No Lesser Plea
Page 36
Being out of contact with the rest of the team troubled Ghilzai. He understood security measures and no one was ever quite sure about the capabilities of American counterterrorism agencies, but this seemed extreme. Still, Ajmaani had a reputation for dealing forcefully and fatally with anyone who questioned her instructions, and he wasn’t going to risk it.
With the cell phone swirling down into the depths of New York Harbor, Ghilzai and Akhund sauntered in the direction of the pilot house as the ferry’s engines revved and the boat lurched. The plan was to now take control of the vessel, which would then be met in the waters just off of Liberty Island by the rest of the team in a speedboat. The others would board, killing anyone who resisted, and then prepare to turn back any attempt to retake the boat while negotiating with the authorities. Of course, the negotiations were just a way to stall for time to make sure the American media had been alerted so that when the ferry—with the Statue of Liberty in the background—was blown up with all on board, the moment would be caught for posterity and the glory of Allah.
It had been more than ten years since the images of the collapsing WTC buildings had been etched into the minds and psyches of Americans and the West. How many times had those images been shown? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Every time there was a story about terrorism, there was a mention of Al Qaeda. Every anniversary and every news event on 9/11 received attention. He was convinced that the images of an exploding tourist ferry with that green lady infidel monstrosity of a statue behind it would get similar billing and reach audiences around the world for another ten years. At least, he thought to himself with a smile.
“The American media ought to pay us for giving them such great videos for their newscasts,” one of the other jihadists had joked at their last meeting.
If they knew, they probably would have, Ghilzai thought. Nothing is sacred to the media in this country, not even images of slaughter. They are our best propaganda tool, and it doesn’t cost us anything more than our lives.
Ghilzai and Akhund reached the pilot house deck without even being challenged. They stopped beneath a net that held a dozen orange life preservers and reached up to remove three that had been marked with a black X. Instead of lightweight vests meant to save people in water, however, these were heavy—the first two, which they quickly put on, were filled with C4 explosives and ball bearings, all connected to a detonator. All they had to do was yank the cord hanging from the front of the vest and death and mayhem would result. Inside the third vest were two Glock 9mm handguns—not a lot of firepower, but enough to overcome an unarmed crew.
With the vests on and the guns in their hands, they ran for the pilot house where they encountered a thick-shouldered, bronze-colored man wearing a ferry employee shirt. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here,” the man complained.
Ghilzai pointed his gun at the employee’s head. “Open the door,” he said nodding at the pilot house entrance.
The man held up his hands and cried out in terror. “Okay, okay, please don’t shoot.” He fumbled at a set of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He found the key he was looking for and unlocked the door, then stepped to the side and cowered.
Ghilzai pushed past the man and jumped into the room. “Allahu akbar!” he exclaimed holding up his gun. “Nobody move or everyone dies!”
Akhund followed him shouting in a high-pitched voice, “Death to America!”
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Excerpt from “Somebody to Love,” music and lyrics by Darby Slick, reprinted by permission of Irving Music, Inc. Copyright © 1967 by Irving Music, Inc. (BMI). All rights reserved.
copyright © 1987 by Robert K. Tanenbaum
cover design by Karen Horton
ISBN: 978-1-4532-0996-7
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