by Conrad Jones
If he’d been the agency’s director, he would have plastered it over every front page in the nation. A foiled Muslim extremist plot of that magnitude was an opportunity gone begging. He couldn’t believe that the stupid woman running the department had pulled a complete media blackout over the whole thing.
Apart from senior members of the Northern Command, and the President’s office, nobody was even aware of any incident or potential threat to the country’s biggest city. Ruth Jones had insisted that going public with the incident would strike fear into the hearts of an already nervous American population. Islamaphobia would reach unprecedented levels, damaging the fragile relationships between America’s indigenous people, and their peaceful Muslim neighbours. Japey thought that the Whitehouse would overrule the director, and that the media machine behind the President would shift into overdrive.
Unfortunately, the complete opposite happened and every agent involved in the potential attack had been sworn to secrecy. Every message between charter flight 14-8 and air traffic control had been erased. Even the records of the airplane’s transponder being tracked by satellites had been wiped. The navy had swept the crash site to ensure that there was no tell tale debris floating on the Atlantic Ocean, but there was really no need. The F-16s had done a comprehensive job. There was simply no proof that anything had happened. The opportunity to get his face in front of the cameras had been ripped from him by that self-righteous bitch of a boss. To top it all she had transferred him out of the main office, which was the final straw.
There had been plenty of news coverage about the terrorist incidents in the United Kingdom. Images of the burnt out restaurant at the top of the giant St. John’s Tower had been broadcast around the globe. It was headline news the world over, the smoking tower a poignant symbol of the religious war that was raging across the planet. The details of the attacks on high-level personnel from the intelligence agencies had been squashed, just like the rogue aircraft incident.
Scenes of hundreds of Iranians celebrating the attacks by burning the Union Jack, and the Stars and Stripes in the streets were being screened every time there was a commercial break on the news networks across America. The line in the sand between conservative Muslims, and their extremist relatives was being blurred by media frenzy, which was exactly what Ruth Jones wanted to avoid. They had to ride the wave of the British story, and then professionally manage the media aftermath, in order to placate the nervous American public.
Agent Japey had been sent to New York’s field office on the premise that Ruth Jones needed him to quell any rumours of an imminent Islamic attack on the city. The truth was she wanted him out of the main office, because he was a liability, and because he had lied to her once too often. Japey knew that was why he’d been transferred, and Ruth Jones knew that he knew, and frankly, she didn’t give a toss.
Japey wasn’t going to just lie down and allow his precious career to be brushed under the carpet along with the shooting down of the airplane. The news from Britain was the perfect precursor to a terrorist incident in America, if only his superiors had grasped the opportunity. Everyone involved in the incident could have benefited from the publicity exposure that it would have attracted, but they had chosen to listen to that woman instead. He had an idea that would put the agency and its relentless battle against extremism firmly in the spotlight where it truly belonged. He was sat on a tall stool at the bar when his cell phone rang.
The bar was a seedy pick up joint for gays. The colour scheme had been chosen by someone of the more artistically camp fraternity. There was a certain stereotype running through the whole venue, pink, pink and pinker. It was the type of bar that Japey could never be found in by any of his heterosexual colleagues. If his tough butch colleagues at the agency could see him drinking beer in this joint, he could never look them in the eye again.
He twisted on his stool so that he could answer his cell, and turn away from the guy he’d been chatting up simultaneously, hopefully without offending him. He put one foot down on the sticky carpet, which was so discoloured by chewing gum and stale beer that it was difficult to spot a pink piece any more.
“Have you found anyone that fits the bill?” Japey asked, taking a deep slug on his bottle of Sol, it had a girly slice of lime wedged into the neck.
“I’ve done better than that, I’ve got two possible targets, and they share an apartment in Queens,” the agent on the phone answered.
“What is their background?”
“You’re going to love this. They are both currently under observation by the feds, because they worship at a mosque that’s on our radar. One of the guys is related to an inmate being held at camp X-ray, Guantanamo Bay. He was arrested for travelling through Kabul, allegedly trying to fight with the Taliban,” the agent was excited.
“Have these guys been fingered for anything yet?” Japey asked. He needed someone under suspicion, but not so hot that they were being watched night and day.
“Hey big guy, do you want another beer?” the man that Japey had been chatting up nudged him. He placed his hand on Japey’s buttock and allowed it to linger just a little too long.
“I’m talking on the phone,” Japey snarled at the man, pushing his hand away. The man shook his head like an offended drag queen and walked away to talk to some other guy.
“Who was that?” said the agent on the other end of the phone.
“No one, answer the question. Have they been fingered for anything, are they under surveillance?” Japey snapped back, batting the question away, annoyed that the chat up line had been heard by one of his agents.
“I just heard someone call you, big guy, but not in big guy kind of way,” the agent joked.
“What the fuck are you inferring?” Japey snarled again aggressively, his stomach turned at the thought of his secret being discovered.
“Nothing, don’t throw your dummy out of the pram, they’re clean for now, no tails, no surveillance just like you asked me for,” the agent said offended. All joviality had gone from his voice.
“Good, well done, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s been a long day,” Japey apologised. He had protested a little too much, he thought.
“No problem, I was just joking that’s all,” the agent still sounded offended. He pouted and blew an imaginary kiss to his partner who was sat next to him in his unmarked agency car. The other agent giggled silently, his hand over his mouth so that Japey couldn’t hear him in the background.
“Good, there is no offence taken on my part. I want them snatched tonight,” Japey ordered, gaining control of his faculties again.
“Tonight, what’s the rush? I’m not sure that we can set this up for tonight,” the agent back peddled.
“I thought you said that your team was up for this gig,” Japey tried to sound hip, but just sounded even more camp.
“Err; we are up for this, gig, as you put it. We need to stake these guys out first and make sure that we can pull it off without any hiccups,” the agent tried to reign Japey in.
“Stake them out them, but I want them snatched tonight, absolutely no excuses,” Japey said abruptly.
“Okay, you’re the boss,” the agent said resignedly.
“Yes I am, call me when it’s done,” Japey hung up and looked around the bar for someone who looked quick and easy. He had some pent up tension to get rid of.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Yasser
Yasser looked down at the walled holy city of Jerusalem, from the top of the Mount of Olives. According to the scriptures, The Mount is the last place that Jesus was ever seen. At the foot of The Mount is the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was betrayed by Judas Iscariot to the Roman centurions. The view across the valley into the city is breathtaking, one of the most historic views anywhere in the world. The beautiful domes and spires of dozens of mosques and churches dominate the skyline.
The slopes of The Mount are also the site of one of the biggest cemeteries in the Middle East. The scriptures say that when the
dead rise and come back to life, that they shall rise from the Mount of Olives. Millions of Jewish people are buried on the slopes because of this prophecy. The graves are all topped with white stone slabs, carved with Hebrew prayers, and then piled high with smaller stones and pebbles. The smaller stones are placed by family members when they visit the grave, a gesture of their sorrow. Thousands upon thousands of white stone slabs are dotted across the sloping mount as far as the eye can see, from the top of the hill, all the way down to the valley below. During Jordanian rule, thousands of the graves were desecrated by the Muslims. Many of the graves have been smashed and desecrated, scattering the white stone over the hillside. Yasser took great comfort in looking at so many Jewish gravestones.
Across the steep valley were the thick walls of Jerusalem. The elevation from the Mount of Olives allowed Yasser to look over the ancient walls, at eye level with the huge golden dome, which topped the mosque called, the Dome of the Rock. In the background was the steeple of the Church of the Sepulchre, which encompassed the site where Jesus was crucified. Yasser stared at the giant flat stone platform, which topped the Temple Mount, and envisaged the network of caves and manmade chambers beneath it. He breathed deeply, and the hot dry dusty air filled his lungs. It felt good to be alive, good to be free again, and good to kill Christians and Jews.
Abdul was standing one hundred yards away on a viewing platform further up the hill, surrounded by tourists. He was admiring his handiwork through binoculars from a distance that he felt comfortable with. He was also enjoying the distance between him and Yasser. Yasser was making him very nervous; in fact, he was scaring the life out of him. The man was a complete lunatic, ice cold inside, and completely focused on causing death and destruction. Although it was Abdul that had sponsored the plan, he had never anticipated being so close to the actual mechanics of the operation.
The gratitude that Yasser had shown for being freed by Abdul and his men was brief and abrupt, almost as if he felt it was their duty to do so. Abdul was getting the impression that Yasser didn’t like him, and that frightened him. He sometimes felt that Yasser thrived on his fear, as if he could see it in his eyes. Abdul turned the binoculars toward Yasser to see what he was doing. He scanned the gravestones back and forth, left and right, but couldn’t see him anywhere.
Abdul was almost relieved when he realised that Yasser had gone, he had disappeared. It seemed too good to be true. Abdul had regretted freeing the terrorist leader within hours of meeting him. He wasn’t the benevolent father of the Islamic struggle that the myths and legends made him out to be. Abdul had pictured him as a chivalrous warrior fighting for the cause of the down trodden, poverty stricken Muslims everywhere. Instead, he had unleashed the beast.
Abdul stepped between two sections of a low wall, which allowed entry into the humongous graveyard that covered the entire hillside. He scanned the slopes again looking for Yasser, but to no avail. His hopes began to rise, could it really be this easy to get rid of the psychopath that he had unwittingly aligned himself with. He picked his way carefully through the shattered gravestones, which were strewn across the grassy slopes, causing trip hazards every way he turned. Abdul stumbled and bashed his toes against a chunk of stone. His open sandals offered him no protection. He leaned against a head stone and held his injured foot in the other hand, while cursing in Arabic. The toenail on his second toe had been torn away at the edge, and it throbbed painfully, blood seeped slowly from the small tear.
Abdul sat on the rectangular stone slab to catch his breath. The sun was blazing down and he was beginning to feel its effects. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes, blurring his vision. He wiped his eyes and looked back up the slope toward the tourists on the viewing platform. He had stumbled a few hundred yards down the hill from where he had been watching Yasser. Abdul lifted the binoculars and scanned three hundred and sixty five degrees. There was nothing but graves to be seen for miles. He dropped the glasses into his lap and swore again at his swollen toe. He crossed his legs to make it easier to inspect the offending injury. The nail was blackening already, and blood was congealing between his toes.
“It is good that you are bleeding on Jewish graves Abdul,” Yasser appeared close to his right hand side, making him jump.
“Yasser,” he gasped holding his heart in a gesture of fright. “I thought that you had gone.”
“No Abdul, you only wished that I had gone,” Yasser stepped in front of Abdul and stared into his eyes. Abdul felt as if Yasser was looking for the truth deep in his soul, his eyes drilling into his deepest thoughts.
“Not at all, I was worried that you had gone,” Abdul wiped sweat from his eyes again and tried to look offended by Yasser’s remarks.
“You are a liar Abdul, and a hypocrite,” Yasser broke his stare and looked across the valley into Jerusalem. The massive golden dome was shimmering in the heat haze. The minaret seemed to be melting in the scorching sun. He watched a section of bedrock below the Temple Mount and saw a tiny figure in the distance appear from a rent in the shadow of the huge structure. He knew where the entrance to the ancient chambers was.
“I do not understand why you berate me so much. I was your benefactor, and I gave you your freedom,” Abdul blustered, trying to gain a modicum of respect from Yasser.
“How dare you, assume to hold power over me Abdul?” Yasser span toward him in a whirl. He leaned his face close to Abdul. His lips were curled into a snarl.
“I don’t try to wield power over you my Caliph, but I demand your respect. I gave you your freedom,” Abdul leaned back away from Yasser, and broke his gaze. He wiped sweat from his brow again, fear was adding to the heat perspiration.
“You dare to give me my own freedom! My freedom was not yours to give to me or anyone else, because my freedom is my own. It can only be stolen.”
“You are twisting my words, I deserve your respect.”
“You can only dream of earning my respect Abdul. You are a rich selfish pig, sitting in your hotels, playing golf, whilst your brothers beg for money for food and water from Christian tourists,” Yasser spoke very calmly.
“I create jobs and provide money for hundreds of Muslim families, and I donate thousands to your cause,” Abdul stood up, and placed his hands on his hips belligerently. He was fiercely proud of his self-made status.
“Listen to yourself Abdul. You give me my freedom, and you have created, and you donate thousands, you’re almost divine Abdul. We should all pay homage to all mighty one, Abdul,” Yasser bowed deeply and swept his arm across in body in a dramatic fashion, but all the while, he never took his stare from Abdul.
“I will not be insulted by you any longer. I have given you your freedom, and now I will leave you to your own devices. I bid you farewell Yasser Ahmed,” Abdul turned and walked away.
He picked his way carefully through the rock-strewn grass. Abdul had only taken a few tentative steps when the first crushing blow fractured the back of his skull. Yasser held a triangular chunk of gravestone in his fist, and he didn’t stop smashing it into Abdul’s head until it had been turned into an unrecognisable bloody mush.
Chapter Sixty
Queen’s district, New York
Agent Japey approached an unmarked dark Crown Vic, which was the United States law enforcement agencies vehicle of choice. There were two men sat in the front of the vehicle smoking cigarettes. One of the men was going bald, but he was masking it by sweeping his hair from above his ears, over the top in wispy strands. Japey detested him. He had greasy skin, which was covered in deep blackheads, and his cheeks were pockmarked by years of acne. Japey hadn’t had many dealing with him, but he remembered his name was Dewi. His unkempt appearance and bad personal hygiene disgusted Japey. He always smelled of sweat and stale cigarettes.
The second agent was the man that he had spoken to earlier on the telephone. His name was Anthony. Anthony was in his early forties, but looked younger. He kept his receding hair cropped close to his scalp, and he sported a Freddie M
ercury moustache, which blended into designer stubble on his face and neck. Both agents were wearing loose black suits over open necked white shirts. Anthony’s collar was clean, whereas Dewi’s had a dark sweaty rim that was four days old.
Japey hesitated before he opened the rear passenger door to look up and down the street cautiously. The street was flanked on each side by five storey tenement buildings. Brick steps with low balustrades led to every rundown apartment’s scruffy front doorway. Bags of refuse were piled at the foot of every set of steps, many of them had been rifled by local stray dogs and cats, scattering litter along the sidewalks. The area was bedsit land, and home to the poorest of the poor. Drug addicts and alcoholics, prostitutes and illegal immigrants made up the bulk of the street’s inhabitants. Japey was interested in two illegal immigrants in particular. He climbed into the smoke filled vehicle, and waved his hand in front of his face fanning the stale air for dramatic effect.
“Can’t you guys open a window or something?” he said as he closed the door.