several other members of the flight crew. Passengers occupied every seat in the waiting area, and some watched a TV mounted on the wall, where a CNBC reporter was previewing the day’s Steve Jobs event.
“Good morning, everyone,” Billings said to the flight attendants with a sunny smile. “You all ready for another fun day?”
“Yeah, right,” said Wendy Harris, the chief flight attendant, sipping a Starbucks as she stood near the gate. “This is way too early to be working.” Harris, like O’Rourke, had been on duty for several days and was ready for a day off with her fiancé, who worked here in Baltimore, where she was based. After spending tonight in Boston, she’d finish tomorrow in Baltimore and have two days off. Unfortunately, her fiancé would be working. But at least they’d see each other and get to go out to dinner, maybe.
“Wendy, do you mind watching my luggage for a minute while I go get some coffee?” Billings asked.
“No problem,” Harris nodded.
“I’ll get on board and check things out,” O’Rourke said.
“OK,” Billings replied over his shoulder as he walked toward the nearby Starbucks. “You want anything?”
“Sure – bring me a grande mocha.”
“With whip?”
“Yeah – thanks. Sounds good.”
O’Rourke nodded to the security officer at the entrance to the jet bridge and walked through it to the 737. As he stepped on board, a tall, bald-headed man in a BWI security uniform with a radio on his belt and a gray duffel bag in one hand ambled casually over from first class and approached him. His security badged gleamed in the morning sunlight that poured in through one of the windows.
“Hi there,” the security officer said. “I hadn’t expected you guys to be on so soon.”
“Oh, I like to get an early start,” O’Rourke said. “Everything look ship shape?”
“Yep,” the security officer replied. “I’m just doing my final check. I was already in the cockpit. You can head in there now.”
“Will do,” O’Rourke said. “Looks like a nice day to fly.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” the security guard said. “I’d just as soon stay on the ground.”
“Once you get the flying bug, it never goes away, my man,” O’Rourke replied, turning into the cockpit. “Have a good one.”
“You too,” the security guard said, and O’Rourke sat down in the first officer’s seat, put on his headphones and began checking the controls.
Hardaway stood for a minute at the junction between the jet bridge and the tiny kitchen, and then stepped into the front of the passenger section. He glanced toward the cockpit to make sure O’Rourke was occupied, and then, very quietly and carefully, he opened the overhead compartment above seat 2C and gently laid the gray bag in. He closed the door softly and peeked back toward the cockpit. O’Rourke was talking to someone on his radio, not paying any attention to him. Whistling casually, Hardaway walked toward the back of the plane. The back door was still open, with a stairway leading down to the tarmac.
Hardaway casually walked down the stairs and stepped down onto the ground. He let out a deep breath. That had been a close one. The damned pilot had walked in just when he was about to open the overhead bin, and that would have caused some questions. Well, all had gone well and it was over. The drug gang would get their guns and Hardaway would get the $12,000 he was owed. No going to jail. He’d have to get back to the casino with some of that money and see if he could double or triple it before just handing it over to that son-of-a-bitch lawyer, he decided. His luck had finally turned.
CHAPTER 5
Final Preparations
Jarrah and Hanjour sat in the waiting area at Gate D-22, each of them pretending to read a newspaper, dressed in their neatly dry-cleaned business casual outfits. Per plan, they were on opposite sides of the waiting area, and once onboard, would be seated apart. Both had the plan down pat, and Jarrah was very glad the Director wasn’t with them, now that the time had come. Half of his worries had been how to handle the Director, and that would have been a major distraction. The Sheik knew the Director as well as anyone, so Jarrah wouldn’t be surprised if the Sheik had factored all that into the decision to keep the Director on the ground.
Still, his mind started to race as he thought of all the things that could go wrong. Would the weapons be in the overhead container where they should be? Would they be able to quietly convince the flight attendant to open the cockpit door at the right time without causing interference? Jarrah hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to shoot anyone other than the two pilots, but he was prepared to kill the attendant if
he had to. Both he and Hanjour had been to the shooting range numerous times, and could handle the weapons just fine.
He also worried about Hanjour’s flying abilities. Both Hanjour and Jarrah had spent plenty of time flying single engine planes and on 737 simulators, and he told himself it was just a matter of steering. But steering a real plane, he knew, was far different than steering a simulator. Once in the cockpit, their plan was to put guns to the heads of the pilots to get the cockpit security codes so they could lock the door, then eliminate the pilots and have the controls to themselves. There’d be no need to herd passengers to the back as they had prepared to do five years ago. Nope - this plan was streamlined, as the Director liked to say. The question was whether they could carry it out. He could feel the sweat gathering under his arms and hoped it wouldn’t show through his shirt.
As Jarrah checked his Seiko watch for the fourth time in five minutes, the announcement came over the loudspeaker:
“Welcome Southwest passengers to flight 143 to Boston, departing at 9:11 a.m.,” the female voice said. “We’re expecting a full flight today, but standby passengers please stay here at the gate and we’ll be calling your names shortly. Thanks, and we’re glad you chose Southwest today.”
Jarrah stood up with his small Samsonite carry-on, and no one paid much attention to him. He had a few gray hairs that hadn’t been there back in 2001, but he was still clean shaven and sharply dressed, and could have passed for any number of ethnicities, including Italian, Hispanic, Jewish or Arab. The name on his U.S. driver’s license was Julio Garcia, a generic Hispanic name that he’d been using for a few months now. The Director liked to have everyone change their names every so often, which was easy enough to do, with Jarrah’s expert knowledge of how to create fake documents.
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