by Richard Todd
Sheraton Lincoln Harbor Hotel
Weehawken, NJ
September 10, 2001
16:45 hours
Kyle ’08 drove Steve’s Ford Escort into the same Sheraton parking lot where he had begun his journey hours earlier. On the return trip to the Sheraton, Kyle ’08 stopped for gas and fast food and pulled off on an isolated rural road to give Steve a chance to eat, drink, and stretch his legs. ’08 then re-taped Steve, stuffed him back in the trunk and headed on to Weehawken.
From the parking lot, ’08 could see the twin towers against a beautiful rose sunset. He carefully wiped the surfaces of the car he had touched with a towel he bought at the sporting goods store. He then popped the lid on the trunk and cut off Steve’s duct tape. ’08 stuffed the duct tape into his backpack.
“OK, you can get out,” Kyle ’08 told Steve.
Aching and stiff, Steve climbed out of the trunk. He looked around to see that he was where he had started.
“Here’s the deal, Steve,” said Kyle ’08. “You’re free to go. You can tell anyone you care to one of two things: one: that you were abducted for the day by someone you found in your room with a dead woman, and your abductor inexplicably released you unharmed at the end of the day; or two: assuming you were missed at all today, you can tell everyone that you fell deathly ill, but that you’re feeling much better now.”
Kyle ’08 continued, “If you go for option one, here’s your evidence: you have a handful of hotel staff that might be able to describe me. You might have a grainy lobby video that shows us walking out the front door together. That’s pretty much it. If they were to ever identify me, they would find that I have an airtight alibi. I was in SoHo when you thought I was in your hotel room.”
“But what about the dead woman?” asked Steve.
“Right, the dead woman,” Kyle ’08 said. ’08 handed Steve a slip of paper, “This is the dead woman’s name and phone number. Her name is Major Annika Wise. If the authorities contact her, they’ll find out that she’s very much alive. There’s no one missing who matches the description of the person you think you saw. Major Wise and I have never met, so a description of me isn’t going to help, though you’re more than welcome to give it a try.”
“I’m very confused,” Steve said, shaking his head.
“That is completely understandable,” said Kyle ’08.
“So the choice is either sick day, or looking like a crazy person to your colleagues,” said Kyle ’08, “Oh, one more thing, when making your decision it’s probably also worth factoring this into the equation…”
Kyle ’08 unzipped the backpack enough for Steve to see the Glock pistol and silencer.
“You don’t want me on your short list of people to piss off,” said Kyle ’08.
Kyle ’08 zipped up his backpack and slung it on his shoulder. He took the keys to the escort out of his pocket and wiped them off with a handkerchief, then handed them to Steve.
“I am truly sorry for inconveniencing you, Steve,” Kyle ’08 said, turning to leave. “Have a good conference.”
Steve stood, stupefied, watching Kyle ’08 walk away.
Marriott Hotel, Newark International Airport
Room 466
Newark, NJ
September 10, 2001
23:59 hours
Kyle ’08 sat on the twin bed in a dark hotel room, facing the window. In the distance, he could see the Twin Towers rising above the New York skyline.
It’s easy to destroy. It’s hard to create, Kyle ’08 thought as he watched the towers.
One of Kyle ’08’s high school math teachers had told him that once. Gazing at the towers, Kyle ’08 realized that the sorry likes of Osama Bin Laden and Mohamed Atta could never build anything remotely close to the World Trade Center. The very best that Bin Laden had ever accomplished was widening out some caves in Tora Bora with a bulldozer. Bin Laden regarded the destruction of the Twin Towers as his crowning achievement.
You destroy things you are incapable of building, thought Kyle ’08.
Construction of the Twin Towers had begun some 33 years earlier, in August 1968. In December of that year, Astronaut William Anders snapped the iconic “Earthrise” photo as the Earth cleared the moon’s horizon during Apollo 8’s voyage. Less than eight months later, Americans would set foot on the moon for the first time.
The Twin Towers were glittering monuments to that great period in American history, when America was at its zenith; seemingly capable of doing anything it chose to do.
Kyle ’08 had plenty of time to prepare before his first targets’ arrival. He took a cab from Weehawken to a mall in Newark where he bought clothes, as well as a black TAG Heuer chronograph watch, and some toiletries. He was wearing black jeans, black lace boots, and a black commando-style sweater. His black full hood ski mask rested bunched on the crown of his head. His backpack was strapped on for a quick getaway.
He got a room at the Marriott, checking in around 21:00 hours using Robert Small’s credit card and ID. He showered, ordered room service, and rested. At 23:00, he used his universal key card to enter rooms 466 and 468—Ziad Samir Jarrah and Ahmed al Haznawi’s rooms.
Ziad Jarrah’s role in the 9/11 plot was to pilot United Airlines flight 93 into the White House. Hours before Kyle entered Jarrah’s hotel room, Jarrah finished penning a letter to his girlfriend, Aysel Şengün, a Turkish woman he had met in Germany in the spring of 1996. Aysel was studying to be a dentist at the University of Greifswald. They seemed to be a good match—moderate Muslims who lived secular lives that included parties, dancing, and alcohol. Ziad had actually attended Christian schools in his home country of Lebanon—more of a sign of his family’s affluence than religious preference.
Problems in the relationship grew after Jarrah’s religious perspective tilted to the right due to the influence of a fellow student at Greifswald. Jarrah became increasingly critical of Aysel’s western behavior and dress. They fought. They made up. They fought again.
Jarrah moved to Hamburg without Aysel, ostensibly to study at the University of Applied Sciences. While in Hamburg, he was drawn into what eventually became known as the ‘Hamburg Cell,’ a group of hard-core Islamists anchored at the city’s radical Al Quds mosque. It was here that he met Mohamed Atta. Jarrah, Atta, and two other members of the Hamburg Cell travelled to Afghanistan in 1999, where they met Osama Bin Laden and were recruited into the ‘Planes Operation.’
Jarrah moved to the U.S., where he enrolled in flight school in Venice, Florida. In his apartment, he constructed a replica of a commercial airline cockpit using cardboard boxes.
His relationship with Aysel became increasingly strained. They continued cycling through breakups and reconciliation. Aysel tried to ignore her concerns about the man her lover was devolving into. In her mind, she tried to force the radicalized Jarrah of 2001 into the memory of the man she had fallen in love with in 1996, even though he had long since lost the capacity to fit neatly into that space.
On September 10, 2001, Jarrah wrote Aysel a four-page letter, simultaneously thanking her and apologizing to her for the “…very wonderful, hard five years…” she had spent with him. He promised her “…a very beautiful eternal life…” when they met again, which would be spent “…in castles of gold and silver…”
Jarrah’s companion, Ahmed al Haznawi, was the son of Saudi cleric. His family belonged to the al Ghamdi tribe, the same affiliation as fellow hijackers Saeed al Ghamdi, Hamza al Ghamdi, and Ahmed al Ghamdi. Al Haznawi was able to recite the entire Qur’an from memory, giving him the revered title of Hafiz.
Kyle ’08 had entered room 468 first and unlocked the adjoining door to room 466. He then moved to 466 and opened its door to 468. He checked his weapon and loaded all three magazines. As a final touch, he applied some lithium grease to his gun suppressor to further dampen the gunshot. Contrary to Hollywood depictions, silenced guns still made a heck of a racket, though, if ’08 was lucky, the guests at the Marriott might still sleep through th
e ruckus that was to come.
The hotel room layout was typical—the bathroom was adjacent to the room entryway on the left, creating a short hallway before the bedroom. Two double beds were in the bedroom, across from a wood-veneered chest of drawers. A large television set sat atop the chest. The space between the closest bed and the bathroom wall created a perfect sniper’s nest for Kyle ’08 to surprise his target as he walked from the hallway into the bedroom.
By Delta standards, the close range of this engagement would be a turkey shoot. Delta recruits were required to achieve 100 percent accuracy at 600 yards with a rifle, and 90 percent accuracy at 1,000 yards—over half a mile. Still, close encounters often yielded unanticipated variables. A target at 1,000 yards can’t take a swing or throw a weapon at their assassin.
Kyle ’08 glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Its dim burnt orange illuminated numbers read “12:01.” It was now September 11.
Kyle ’08 waited, watching the Twin Towers.
At 00:15, he heard footsteps in the hallway. He stood up and moved between the bed and the adjoining wall. He could not be seen from the entrance to the room. He pulled his mask over his face. He heard the chirp of the door lock. He raised his weapon, took a breath and quietly exhaled as the door opened. Through the wall, he heard the door to room 468 open as well.
A room light came on and Ziad Jarrah walked past him, carrying a black duffle. The small Lebanese man was wearing jeans, an olive polo shirt, and wireframe glasses. In the millisecond that Jarrah turned in terrified reaction to Kyle ’08’s black hooded figure, ’08 fired one shot into his head and two into his heart. Jarrah crashed into the chest of drawers across from the bed, knocking the television set onto the floor. Before the TV hit the ground, Kyle ’08 kicked open the adjoining door to 468. At the sight of the black ninja in his hotel room, al Haznawi, forgetting that he was already scheduled to die that day, screamed like a girl and ran for the door. ’08 fired two rounds into his back, then one in the head as al Haznawi slumped against the door. A blood trail on the door led to his crumpled body on the floor.
Kyle ’08 rifled al Haznawi’s pocket and retrieved a mobile phone. He ran back into 466 and pulled a phone from Jarrah’s pants. Before exiting, ’08 dropped a calling card, a scribbled note, on Jarrah’s body:
“PDB: Bin Ladin Determined To Strike in US.
United Airlines 93 hijackers.
Target: White House”
The note referenced the title of the infamous August 6, 2001 President’s Daily Briefing, or PDB, prepared for President Bush by the CIA. Though the eventual leak of the PDB in 2002 had an incendiary effect on public opinion, the CIA had delivered even more alarming briefings to the president in preceding weeks. Though 08’s calling card was cryptic, when combined with calling cards from the other assassination scenes, it would weave together the disconnected and dismissed intelligence from the FBI, CIA, and the National Security Council. The reference to the President’s Daily Briefing, which was classified as of September 11, would send an unmistakable message that these men were terrorists, tied to a single ostentatious plot. The goal of the calling cards was to increase the vigilance of the nation’s security apparatus without the catastrophic effects of 9/11.
Kyle ’08 moved to the door, opened it, and peeked out. The coast was clear. He ran to the nearest stairwell and down the four flights of stairs to the parking lot exit. On the way down, he stuffed his weapon into his backpack. Exiting into the hotel parking lot, he walked into the shadows before removing his mask. He then set out for Newark Airport, only a few hundred yards away.
When he reached Terminal B, Kyle ’08 got in a cab.
“Days Inn, please,” said Kyle ’08.
“Days Inn airport?” asked the driver.
“Right,” replied Kyle ’08.
The requisite yellow crown air freshener perched atop the cab’s dashboard. A wooden beaded cover insulated the driver from his seat. Kyle ’08 noticed the driver’s name, “Jameel,” on his dashboard ID. The Pakistani driver was wearing a cell phone ear bud and carrying on a phone conversation on their way to the hotel. Kyle ’08 picked up snippets of Jameel’s cell phone call in Urdu.
“His wife had a baby? Is it a boy or a girl? A boy? Perfect! Now he has a boy and a girl. What? He wants five kids? Has he lost his mind? How is he going to support a wife and five kids...”
When the cab arrived at the Days Inn, Kyle ’08 directed Jameel to park the cab in a darkened section of the parking lot and wait for him. Jameel didn’t miss a beat of his call as Kyle ’08 strode off toward a side stairwell entrance.
“…It’s too much responsibility for the father and eldest son. They must work and support the wife and other kids. It’s too much. I think he’s putting his wishes ahead of what’s best for the family. They have to work and they must worry about making sure the sisters get married...”
Jameel didn’t notice six bright flashes in rapid succession through the drapes in one of the third floor rooms.
“…and he’s not thinking about his family at home. I send money to my father from here for the family. That is the responsible thing to do. With a wife and five children, there will be nothing left for his family at home. The youngest son will be spoiled and there will be nothing left…”
Kyle ’08 opened the back door of the cab and climbed in. The remaining United flight 93 hijackers, Ahmed al Nami and Saeed al Ghamdi, were dead.
“Newark Penn Station, please,” Kyle told the driver.
Park Inn
Newton, MA
September 11, 2001
01:05 hours
“Hello?” said a sleepy woman’s voice in the dark.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” said Kyle ’01 on his mobile phone.
“I’m not,” replied Padma, groggy.
“Honey, I’ve gotta work late again tonight,” said Kyle ’01.
“What’s the excuse this time,” replied Padma, sharpening up.
“Gotta save the world,” said Kyle ’01.
“There’s always something,” said Padma, sarcastically.
There was a pause.
“Come to my bed,” said Padma.
Kyle ’01 closed his eyes and sighed, “You’re killing me.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who had to go save the world,” Padma retorted.
“Right about now, I’m thinking your bed is worth a court martial,” said Kyle ’01.
“My bed’s worth a firing squad,” said Padma.
“You are making me crazy.”
“Good,” said Padma. “Then quit the Army and come home.”
“You know there is no place else I want to be,” said Kyle ’01.
There was a pause.
“Are you being careful?” asked Padma.
“I am,” replied Kyle ’01.
“That’s good,” Padma said, “because I really don’t think I can live without you.”
“I wouldn’t live without you,” Kyle ’01 said. The thought brought a bolt of fear. The Kyle from the future lived in a world without Padma. Kyle ’01 couldn’t imagine that dark world.
The contrast between Kyle ’01’s cold killing assignment and Padma’s warm loving bed could not be more stark. Why wasn’t he in Padma’s bed? What he was doing was insane. His doppelganger had shown up out of the blue and handed him a list of people to go kill in the middle of the night. How was that different than serial murderer Son of Sam receiving his instructions from a talking dog? Kyle ’01 didn’t feel crazy, but then again, David Berkowitz probably felt perfectly fine too during his murder spree in the ’70s.
“I have to go, love,” said Kyle ’01.
“Please be safe. I love you,” said Padma.
“I love you,” said Kyle ’01.
Kyle ’01 snapped his phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. He sat in his rental car in a dark corner of the parking lot behind the Park Inn. The Park Inn was the last stop of his Boston assignments. Within the next few minutes, ’01 would kill two American
11 hijackers, Wail and Waleed al Sherhi, as they slept. After dispatching the al Sherhi brothers, ’01 had one final destination, the Comfort Inn in South Portland Maine, where he would kill American 11 hijacker Mohamed Atta along with his companion, Abdul Aziz al Omari.
Kyle ’01’s previous hits had gone like clockwork. He caught the al Ghamdi brothers, Hamza and Ahmed, sound asleep in their room at Boston’s Days Inn. After ’01 shot Hamza in his bed, Ahmed, semi-conscious, realized that he had awoken into a nightmare and made a dazed attempt to leap out of his bed through the window. Kyle ’01 shot him mid-lunge before he made it out of bed, leaving his underwear-clad body slumped halfway off the bed.
At his second hit, Kyle ’01 shot and killed the remaining three United 175 hijackers, Marwan al Shehhi, Mohand al Shehri, and Fayez Banihammad, crammed into room 408 at the Milner Hotel in Boston’s theater district. Street noise from the active nightlife had helped mask the “crack” of Kyle ’01’s silenced Glock. After he dispatched the hijackers, Kyle ’01 left the agreed-upon calling card in the room, and a “Do not disturb” sign on the door.