by Jay Deb
Deciding to call Halim later, he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
AT THE SHARP beeps from his wristwatch, Faizan woke up exactly at three a.m. The corpses of the old man and his pet lay exactly where he had left them hours before. Faizan jumped to his feet, jerked his head to loosen up his neck muscles, and headed for the bathroom. After relieving his bladder, he came back to the living room. He took a look around and decided he liked the house. He liked the size of the living room and its ruggedness. The windows were large and had no drapes. The floor was wooden but was not treated with shiny polish. Faizan thought there was masculinity hidden in that floor.
Faizan liked the isolation and size of this house. He wished he could live in a place just like it in his next life. Though Islam taught him that there would be no reincarnation, Faizan read about Hinduism in high school and learned that Hindus believed in reincarnation. Since then, he secretly believed in a second life. You screw things up, and then you get a second chance in your next life. Faizan liked the idea.
One thing he was certain of was that his next life would be much better and, more importantly, much longer than his current one.
He picked up the bag with his left hand and moved toward the door. A sharp pain struck his left arm, reminding him of the dog bite, and he immediately dropped the bag on the floor. He bent and straightened his arm a few times. It appeared to abate the pain. He picked up the bag with his right hand and then headed for his van.
He repositioned the vehicle so that the passenger-side window was just past the large oak tree, and then he opened all seven firecracker boxes.
He twisted the crackers one by one and poured the explosives into the cans and threw the empty cases right behind the oak tree, so that any passerby would be unlikely to see the empty shells. He continued his work for ten minutes, and then the pain in his arm came back.
He took a two-minute break and started the chore again. After fifteen minutes, he took another break. Forty-five minutes later, he was done. All eight cans were now filled with explosives, ready to go.
Faizan left the remaining crackers on the van floor, hoping they would add punch when the bomb would go off.
Faizan proceeded to connect the links to the cans. He attached the other end of the links to the main link and the main link to the detonator. He attached the detonator link to one of the two cell phones he had bought only hours earlier.
After reaching his destination, all he would need to do was get away from the vehicle, go down the escalator at the station and, at the right time, make a call from his other phone, causing the phone next to the detonator to start vibrating, and the mayhem would start. Everything was the way Halim had planned, and Faizan had executed mock explosions in Somalia four times.
It had been estimated that the explosion would kill at least fifty Americans, if detonated at a busy time. If the plan went right, Faizan would be riding the escalator downstairs, and then he would start firing his AK-74, and that should kill at least fifty more people. The train commuters would have nowhere to go; they would be trapped on the platform in a hail of his bullets.
Once all his bullets were gone, Faizan would pull the two handguns and continue firing at the fleeing mass before pointing one of the guns at his own head and pulling the trigger.
“According to my estimate,” Halim had said, “at least a hundred people will die. God willing, maybe even more, maybe a hundred and twenty or fifty. Imagine that many dying at the hands of one single man, right at the center of the infidel power. And they will have no clue who did it. It will drive the Washington power-hungry suckers crazy, and the common masses will be afraid, like chickens about to be slaughtered.”
“But what if they figure out you sent me there. And they come after you?” Faizan had asked.
Halim sat down on the hotel chair. “I have thought of that possibility,” Halim had said, touching his beard. “After all, things do go wrong. And I have a contingency plan for that. But even the contingency plan can fail, and I might die.”
Halim had stood, his face looking thoughtful. “I am not fearful of death. But if I survive,” Halim had said ominously, “I will make sure whoever caused those failures will be adequately punished. Even if it is a friend, my family or one of my own brothers. I will punish them.”
Now, Faizan looked at the bomb he had made and chuckled, visualizing the dead people, the concrete walkway drenched with blood, broken hands and severed legs, but before all that killing would happen, in just a few hours, he had more work to do. He walked to the back of the van, picked up the full propane tanks, one by one, and placed them around the explosive-filled cans placed strategically in the passenger area. Then he put the twenty boxes of assorted nails around the propane tanks. He covered the whole thing with a piece of cloth. Conveniently, the vehicle had tinted windows, but Faizan didn’t see the point in taking chances. Some kids might peek, out of curiosity, and tell their parents.
Faizan went back to the house for the third and last time to wash his hands and change the bandage on his wound. His hands were covered with a thin film of explosives. He didn’t mind the smell, but he was worried that his hands would somehow catch fire.
Once the washing was complete, Faizan came back to the house door, looked at the dead old man, kicked him in the belly, and then he walked out and closed the door. Back in his vehicle, he cranked on the ignition. He glanced at his watch – 5:17 am. It was still dark.
A little late but still okay, he thought as he backed out of the driveway. Now is the time to call Halim and tell him I’m on the last leg of my journey and tell him to cut the big check and send it to my family in Egypt.
HARRY, BERT’S GRANDSON, heard the gunshots, but he was not sure what the noise was, and he was afraid that it could be the monsters he read about in books. His heart beat faster, and he felt coldness in his feet. He bent his knees further and put his arms around his head. He covered himself with the comforter, and soon he was asleep again. A few hours later, he woke up from a bad dream. He listened hard for the gunshot noise. Nothing.
He was not sure if the noise he had heard earlier had been real or another dream. Feeling something was amiss, the boy uncurled and decided to go upstairs and sleep next to his granddad. He stood up and climbed the stairs. He saw that the lights in the living room were on, which was odd. Fearing high utility bills, his granddad never forgot to put the lights out before going to bed.
Harry went straight to his granddad’s bedroom, but he was not there. Harry came downstairs and started looking around.
Harry looked toward the front door and saw his granddad’s body lying on the floor. He took two steps closer and saw the dead dog and the puddle of blood. Instantly, he knew something was wrong.
With a fluttering heart, the boy ran to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. He wondered for a second whether he should call his mom or 911. He decided to call his mom, but then he could not remember the number, so instead he dialed 911.
A female voice said, “911, what is your emergency?”
“My granddad is hurt,” the boy said frantically. “My granddad is hurt.”
“Calm down, honey, calm down. What makes you think your granddad is hurt?”
“He’s lying on the floor, and there’s lots of blood.”
“Tell me where you are?”
“I am in the kitchen, and my granddad is near the door.”
“No, I mean what is your address?”
“Hmm…” The boy knew his apartment address, and he tried to remember his grandparents’ address, but he simply could not recollect.
“Okay, honey. We’re sending someone right away. Just don’t hang up. Stay with me. Okay?”
DOERR RECEIVED A call from Mark Louder, the FBI man. “I have some good news.”
“Go on.” Doerr looked at his watch; it was one p.m. in Dubai.
“There was a murder reported in Virginia. Luckily the deceased man had video cameras on his property that can record in darkness, and it got go
od images of the killer. We are running the video and the pictures by experts, but the perpetrator looks very much like one of those three men named Faizan for whom we issued those APBs.”
“Where is the man now?”
“He was at that Virginia house till five a.m., and then he left. We don’t have a clue where he is now.”
“Did you get the plate number of his vehicle?”
“Yes, but partially. It is a Georgia plate. We can’t tell the last digit of the plate number. So we are running all ten plate numbers.”
“He is headed for Washington.” Doerr knew it instinctively. From Georgia, Faizan went to Virginia. So the friend Ahmad talked about was in Georgia, and the plate number should help identify the man.
“What?” Louder sounded startled.
“I am saying Faizan is headed for Washington, DC. He is going to do something really bad there. You have to tell them and put the city on high alert.”
“I’m not sure, Max. Washington is a big city. After all, we are just jumping from one conclusion to another.”
“Louder, I’m telling you,” Doerr felt angry again. “He’s going to Washington. Just take it from me.”
“We need more than a hunch to hold a city hostage.”
“I need to go to Washington right now,” Doerr said. There was no point in wasting time in Dubai. There was a bigger problem brewing at home.
“What? I can’t help you with that.”
Doerr knew that. “Thanks for your call.”
Doerr hung up and dialed Lazarus’s number. “I think they have located the man named Faizan. I need to get back home immediately.”
“Where is he now?” Lazarus asked.
“He is headed for Washington. I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Lazarus said. “That will be in the FBI’s jurisdiction now. They handle all domestic terrorism issues.”
“I know that. But it originated in a foreign land. So we have to be involved too.”
“I’m not so sure, Max.”
“But my heart says we have to do something. Can you arrange transport for Rosania and me?”
“I can try. But, as I said before, this is now in the hands of the FBI.”
“Please, get a plane to take us to DC. I promise I will come back to Dubai and hunt down Halim.”
“Let me see what I can do. I will call you soon.” Lazarus hung up.
Doerr waited by the phone after the call was over. The day was nearing its end in Dubai. In a few hours, the city workers would head for home, and night would sneak into the city. Doerr knew in Washington the city dwellers were seeing the sun rise and were getting ready for another hectic day of work, but they were unaware what danger might be lurking on the way.
Doerr dialed Rosania’s room number; she was staying at the same hotel. He gave her the news and told her that she should get ready to head for the USA.
An hour later, Lazarus called. “We have a clandestine fighter jet waiting to take off in a half hour,” Lazarus said. “But we have a problem.”
“What is that?” Doerr asked.
“It is a two-seater plane. Which means only you or Rosania can be on it.”
“Okay, Rosania will have to catch another plane.” Doerr sighed and hung up.
He ran to the hotel lobby and hailed a taxi. He left his stuff at the hotel and updated Rosania on the phone from his taxi. “We are lucky to get a plane at all, let alone a super-fast fighter. You rest tonight, Rosania. Take an early morning flight tomorrow, and by tomorrow night, you should be in Washington, DC.”
Chapter 23
After leaving the old man’s house, Faizan got on Interstate 95 and drove for twenty miles before heading for a rest area. He parked his van in the parking lot. He set the alarm on his wristwatch for nine a.m. and closed his eyes for another nap.
But he could not sleep. He dozed off for a while but was woken by the screaming of some children. A bunch of kids, accompanied by their parents, passed his vehicle; the kids were fighting about something and made a lot of noise. The father gave Faizan a dirty look as he passed by, and Faizan looked the other way. He closed his eyes again and thought it would have been nice to have a pair of sunglasses. The sun was up and bright, making it hard to sleep.
After another half hour, Faizan woke up again, this time to the noise made by a bunch of teenagers.
Faizan sighed and decided to head for the restroom to take a leak. On the way back he checked out the store and bought a pair of cheap, dark sunglasses.
Perfect, he thought and put the glasses on. He got back to his van and checked his watch again – 8:15 a.m.
He closed his eyes, trying to catch a last bit of rest, but he was not able to sleep. He dozed on and off. He thought of calling his family in Egypt to say goodbye, but he had clear instructions not to make any unnecessary calls, not even to his family.
“The FBI listens in to all calls made,” Halim had said. “Your only calls will be to me, using the coded words.”
Halim’s words were sacrosanct to Faizan, and he did not call his family.
Faizan waited till nine a.m., and then he drove out of the parking lot, and he was back on the highway. Now he had to search for a Walmart or Home Depot store and pick up four more propane tanks, to make his bomb deadlier. He drove for twenty minutes and took an exit that seemed to have a lot of shops. He drove around for a while but did not see a Walmart or Home Depot store, so he went to a gas station to inquire.
“What do you need?” the store keeper, a twenty-something black woman, asked.
“I am looking for some propane tanks. We’re having a party this weekend,” he lied.
“We have them right here,” the woman said and smiled. “How many do you need?”
“Four.”
Faizan paid with cash and loaded the four tanks in the rear of the van. At the ramp, Faizan floored the gas pedal into the highway. The plan was to start for Washington at around noon, giving him enough time to reach the chosen spot by four p.m., where the bomb would explode and his bullets would be unleashed.
Faizan parked his van at the next rest area and tried to doze off one more time. At eleven a.m., he called Halim. It was to be his last phone call.
“I have got all the presents, and I’m headed for uncle’s house.” Faizan spoke in coded words, saying he had got the bomb ready and would be heading for Washington soon.
“You are doing great work,” Halim said. “You will be rewarded handsomely, my son. Go and finish the job now.” Halim hung up.
Faizan closed his eyes once again, hoping for an undisturbed siesta. This time he slept for almost an hour and, after waking up, headed for the restroom again. At the store, he bought a turkey sandwich and a packet of potato chips.
Before leaving the store, he thought about the bomb. Is everything done? The explosive-filled cans. The links. The detonator. The propane tanks and nail boxes. Yes, everything has been done. With one call, I can explode the bomb right now if I want to.
As he walked back to his vehicle, a feeling of euphoria passed through his body. He was sure that after today’s events, Muslim brothers around the world would worship him.
Faizan got back to his van, adjusted the mirrors and slowly drove out of the parking lot. He was back on Interstate 95. He drove for an hour and noticed that traffic was getting heavier.
As he approached Washington, he saw a river and enjoyed the view of the calm white water that separated the highway from the city where some of the most powerful men in the world lived. He had long imagined what he would do if he ever became as powerful as the US president.
First, he would stop all aid to Israel and give billions to Palestine. Second, he would make all Muslim countries adopt and execute Sharia Law or else lose all trading with America. Third…his spell of imagination broke when a BMW sedan honked and passed by his vehicle. He realized that he had crossed the lane marker, and it was his mistake, but still he honked back.
The Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, which wa
s carefully chosen as the entry point to the city, rather than the Fourteenth Street Bridge, which went through areas that were more closely monitored, was coming up. A bunch of birds flew by, and Faizan started wondering whether it was necessary for him to die.
Was there a way to kill a lot of people and still save his life? Americans would die. Halim would be happy, and Faizan would continue to live. Was that possible?
He was thinking of a way to explode the vehicle and still get away, instead of killing himself. Of course, he would have to hide some details from Halim. If Halim knew about Faizan’s change of plan, Halim would certainly come for Faizan and kill him; Faizan knew that. Instead of giving a big check to Faizan’s family, Halim would send a big fucking bomb.
“I hate cowards,” Faizan remembered Halim saying, “but do you know who I hate even more?”
“The Americans?” Faizan had asked timidly.
“No. The traitors who live among us. Every Brutus must be lynched.”
Faizan now wondered if Halim was simply expressing his opinion or threatening him. Faizan wasn’t sure.
As per Halim’s plan, Faizan was now just a few hours from his death. As he drove over the bridge, he became more and more certain that he could escape with his own life, hide somewhere, maybe in Somalia or Afghanistan, and escape Halim’s wrath after dealing the death blow to the Americans.
He had his passport and almost a hundred thousand dollars in that briefcase. The large sum had been given to him just so he could bribe his way out of any situation that jeopardized the mission, if a cop caught him on the way or something like that.
Now he knew who he would hand over those dollars to, if needed – the immigration officer at the Dulles airport. Instead of firing the machine gun on the crowd and turning the handgun on himself, he would just leave them in the vehicle, and after triggering the bomb, he would simply walk away and take a cab to the airport. He even thought of a good excuse in case of a confrontation with Halim – he forgot the ammunition in the vehicle. Due to the tension, he left the rifles and handguns in the van, and then there was no way he could kill himself – yes, that’s what he would say. Yes, that would make a perfect excuse. Faizan chuckled and glanced at the GPS.