by Jay Deb
He pulled over and dialed Halim’s number, which he had memorized.
On the second ring, Halim picked up. “Hello.” Halim’s tone told Faizan that he had been waiting for this call.
“Faizan,” Faizan said and paused. “I ate dinner, and now I am taking a walk.” That was the code to say everything was going well, and he was on the way to Washington, DC. If something went wrong, he was supposed to say he threw up, that the food was bad.
“Good, good,” Halim said. “You will go home and light the furnace?” That meant Faizan would go to the house, pick up the explosives and start making the bomb.
“Yes, yes.” Faizan thought of mentioning the issue with the license plate but decided to say nothing about it. Cops would not be looking for him, and he would die in less than twenty-four hours. Why should he bother? Also, how was Halim going to help about the plate? If he explained the problem to Halim, it might blow the cover on their coded conversation, and most importantly, the old plate didn’t matter as the professor was unlikely to report the stolen car to the cops as he would have a bigger problem to worry about – his missing daughter.
Cops will not be looking for that plate, Faizan thought.
“All right,” Halim said, clearing his throat. “The man is waiting for you with the wood.” That was again another code to say that the man was waiting in his house with a heavy load of firecrackers, from which Faizan would extract the powder to make the explosive.
“Okay, I’m going to continue with my walk,” said Faizan and pressed the red button to end the call before turning the phone off.
SAMUEL HAD BEEN driving up and down the East Coast. Finding a large amount of firecrackers at this time of the year was not easy, but he managed it. He called a few friends and threatened some shop owners. He went from Richmond to DC, from DC to Baltimore, from Baltimore back to Richmond.
He accumulated fifty-six pounds of firecrackers, and then he headed down to the house in Emporia, Virginia.
As soon as he reached the house, he booted up his laptop. Within a minute, he logged on to his bank account and peered at the balance. As expected, the balance amount had popped, and the difference was exactly what had been agreed upon. Halim kept his word, and Samuel would deliver the goods to Halim’s man, who would appear at his doorstep within hours.
“This man will die within twenty-four hours after he picks up the stuff from your place,” Halim had told him, so Samuel did not worry about getting caught in a legal logjam.
He smiled to himself and shut down the laptop and then went outside for a smoke.
FAIZAN YAWNED AND rubbed his eyes, but it was only eight p.m. – jetlag.
A sign at the side of the road said Richmond, Virginia, was still one hundred and twenty miles away. As he drove, he thought he saw the Malaq Am-Maut’s face flash in the sky. He knew death was near; he would die in less than twenty-four hours. He was certain that he was headed for Heaven, and his virgins would be waiting.
Figuring it would take more than an hour to reach his destination, he slapped himself on both cheeks and his forehead to try to get rid of his sleepiness. When that was not enough, he took the next exit and filled up the fuel tank and that gas can he had bought at the Home Depot store. When he asked for coffee, the gas station owner was kind enough to brew it fresh for him.
The elderly owner filled the twenty-ounce cup himself. He handed it to Faizan and pointed to the corner and said, “Creamer and sugar over there.”
Faizan poured a load of creamer and plenty of sugar into his cup and then returned to the register. On the way, he picked up a bunch of soda cans, which would be soon used in bomb-making.
“Fifty-six dollars and forty-nine cents,” the elderly man said to Faizan, grinning. “The gas money. Coffee is free.”
Faizan handed him a hundred-dollar bill and took a long sip of his coffee.
“Headed for a long night drive, young man?” the elderly man asked, returning Faizan’s change.
“Yes,” said Faizan awkwardly, taking the money. He left the store promptly.
Back in his vehicle, Faizan entered the address Halim had given him into the GPS. That was where he would pick up the firecrackers. Faizan drank almost half of the coffee quickly and felt much fresher. The GPS showed he needed to drive another seventy miles on Interstate 95 to reach the house. He went through the plan mentally again and floored the gas pedal.
Directed by the GPS, Faizan reached the house in about an hour. The road was long; outside, it was dark. He lowered the windows and heard a humming noise; he was not sure what it was and where it came from. He rolled the windows up and slowed to a halt in front of a secluded home in rural Virginia. Faizan parked his van on the asphalt-covered driveway, right next to another van.
He got out and proceeded to the door. It was wooden, painted white, protected by a metallic net screen on which several bugs were stuck. A light bulb at the top kept the area illuminated. Faizan rang the bell and waited. No one came. He rang the bell again, and a few seconds later, a tall man opened the door. He wore a white sweatshirt with a large hood, which covered most of his face. The lights inside were turned off, perhaps on purpose.
“I am Faizan,” Faizan said and extended his hand, expecting a shake. “Are you Sigma?”
The man nodded but did not take Faizan’s hand and asked in a deep voice, “Tell me what you are here for?”
“I am here for fire.” That was the code phrase. Faizan wondered if he had come to the right place, but the doubt lasted only a second.
The man lowered his head. “Come with me.” He stepped outside the door.
Faizan saw the man’s face, under the light from the bulb right above the door. He had a distinctive scar on his right cheek.
Sigma continued to walk, and Faizan followed him. Sigma stopped near his van and opened the rear door. Faizan did the same and opened the door to his own vehicle. The boxes were transferred, and the job was complete within minutes. Sigma walked away toward his house without saying anything and closed the door without looking back.
Halim had warned Faizan, “Some Americans talk too much. Don’t engage in unnecessary conversations. If they don’t like what you say, they might kill you on the spot. Every American has a gun tucked in his back pocket. It is a shame that they call their country a civilized one. It’s really a lie.”
Faizan didn’t have to worry about avoiding conversing with the man—the man with a cut on the right cheek – the man left on his own.
Soon, Faizan was back on I-95 North. About thirty minutes later, he saw a sign that read ‘Emporia.’ It was time to look for a place to spend the night and assemble the bomb.
A few miles later, he chose an exit that did not display any sign for a gas station or motel and took a left at the end of the ramp. The road was dark, and he passed a gas station and two shops, all closed. A car crossed from the other side, and he flicked the headlights just for fun.
The plan was to look for an empty house after eleven, but it was only ten forty, so he drove on and took a right turn a few junctions later.
Both sides of the road were lined by trees left naked by the winter. He drove another half a mile but found no house. He was about to turn when he finally saw one. It was a small, two-level house with no vehicle in the driveway, which was a good sign, so he hit the brakes. As he ventured closer, he could see the white garage door barely lit by a feeble lightbulb. He decided to pass.
“If there is a garage, most likely the car is parked inside and the owner sleeping in the bedroom,” Halim had said. “Look for a house with no car in the driveway and no garage. Sometimes the garage could be at the side of the house, so look carefully. And always remember to have your pistol ready. Be it a man, dog or child, point at the head and pull the trigger.”
“How do you know so much about America?” Faizan had asked his mentor. “You have never been there, right?”
“Right, but I have been working on this plan for last two years. I have some people giving me info
rmation as well.”
“What if a bunch of people come out of the house?”
Halim had laughed loudly. “This is the difference between them and us. They like to live solitary lives. At eleven p.m. a house in rural America will only have two occupants. One, if you are lucky.”
“What if the guy comes out with a gun?”
“That is a possibility, son.” Halim’s face had become serious. “That is why you need to do some more training before you leave and show everyone that we are better at everything. Understood?”
Faizan had nodded, and his mentor had continued, “If a man appears with a gun, kill him first. Should there be more people inside, kill everybody, show no mercy. They don’t deserve our mercy. Think about all the Palestine kids they have killed; you will find strength. Think of all the women widowed by the Americans. You will find courage. Allah will put an elephant’s strength and deer’s agility in you.”
“What if an alarm goes off?”
“Well, in rural areas they are unlikely to have alarms. What is the point in having an alarm blare if there is no one around to hear?” Halim had laughed again, and then his face went solemn. “If an alarm does go off, then kill everyone in the house and disable the alarm before leaving. You will be getting some training on alarms, how to disable them and how to re-enable them.”
Passing that house with the white garage door, Faizan appreciated the knowledge and greatness of the Lion of Dubai even more. He passed a few more houses and stopped at one with a long driveway that looked to be ideal. There was no car parked in the driveway, and no garage was visible.
He stopped in the driveway; his van stood about twenty feet away from the door. He stopped the engine and waited.
After five minutes, he opened his briefcase and inserted his hand. He pushed aside the 9mm and took the silenced Beretta, alighted from the vehicle, closed the door as softly as possible, and waited again. One minute passed, and he didn’t hear any dog, so he proceeded to the gate. Had there been any barking noise, he would have gotten back into the car and left quietly. He heard the howling of some distant animal, maybe a wolf or a bear. He was not sure; he did not care.
He tiptoed to the door. The walkway was made of white stones, and dry leaves lay strewn around.
There was no light on, inside or outside. After trying to peek inside for a few seconds, he pressed the doorbell and watched his own silhouette on the door against the moonlight, and then he pushed it again. He heard a dog inside but nothing else, and the inside of the house looked pitch dark. He gave the knob a turn with his left hand, still holding the Beretta in the other hand, raised and ready to shoot. The knob did not move, and Faizan waited. He turned and looked at the moon. Bright and soothing. How many times had he looked at the gracious moon? Too many times, and perhaps this was the last time he would gaze at it.
And then the door opened wide. Faizan turned his head back. A man appeared, and the moonlight glinted off the long double barrel of the rifle in his hand.
Chapter 22
Bert and Sandy had been thankful to God for a good retired life in Virginia.
Bert had worked at a local USPS office and had retired two years previously. Sandy retired from her middle school teacher job a year ago. They had a son, who was settled in Boston, and a daughter, Janice.
A cloud had fallen on their otherwise happy life when Janice got divorced a few years back. Patrick, their son-in-law, was an asshole.
One day Patrick had come home and told Janice, “I am leaving you.”
Shell-shocked, Janice had asked, “Why? Is it because of something I did?”
“No. I need something more from life. Something that will wow me. I don’t want to live this regular life.”
The next day, Patrick was gone, and Janice had to play both mother and father to their five-year-old son, Harry. Once the divorce was final, she moved from Chicago to Washington, DC, to be closer to her parents.
Janice worked as a paralegal at a prestigious DC law firm that dealt with mostly high-profile murder cases. Despite long hours, Janice was happy with her job, and she was paid an above-average annual salary of sixty-two thousand dollars.
Janice could take a breather as her mom and dad extended helping hands in taking care of her son.
Sandy and Bert regularly went to their daughter’s apartment in Washington to be with Janice and Harry, who was seven by that point. Janice and Harry spent many weekends at Sandy and Bert’s big house. Harry liked the house. He could fly kites; he could hold grandpa’s prized guns, run around outside, and do lots of other things.
Janice liked skiing, one of a very few hobbies she had shared with her ex-husband. When they had been married, they used to go to Canada skiing, at least once a year.
After coming to Washington, DC, she missed skiing sorely. She thought of going to one of those artificial ski places near DC, but she did not have a skiing buddy, and she did not like to ski alone. In fact, she did not like to do anything in life alone.
But soon she met a friend who was into skiing, and together they planned a trip to Canada. Janice thought it would be nice if her mom came along; she knew her father would not come, as he hated traveling.
Sandy agreed to go with her daughter and said to her husband, “You always complain you never get enough time to spend with your grandson. Now is your chance. You and Harry can stay here when we gals go to Canada.”
“That’s fine with me,” Bert had said, “as long as there is enough food in the fridge.”
THAT NIGHT, BERT had been cleaning his guns in the garage, and his grandson, Harry, was playing on his Xbox in the basement. By nine p.m., Bert was done cleaning his two handguns and the rifle; only the shotgun was left, and he decided to clean it the next day.
Bert went to check on Harry, who was sleeping soundly next to the Xbox controller.
Bert looked at Harry’s face; he did not want to wake the little boy. Bert put a pillow under the boy’s head and then a blanket over his legs and torso. He smiled and walked upstairs to the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich, which he ate and then went to his bedroom. He put his just-cleaned rifle under the bed and patted its double barrel before lying down.
Bert woke up in the middle of the night; he had heard the doorbell ring. He got off the bed and picked up his rifle. He tried to remember if he kept the video surveillance system on, and he was pretty sure he had. He confidently walked downstairs and crossed the living room, and his beloved mutt followed him and sniffed his feet. Bert had acquired the mutt only a year before, but he felt the dog had been with him a lot longer. It accompanied him wherever he went, especially during the night.
He went to the door, opened it wide and pointed the rifle at the man standing in front of him.
WHEN THE DOOR opened, the mutt jumped at Faizan, and its owner looked on. Faizan’s left hand went up and shoved the mutt aside. The mutt fell, right outside the door, but immediately sprang up and bit Faizan’s left arm. But it wasn’t enough to save Bert. As he shoved the mutt, Faizan’s right hand came up, the Beretta leveling at Bert’s head. Faizan’s body tilted back slightly, his vision fixed on the skull of the old man in front of him; he pulled the trigger, just like he had during his training.
Faizan crouched, the dog’s teeth still locked on his left arm, which he jerked off to free himself and immediately pointed the Beretta at the old man, who was lying on the floor, looking as if he was dead. The man’s head was on the doormat, and blood had started oozing from the hole in his forehead. No need to spend another bullet on the man. He turned the gun to the loyal, large, and hairy dog, and pulled the trigger. The dog slumped to the floor. The owner and his pet lay bleeding within a few feet of each other.
It became quiet; Faizan stood still but alert. He looked inside; it was dark. Switching the gun to his left hand, he tried to listen for any sound. There was none. He moved his hand on the wall, trying to find the light switch. After a while, he located it and turned the light on. His eyes swept the area. On the right
was a two-piece sofa, in front of the large flat-screen TV, and the kitchen was on the other side. He walked a few steps and saw the stairs leading upstairs, which he quickly ascended. On the second floor, the first room was small and empty. The second one held a bed. He stepped inside but saw no one. He moved to the third room; it was empty too.
There was no time to waste, Faizan knew that. He had a lot of work ahead of him. He rushed down the stairs, dragged the old man’s corpse inside the house, pulled in the dead dog by its collar and shut the door. He surveyed the floor, checking out each door, just like he had done during his training in Somalia, and found the entry to the garage. Inside the garage, there was a neatly parked black, polished sedan. Faizan walked to the back of the car. He saw ‘Lincoln’ written on it.
First he thought he would move the Lincoln out and bring his van in and then unpack the firecrackers into the aluminum cans he had collected. But then he felt pain in his left arm and noticed a little blood oozing from the dog bite. He abandoned the idea of swapping cars.
He went outside and brought in the duffel bag from his van. He took out a bandage and put it over his wound. It did little to relieve the pain, and he worried about getting rabies. But then he chuckled. Heck! Tomorrow would be the last day of his life. No need to worry about rabies. He glanced at his watch – 12:08 a.m.
So today is the last day of my life, he thought. A cold shiver ran down his legs, and he sank into the sofa. He was tired. He set the alarm on his wristwatch to three a.m. If he woke up at three, it would give him just enough time to pour the explosives from the firecrackers and set up the trigger for the bomb. All he would need to do later in DC was join the two main wires and walk away. Then – boom!
The bomb would explode, and a new mayhem would start with him firing his AK-74 at the oncoming people. A feeling of glee swept through his entire body.
At that point in time, he was supposed to call Halim, report his progress and get his blessings. But he felt the pain in his arm and the ache in his leg muscles – it had been a long day.