by Dick Wolf
“Do you believe in one God?
“Do you believe that Jesus was a prophet but was not the son of God?
“Are you willing to accept Mohammed as a prophet?”
Kathleen Burnett answered yes to all three questions. She had joined the Islamic religion by repeating the imam’s next words:
“There is no god but Allah and Mohammed is His prophet.”
Like many Western converts to Islam, she took a Muslim name, Aminah — it meant “Trustworthy”—and bint Mohammed. “Daughter of Mohammed.”
For a small filing fee at the Department of Records, Kathleen Burnett’s transformation into Aminah bint Mohammed was legalized, and her rebirth complete.
A few months later, Na’ilah’s brother, Robeel, was taken from his Queens apartment by men claiming to be law enforcement, though without a formal arrest. Na’ilah was inconsolable, and Aminah sat with her day after day after day.
Six months later Na’ilah’s parents received a letter from the U.S. government asking them where they would like their son’s remains to be shipped. Robeel had committed suicide in the prison at Guantanamo Bay — or so the letter claimed.
Some months later the father of another of Aminah’s friends from the mosque disappeared without a trace. Vanished. Na’ilah grew paranoid and embittered, talking ceaselessly about the United States’ war against Islam. Aminah was devastated when Na’ilah and her family decamped for Jordan, leaving Aminah angry and alone once again.
She came to believe that the accident of her birth had placed her on the wrong side of this conflict. When another American woman from the mosque befriended her and offered her the opportunity to enlist in the army of God, Aminah knew that she could not refuse. She met secretly with this woman, who encouraged her to stay away from Masjid Ar-Rahman due to American law enforcement surveillance. She was told that she would be most valuable to jihad as a deep-cover sleeper agent, though not in so many words. She was to continue to live quietly and pursue nothing out of the ordinary until the moment came when her presence in New York could turn the tide of battle. Asked if she would be willing to give her life for Mohammed, she answered yes, but she was thinking not of Mohammed but of Na’ilah.
In the swirl of this heady cause, Aminah bint Mohammed had found more purpose for her life than ever before. Saving the lives of the victims of street crime at St. Vincent’s paled by comparison with helping to bring God’s plan into this world. But St. Vincent’s Hospital closed in April 2010, and after Aminah’s unemployment payments ended, the woman from the mosque offered to offset Aminah’s lost salary so that she could keep her Bay Ridge apartment without concern. Most critical, said the woman, was that Aminah remain available and unencumbered for when the call to service arrived.
* * *
The first call had come earlier that week. A different man’s voice. A different code word.
He had instructions for her. She was to purchase six twelve-ounce bottles of hydrogen peroxide, six one-pint cans of acetone, and a gallon bottle of muriatic acid. Each item had to be purchased separately from different stores in different neighborhoods.
The voice had slowly recited the URL for an Internet site where she would find instructions for blending the ingredients. She wrote it down and read it back to him before ending the conversation and dressing in the strange disguise of her former life.
Chemistry lab had been Aminah’s favorite class in nursing school. Following procedures carefully and exactly was second nature to her.
Hydrogen peroxide was a common household antiseptic. The acetone was identical to nail polish remover. When mixed with water, and used carefully with rubber gloves, muriatic acid powder worked miracles on dirty stonework.
Mixing the explosive took her three days. On the counter of her tiny kitchen alcove, she laid out her tools. White, cup-shaped paper coffee filters. A measuring cup. A 60 ml syringe. A pint bottle of household ammonia. Two one-quart glass mason jars that had been in the freezer with her ingredients, as it was necessary to bring their temperature down to thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit.
Using the syringe and measuring cup, she mixed hydrogen peroxide and acetone in a 3:1 ratio in the large glass jar, then put the mixture in the freezer. She mixed the powdered muriatic acid with water in a jar to make 120 ml of a 30 percent solution, and put that in the freezer as well. A half hour later, she mixed the hydrogen peroxide, acetone, and acid in one of the jars, and set it in her refrigerator overnight.
In the morning, she saw exactly what the instructions said she would: fine white crystals in the bottom of the jar. She had derived approximately one-third of the amount required. She strained the liquid through a coffee filter into the empty jar, leaving a residue of white paste. That was the explosive, known chemically as triacetone triperoxide. Finally, she poured the ammonia over the white paste until it stopped bubbling and frothing, further purifying it. She repeated this process until all the liquid was out of the jar, then set aside the coffee filters with the TATP to dry on a newspaper.
The following day, and the next, Aminah repeated this careful process until she had derived exactly one pound. She disposed of the empty bottles and cans nightly in a gas station waste barrel, running fans in her apartment with the windows open to expel the scent. She carefully cleaned the jars, measuring cup, and syringe, but did not dispose of them, just in case she would have to repeat the process of mixing the explosives sometime in the future. She stored the cleaned equipment inside her refrigerator, on the same shelf with the twin loaves of explosive.
* * *
The woman Aminah now faced in her bedroom bureau mirror startled her. She wore a long skirt, a blue cotton wraparound that concealed her legs to the ankles, and another of her outdated sweaters, a mock-turtleneck beige pullover. Brown flats completed the disguise.
How odd it was to meet her old self on this fateful day.
She did not feel as brave or as holy as she had hoped. She knew nothing about the larger plan. Indeed, she believed that there were many links in this magnificent chain such as herself, none of whom knew anything other than their own blessed duty. And for some reason this reassured her.
Down on the street, shopping bag in hand, Aminah completed another of her tasks. She returned to the same gas station two blocks away and discreetly ejected the battery from her cell phone and disposed of both in the trash. Jettisoning that device was yet another profound moment for her, a no-turning-back display of conviction.
Two blocks on, she hailed a livery cab. She gave the driver the address of the Hotel Indigo in Manhattan, and as he pulled away from the curb, Aminah sat back against the firm leather upholstery and resumed her prayers. When the driver accelerated onto the Brooklyn Bridge, crossing into lower Manhattan, she closed her eyes, not wanting to view the city of infidels that rose like a fortress against the one true God.
Chapter 37
The Six dressed in formal attire for the aircraft carrier event. Four NYPD motorcycle policemen escorted their convoy of Suburbans across Manhattan to Pier 86 on the Hudson River, at the end of West Forty-sixth Street.
Gersten, like DeRosier and Patton, had never before been aboard an aircraft carrier. From the street, USS Intrepid looked enormous, rising above them to the height of a twenty-story building. The stern was a quarter mile from its bow. The floating city-weapon inspired pure awe.
Security was reassuringly tight. Unbroken lines of people shuffled up two gangways that led to the middle of the ship in the sweltering midafternoon heat. At the foot of each, zigzagging airport-style queues held more people awaiting metal detector screening.
The Six got to avoid the exterior scrutiny, receiving VIP treatment. Past the gangways, their motorcycle escorts peeled off, forming a perimeter between the three Suburbans and the crowd. They idled for five minutes, cool in their cars, waiting as one of the huge aircraft elevators on the outside of the carrier descended to within twenty feet of the dock. From it, a broad ramp extended to bridge the remaining distance.
Uniformed navy officers saluted as they exited the cars. The group returned the salutes awkwardly, except for old man Aldrich, who snapped off his salute with precision.
They waited in a comfortable officers’ wardroom on the hangar deck for almost an hour. Secret Service agent Harrelson apologized for the delay, yet explained that it was routine. “We have to stabilize the area for at least a half hour before POTUS arrives,” Harrelson explained. “You may be the heroes, but he is the commander in chief. Military protocol dictates that the senior officer arrives last.”
They sat silently, excitement building, threatening to overwhelm them. Meeting Barack and Michelle Obama had been an abstraction until now. They were actually going to shake the president’s hand, look into his eyes, receive his thanks. Gersten saw the realization coming over them.
Aldrich said, “I’ll shake his hand, but I’m still glad that I didn’t vote for him.”
Maggie rubbed his arm, gently teasing him. “Who are you kidding, Doug? You’re melting like a polar ice cap. When I come up to visit you in Albany, you’re going to have a big old ‘Yes We Can’ sign on your lawn.”
The others laughed — except for Joanne Sparks, who had been noticeably cool to her fellow female hero since the morning. Gersten wondered if Sparks suspected what had happened between Maggie and Jenssen last night, or if she was beginning to. Sparks was not as flirty and attentive with Jenssen either, not at all like she had been yesterday.
Nouvian looked away when he saw Gersten watching her. She noticed that he kept clasping and unclasping his hands.
Two men in suits were escorted into the room, introduced as the Canadian ambassador to the United States, Gary Doer, and the Swedish ambassador to the United States, Jonas Hafström. Ambassador Doer embraced a flattered Maggie Sullivan, a Canadian citizen. Ambassador Hafström shook Jenssen’s hand, huddling with him in the corner. Gersten smiled to herself, having the feeling that, following Jenssen’s words on the Today show that morning, the Swedish ambassador had been dispatched with special instructions to bring him into line. Jenssen was a phenomenal PR opportunity for Sweden as well, as his handsome face could sell quite a few tourist packages to female international travelers.
Jenssen looked wary at first, but after a few exchanges, Gersten watched him activate his native charm. They conversed in Swedish, cordially, mostly question and answer.
When the time came, The Six and Ambassadors Doer and Hafström and their handlers were led from the wardroom, emerging from the towering command island onto the vast flight deck in the baking heat. The broad blue-brown Hudson flowed to their left, the hump of midtown Manhattan buildings rising to their right, windows flashing in the reflected light of the sun. A heat mirage hovered over the city like rising steam.
Once The Six were recognized as they made their way to a riser against the island from which they had just emerged, two thousand people aboard the four-acre flight deck erupted into cheers. Television cameras tracked them as they walked and waved, the ceremony being covered by every cable news network.
The group took its place among the dignitaries, while Gersten, Patton, and DeRosier were relegated to an off-camera area to the side, not twenty feet away.
The whapping approach of a helicopter drew everyone’s face skyward. A big green-and-white Sikorsky approached from the north, nose high, its twin turbines loud enough to drown out all other local sound.
The aircraft settled gently into the white circle with the letter H at its center, two hundred feet from the crowd, the wash from its rotors bringing a moment of relief to the overheated spectators.
Two marines in dress blues stood at attention at the edges of a red carpet leading precisely to the helicopter’s door just behind the cockpit. The crowd cheered, waiting for the president and First Lady to emerge.
But instead, confusingly, the giant chopper’s engines howled to takeoff power, as though the pilot had changed his mind. The helicopter lifted off and rose abruptly to an altitude of about one hundred feet, spun sharply on its axis, and flew back the way it had come toward the George Washington Bridge in the far distance.
The fading sound of its engines was replaced with a buzz from the crowd, their puzzled conversations expressing concern, fearing an unfolding emergency. Then fingers pointed into the sky.
A second, identical chopper appeared over the river from New Jersey, heading toward the carrier. This, everyone realized, was the real Marine One, the helicopter carrying the president.
The first helicopter had been a decoy. With the Saudi still at large in New York, the Secret Service was taking no chances.
The second copter landed, and the crowd erupted with relief and excitement as Barack and Michelle Obama emerged. The reception line included two admirals, a general, Mayor Bloomberg, Ambassadors Hafström and Doer, and The Six — all of whom stood on the raised dais from which Obama would address the audience.
The president and his wife shook hands with each attendee. President Obama stopped and chatted with each of The Six in turn. He had been thoroughly briefed, as he knew each of their names and apparently a little bit of biography as well. Gersten could not hear the conversations from where she stood, but the president seemed intent on making a personal contact with each of them, himself benefiting by association with the heroes of the moment.
Each of the group was perfectly courteous if not gracious. Aldrich, Gersten noted, shook Obama’s hand firmly and nodded but said nothing. Still, his chest swelled to the bursting point. Jenssen smiled when it was his turn, answering a question succinctly. Maggie wiped away tears and laughed at herself for doing so, the president smiling and patting her shoulder before pulling her into a hug. Sparks shared a laugh with Michelle Obama. Nouvian exchanged some pleasantries with her, apparently about the cello. And Frank smiled heartily throughout, as though posing for his book jacket photo.
From Gersten’s perspective, while Obama appeared trim and fit, just as he did on television, even from twenty feet away she could see the gray in his hair. The job had aged him as it did every other president.
He spent approximately five minutes of his twenty-five-minute speech honoring the heroes.
“We are gathered here today to honor the members of our armed forces who have given their lives in defense of this country in the decade since the attacks of September 11, 2001. It is worth reminding ourselves, however, that in the war against international terrorism, any one of us can become a combatant in an instant. Just forty-eight hours ago, these six men and women, passengers and crew aboard an airliner heading for this great city, banded together to foil a hijacker who intended to seize control of the plane and crash it into midtown Manhattan. Their actions speak of courage, resolve, and a fierce unwillingness to surrender to fear. They acted for all of us. And this is our opportunity to thank them. I want to invite them to join Michelle and me tomorrow morning, as we welcome to this historic skyline a new landmark, a symbol of resilience and regeneration.”
* * *
The president had just finished his speech when Gersten’s phone vibrated. She slipped away to take the call, grateful to get under a sliver of shade, but having trouble hearing Fisk’s voice over the whipping river wind.
“How’s it looking there?” he asked.
“We’re five by five. Did you hear the speech?”
“Nope. Got it on mute.”
“I don’t know if it’s confirmed, but they just got a personal invitation to the big ceremony tomorrow morning. Not a surprise, really, but there it is. They are the president’s plus-six.”
“Means you should have a pretty good seat too.”
“I’m The Six’s plus-one. Anything on the Hyatt pay phones?”
Fisk said, “One call, right around the time you estimated Nouvian was there. He’s the musician, right?”
“That’s him.”
“Local number, just came up. We didn’t get it on a subpoena, of course. Came as a favor. It’s a New York cell, and we’re running it down now. I’m guessing you’d like to see this thing all the way through yourself…”
She was nodding excitedly, even though Fisk could not see her. “Absolutely.”
“How’s Nouvian now?”
“He’s like the others,” she said. “Could be he’s just a flake. I don’t know what he was doing. But seemed like he was up to something.”
“Who do you think he could be calling?”
“He has his own phone. That’s the weirdest part. His own cell. So why sneak away to use a public phone?”
Fisk said, “That’s not kosher. Strange enough to follow up on. I’ll get you the info once we develop it. And I’ll mention to Dubin how you picked up on this. Back at you soon.”
Gersten hung up and reemerged into the hot sun, returning to her post just as the dais was being cleared. She paid special attention to Nouvian coming down the stairs, looking flushed and excited like the rest.
It could be that it wasn’t even him using the pay phone after all. But no matter: it was enough to get her off this shit assignment for a little while, at least. Even a wild-goose chase was a welcome diversion.
Gersten noticed Ambassador Hafström taking Jenssen aside yet again before the group headed down to the flight deck for the ride back to the Hyatt. They seemed to be having some trouble connecting, but it was in Swedish so she couldn’t be certain. They ended in English before the ambassador pumped his hand, sending him on his way.
“It will be a wonderful ceremony, Magnus, and then as soon as you return home we will enjoy many other celebrations.”
Hafström held direct eye contact with the schoolteacher, as though compelling him to behave graciously. His wavy blond-silver hair and carefully etched facial lines were patrician, and this was likely a look that had worked for him many times in the past. Jenssen signed off pleasantly, and the ambassador wished everyone well and said he looked forward to seeing them in the morning before stepping away.