by Jay Deb
He was driving on K Street, and his destination was about a mile away.
DOERR’S FIGHTER JET touched down at Andrews Air Force Base at three p.m. sharp. He had tried to sleep during his flight, but the ride had been super-noisy, and the plane had shaken too much. As soon as he got off the jet, he ran for the car that was waiting for him. He drove out of the lot like a bullet, heading for Washington. It was an official vehicle, equipped with an emergency light, which Doerr turned on whenever he faced congested traffic. He drove on the highway shoulder at times, when needed.
Within a half hour, Doerr was inside Washington City. He was desperately trying to think what Faizan’s target would be. He figured there was no point going to the White House, the Capitol or the Washington Monument; those places were heavily guarded already. He knew that the terrorists liked to attack transportation systems, since they provided easy access and plenty of publicity. The London attack in 2005, the Madrid attacks in 2004, and the Mumbai attack in 2008 – all involved attacks on a train system during rush hour.
Rush hour was about to begin in Washington city. The Metro Center sprang to Doerr’s mind.
AS FAIZAN INCHED toward his destination, the Metro Center, his heart leapt with joy. The GPS showed he was only 0.2 miles away. There were scores of people around, walking by the curbside, tall buildings everywhere, people going in and coming out of them. Faizan noticed the difference between Washington City and the other places he had been in the last couple of days – Augusta, Virginia, North and South Carolina. In those places, he hardly saw any one walking by, and in this city, the streets were teeming with people, scurrying around like ants. Faizan felt proud about the last minute change he had made to the plan. Many infidels would die, and he would live to see another morning, another night.
The Metro Center had been chosen as the target after a heated discussion. A discussion Faizan was not part of. He had heard from Ahmad that when Halim discussed it with the others, some had proposed the White House, some mentioned the Capitol, and another person talked of the Washington Monument as a target.
Hahim had laughed at the mention of the monument and said, “Have you ever looked at a picture of the place, where it stands? It’s surrounded by concrete and large grass fields. No vehicle can get within five hundred feet of the monument. It’s as though the person who planned it one hundred and fifty years ago knew that it would be a target of sabotage someday. Sending a human bomb would not be a good option either, as it is guarded by tens of security people. The same is true of the Capitol. As for the White House, the road next to it has been closed since 9/11, and it’s also heavily fortified. Let us be practical about the target.”
Faizan knew that, after much deliberation, the Metro Center was chosen for a variety of reasons. First, the fatality count would be high. Second, the place was frequented by people from all walks of life. The consequent closure and increased security would terrorize the common masses for days, if not months. Third, and most importantly, the place was accessible to a car bomb.
“One bomb and a rain of bullets,” Halim had proclaimed to his audience of donors and radicals. “The mayhem created by just one man will kill more than a hundred Satans and scare off thousands.”
The audience had clapped, but one man had raised his hand and said, “What about our own security? The CIA and their Special Ops are ruthless too. Will they not find out we are behind the attack and come after us?”
“Good question. Faizan is going to enter America illegally so there will be no paper trace. He will kill himself in the end so there won’t be any interrogation. The only link is the professor, but I am pretty sure he is no idiot and will keep his mouth shut for his own safety. So no trace, no witness and hundred plus Americans dead at the center of their country. But if you are so scared, then maybe you should not be here. Gentlemen, any more questions?”
There had been no more questions, only claps.
Now, Faizan passed a Starbucks coffee shop; he could see the front of the Metro Center Station. People were going in and out like maggots. He salivated at the thought that many of them would be bleeding on the ground soon, and he would walk away, alive and unharmed. He glanced at his watch – 4:50 p.m. He decided to drive around the block to kill some more time.
After finishing the round, he stopped ten feet away from the entrance to the station and picked up the briefcase that held his passport, the gun, and the cash. With one hand inside his jacket pocket, holding the cell phone, he turned his head and took one last look at his bomb, which would explode soon.
Faizan got out of the van, slammed the door, and started walking toward the wall opposite the station entrance. Facing away from the vehicle, he placed his finger on the preprogrammed button on his cell phone. He would push it when he knew he was safely out of range of the bomb. Inshallah.
AFTER PROFESSOR HASSAN and his wife came back from the police station, they were both ashen faced, and neither of them ate anything or spoke to each other. The professor’s wife talked to two of her friends on the phone. The professor debated with himself whether he should call anyone but in the end decided not to and stared at the TV, barely following the program on the screen, and he kept pacing in the living room throughout the night.
The next morning, a police car stopped outside the professor’s house with its emergency lights on. As the professor watched the car with hope and optimism, two more police cars joined the first one. Soon, there was a knock on the door. Hassan opened the door and saw three male officers standing at the front.
“You found my daughter?” the professor asked, a ray of hope in his voice.
Ignoring the question, the officer in the middle said, “I am Special Agent Steven Roth. We are from the FBI.” He flashed his FBI badge.
“What is the matter?” Hassan asked, fear creeping into his voice.
“Do you know someone named Faizan Al-Sourie?”
“Yes. He stayed here for a few days. Have you found him? He has done something bad to my daughter, my only child – she is missing.”
Once again, the special agent ignored Hassan, and then he showed Hassan a picture and asked, “Do you know this man?”
“Yes. That’s Faizan.” The professor pointed his index finger at the picture. “The bastard. Have you found her or not?”
“Did you know the man before?”
“No.”
“Then why did you let him stay here?” The special agent frowned and threw a cold look at the professor.
“A friend in Dubai sent him here. He is a student. He is going to study at Georgetown University.”
“Sir, please turn around,” the special agent said. “You are under arrest.”
“But why?”
“Sir, you have been warned. Now please turn around.”
Seeing he had no other option, the professor turned, and then he saw his wife. She must have been standing behind him for a while. Fear was visible on her face, and tears streaked down her cheeks.
The agent put the handcuffs on the professor’s wrists, and another agent started reading the Miranda rights.
“What have we done?” the wife said in a muted voice. “We have been living in this country for twenty years. And my daughter is missing…” Her voice broke, and she fainted and dropped to the ground.
DOERR REACHED THE Metro Center Station and immediately spotted the van parked at the curbside, and its plate number matched the one given by Louder. The last letter on the plate was L; earlier, the FBI had been unable to determine the last letter from the tape on the video surveillance at the Virginia house. He looked at the van – there was no one inside.
It was a cloudy day, the temperature hanging just above forty degrees. The place was full of people; about two hundred fifty, he estimated. Folks were passing by the van, and so did a handful of vehicles – one car honked for no apparent reason.
Doerr looked around, scanning for a young Egyptian man, who he knew to be about six feet tall with a thick beard, which, Doerr knew, Faiz
an might have shaved off already. Doerr could not locate the terrorist.
People were walking, running, some away from the abandoned van and some passing it by. He saw one man rushing away; his height and frame matched the description Doerr had. Doerr saw the man close to the wall, and the man was putting his hand in his jacket.
Doerr knew there was no time to lose. He took a calculated risk and screamed, “Down, down, everybody. Get away from the van.”
Then he screamed again.
People scurried away, pushing and shoving each other. Some fell to the ground; some lay down on the concrete. Doerr saw a toddler stumble, and a baby was thrown from its stroller.
Doerr turned and ran to the baby. As he reached the infant, the van exploded; the ground shook, and metal pieces exploded outward in the immediate vicinity. Tires screeched as cars slammed on their brakes, and people screamed and ran, ducking for cover.
Doerr picked up the baby, who was startled but unharmed. He handed the wailing child to its shell-shocked mother.
He turned to the van; the smoldering skeleton of the vehicle stood there as a witness to the horrific incident that was taking place. Ten or eleven people could be seen standing with bloody hands. Ten more were on the ground, not moving at all.
Doerr knew that the man who he had seen standing against the wall minutes before was none other than Faizan, the Egyptian man sent by Halim to kill Americans.
Doerr looked at the wall where he had spotted Faizan only moments before. Doerr looked to the right and then to the left – no Faizan. The man was gone, no trace left.
Out of desperation, Doerr ran in the direction Faizan had been facing. He ran ten blocks. Doerr was panting and breathing like a chimney. He couldn’t see Faizan. Doerr kept running.
Onlookers stared at Doerr. But he didn’t care; he ran another ten blocks and felt a sharp pain in his leg, reminding him of the hip injury he had. He ignored the pain and kept running, drawing his gun in case he needed it.
Doerr darted forward, and now he could see Faizan rushing away at a distance, carrying a black briefcase. Doerr pushed harder; the sharp pain from his hip sprang up into his upper body.
Faizan was pretty far ahead, and then he took a turn. Doerr ran faster, and when he reached the turn, Faizan was more than two hundred feet away, and there were other people around him.
Doerr aimed his Glock at Faizan’s right leg. It was a long shot.
Doerr would have preferred a rifle, an M4 or higher. But the Glock was the only firearm he had. He leveled the barrel at Faizan’s knee. Doerr knew a Glock was not the best choice of weapon under the circumstances. There was a high risk he would miss and could hit a member of the public. But Doerr knew he had to take that chance. If Faizan ran away, they might never be able to catch him.
Doerr aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. A bird, startled by the crack of the firearm, flew from one window to another, and Doerr saw Faizan stumble to the ground. Two passersby stopped walking and looked at Faizan curiously while four others rushed away.
Doerr ran toward Faizan, the Glock in his hand. When he drew near, Doerr slowed and pointed the gun at Faizan, who was lying on the ground. Doerr took slow steps and tried to see if Faizan was holding a firearm, but it appeared he was not. Faizan was teetering in pain, left hand holding his knee. There was an open briefcase lying about five feet away from the Egyptian man. Dollar bills were strewn on the cobblestoned walkway, and some bills fluttered in the air.
As Doerr closed in, Faizan tried to crawl away, and he looked pathetic. Faizan’s jacket was dirty, his hair unkempt, and lips bloody. Doerr came closer, and Faizan conjured a gun, seemingly out of nowhere, and pointed the gun at Doerr and fired. The bullet hit Doerr’s left shoulder, and he felt his collarbone shatter into pieces. Doerr’s gun fell to the ground. His knees hit the cobbles immediately, and he extended his hands and touched the ground, hoping to soften the fall. But as soon as his hand touched the ground, he felt the sharp pain in his shoulder. So he grabbed his shoulder with one hand and saw Faizan staggering to his feet and away.
Doerr mustered just enough energy to pick up his Glock, and shot Faizan in the back. From the way Faizan fell to the ground this time, Doerr could tell Faizan would not be going anywhere, anytime soon. Knowing Faizan could not shoot him from that far away, Doerr rested his head on the ground and heard the growing wail of the approaching police cars.
HALIM SAT IN front of a large-screen TV in a plush hotel room, somewhere in the Middle East. Two other men were sitting next to him. Halim frowned as the al-Jazeera news anchor appeared on TV. “There was an attack at the Metro Center train station in Washington, DC, today. A van with a crude bomb inside exploded. It could be heard from miles away. Due to a man who warned the public in the nick of time, only two people died. More than twenty are injured, five of them seriously. The FBI is investigating, and a press conference is due to take place in an hour.”
Halim looked at the other two men with disdain. One of them was Raafiq, Halim’s brother, who had been hiding from public view after escaping from France.
“Just two people dead?” Halim roared.
Raafiq and the third man shook their heads.
“Maybe some of the injured ones will die soon,” the third man said sheepishly.
Ignoring the third man, Halim groaned. “Just two dead? Traitor. That Faizan is a big traitor. He detonated the bomb and ran. He did not fire his rifle. He did not lay down his life. All that training and effort went in vain.”
“We can’t be sure of that, brother.” Raafiq tried to mollify Halim. “Maybe Faizan did his job.”
“Then why is that fucking al-Jazeera man not talking about it?” Halim turned his stoic face toward Raafiq. “He should be talking about bullets coming out of rifles, killing infidel after infidel!”
“Maybe the Americans are afraid.” Raafiq pointed his hand toward the TV. “They don’t want to tell their citizens how brave we are and how many more people have died in Washington. Maybe…”
“No.” Halim shook his head and raised his hand, stopping Raafiq from speaking further. “Faizan betrayed us. Only hours before he told me everything was in place for the attack. So he was lying. I should have known. He did not want to die in the beginning. He is probably talking to the CIA right now, making a deal. I did so much work and only two dead? Do you think that is justice?”
Raafiq and the third man shook their heads. No.
No one talked for a few seconds, and then Halim picked up the TV remote and pressed the OFF button.
“Bring me Faizan,” Halim commanded in a cold voice. “Raafiq, bring me a platter with Faizan’s head on it.”
Raafiq stood up, made a fist and said, “I will kill Faizan and bring his head. I promise you, brother.”
Chapter 24
Doerr woke up in a room well lit by fluorescent lights. The room was about ten by eight feet, the marbled floor neatly cleaned and the door half closed. He was lying on a bed, wrapped in a white blanket, which he removed and tried to peer beyond the half-closed door, but he could see only a white wall. Determined to find out more, he got off the bed, and then he saw the IV sack and a monitor on a stand.
He realized that he was in the hospital, and then he remembered being shot. A picture of the man who had held the gun flashed in his mind – Faizan.
In a reflex, he touched the shoulder that had been penetrated by a bullet; he was not sure how long ago that had happened. His shoulder was tightly bound with a white bandage. Though there was no pain, anxiety filled his mind suddenly.
He poked his head out the door and asked, “Anyone here?”
No one answered.
He took off the IV needle from his wrist.
He walked out of his room and saw an elderly woman lying on a bed in the next room – another patient. Plastic pipe ran from her arm to the saline-filled IV bag. Lines flickered across the monitor. The woman appeared to be asleep.
Two nurses approached Doerr and ordered him to lie down on his b
ed.
“I have to go,” Doerr pleaded. “You don’t know who I am. I have a very important job to do.”
“Whatever it is that you do,” the older, overweight nurse said, “it will have to wait. You are not going anywhere in the next twenty-four hours. Do you understand?”
Doerr angrily shook his head. “There are bigger things at stake right now. I have to…”
The other nurse cut in. “Mr. Doerr, you were lucky the bullet didn’t totally break your collarbone, but it is badly bruised. The surgeon took out the slug, but he insisted you must be kept under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”
“I see what you are saying.” Doerr calmed down and feigned agreement. He lay down on the bed and said, “Okay. But I’m very hungry now. Can I get something to eat?”
“Yes, we will get you some soup.” The older nurse smiled at last. “And you don’t get off that bed. Understand, big boy?”
Doerr nodded. As the two nurses walked away, Doerr stood up. He was not going to waste his time in a hospital bed. He knew he had to escape the hospital. But there was a problem. He was wearing a hospital gown, and his wallet was gone.
IT TOOK SOME deft talking, some lying but mostly bribing, for Doerr to get his stuff back.
After getting out of the hospital, Doerr made a few calls, and then he took a cab to where Faizan was being questioned.
Doerr entered the interrogation room; it was dark, except for around the chair where Faizan sat, shackled. An overhead bulb hung from the ceiling right above the chair. His sweaty face looked exhausted but defiant.