Fear City

by F. Paul Wilson

Nasser couldn’t help the brittle laugh that escaped, sounding almost like a bray. He fairly vibrated with excitement. Eating was out of the question. He couldn’t even sit, so he paced before them.

  “Oh, no! No, phone. You do not want to trust this to a mobile or even a landline. Once you hear it, you’ll understand why.”

  Trejador stared at him. “I am, as they say, all ears.”

  “I picked up three of the jihadists this morning. I was already familiar with Kadir and Mahmoud. The new one’s name is Ramzi Yousef, a trained bomb maker.”

  “Bombs!” Drexler said around a mouthful. “I like this already.”

  Trejador’s eyebrows lifted. “A bomb? A big one, I hope.”

  “They plan to fill a panel truck with a combination of nitroglycerin and a urea-based explosive.”

  “Just like the Beirut barracks bomb. Excellent. What’s their target? The UN, I presume.”

  “Better. One of the members of their gamaii is an engineer of sorts. He inspected the parking area under the target and he’s sure they can bring the building down. Not only bring it down, but topple it into another skyscraper.”

  Drexler’s eyes widened as he lifted his green bottle of beer. “The Empire State Building?”

  “No! Even better. They’re going to place the truck bomb in the basement of the north tower of the World Trade Center and position it so that the explosion tilts it off balance and topples it into the south tower, which will then crush the rest of the Trade Center.” He laughed as he clapped his hands. “Can you believe the sheer audacity of it?”

  He expected his revelation to spark an enthusiasm that mirrored his own. Instead he saw wide-eyed shock. Trejador had frozen with the sandwich poised before his lips, and Drexler’s beer had stopped halfway in its ascent to his mouth. Didn’t they think it possible?

  “What?” he said, halting his pacing. “I know they’re crazy, but they believe they can do it, and so do I.”

  “No!” Trejador and Drexler cried in unison. “No!”

  Nasser’s dazed brain tried to fathom their reaction. Did they think it would be too expensive?

  “Compared to what’s been lost on less reliable ventures, the cost of this will be negligible. If the High Council balks, I’ll gladly put up my own—”

  “No!” Again, in unison.

  Nasser felt like a punctured balloon. “I don’t understand.”

  Drexler coughed on his food as Trejador spoke: “The World Trade Center is off-limits!”

  What?

  “I don’t understand. The Twin Towers have surpassed the Empire State Building as the Manhattan icon. Bringing them down would electrify the world. Even this Clinton would have to issue a call to war.”

  Drexler finished a quick swallow of beer and said, “No-no-no! Listen to Roman. The World Trade Center is not to be touched. Not only must you not fund this plan, it is imperative that you steer them away from it.”

  Nasser dropped into a chair. “Someone has to explain this to me. What am I missing?”

  A look passed between Trejador and Drexler.

  “You cannot be privy to that information yet.”

  “What?” That stung. “I’ve been a faithful member of the Order for over a decade now and if I haven’t yet shown that I can be trusted—”

  “Easy, Nasser. It’s not a matter of trust or years. It’s a matter of level within the Order.”

  “One needs a minimum of actuator status to have access to that knowledge,” Drexler added.

  Trejador nodded. “And you’ll be there soon. You’re an excellent candidate. But until you earn that status, certain things will be withheld from you. It’s simply the way it is.”

  “Does it make sense for me to operate in the dark? Really, it hardly seems fair to expect me to effectively dissuade them from their plan when I don’t know why I’m doing it.”

  Drexler’s expression turned sour. “You don’t need to know the facts. Even if you did, you certainly wouldn’t be able to use them. You’d still have to fabricate a reason to convince them.”

  “If it were up to me,” Trejador said, “I’d tell you—”

  “But the protocols were put in place for a reason,” Drexler added, “and it’s not up to individual members to bypass them.”

  “You’ll learn in time,” Trejador said. “And when you do, you’ll understand.”

  “Don’t we have to take it up with the High Council?”

  Trejador shook his head. “Don’t even consider it. In fact, I’d rather the Council remain in the dark about this. If they know, they might take drastic measures.”

  “Drastic? How drastic?”

  Drexler said, “Order us to arrange the extermination of that entire Jersey City— What did you call it?”

  “Gamaii.”

  “Right. Gamaii. Or even more extreme: Wipe out all the worshippers at the mosque during Friday prayers.”

  “Thus depriving us of useful tools,” Trejador said. “So this must stay confined among us three. Therefore it is imperative that you divert this gamaii from their intended course as soon as possible.”

  “You must,” Drexler said. “You must.” He put down his plate with the remainder of the club sandwich. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Trejador did the same. “Me too.”

  Dumbfounded, Nasser could only lean back and stare. What could be so important about the World Trade Center that the Order could not allow it to be damaged? He could not imagine …

  Wait. When he’d learned that he’d be working with Drexler, he’d asked around the Order about him. No one liked him and seemed much more interested in talking about his father. And a number of members mentioned Ernst Sr.’s only failure: Despite his determined efforts, he failed to block the construction of the World Trade Center. Details filtered through Nasser’s haze of confusion …

  Back in the early sixties, about the time of Nasser’s birth in Qatar, the Port Authority wrangled permission to raze thirteen square blocks in lower Manhattan to build the World Trade Center. The Order appointed Ernst Drexler Sr. as the point man and put all its resources of power, money, and influence behind him. Usually nothing could withstand an onslaught of that magnitude, but the PA prevailed. The blocks were razed and a huge hole seventy-five feet deep was dug in their place to serve as the foundation of the center.

  The Order had failed, but why had it objected in the first place?

  Nasser realized he must push the buzzing questions aside and focus on the moment. He’d learn the truth once he achieved actuator status. After reaching that, all the Order’s secrets would open to him. The downside was that, once on that path, he would not be allowed to turn back. Once you cross a certain line in the Order, you are committed for life. You cannot change your mind and leave. And even when you reach the point where you can no longer discharge your duties, no retirement is offered. At least not in the usual sense. Retirement was a cyanide capsule. Each actuator kept one handy at all times to guarantee that no secrets would be revealed under duress. If unused during his career, it became the simultaneous beginning and end of his retirement. The Order did not offer a pension.

  Nasser rose and faced the two actuators.

  “Divert them from their course, you say. They’ll never agree to not building a bomb. Nor can I say the World Trade Center is off-limits because they’ll want to know why. I can’t think of a single plausible reason why they shouldn’t want to bring down the skyline’s most visible structures.”

  Drexler gave him a challenging look. “A man worthy of the designation ‘actuator’ will find one.”

  And there it was: a thrown gauntlet. Prove yourself.

  Well, he would do just that. He’d drive over to Jersey City and meet with Kadir immediately. He’d set him and the rest of his gamaii straight … somehow.

  “If you don’t succeed,” Drexler added, “I might have to call on Reggie to practice his archery skills on your jihadists.”

  … your jihadists …

  They used to
be our jihadists, he thought. When did they become mine?

  4

  “Might as well work for fucking UPS,” Reggie muttered as he stalked into the big stone building. His gaze was drawn, as usual, to the seal of the Septimus Order carved high into the rear wall of the central hall.

  He gave it the finger and continued upstairs to his quarters on the second floor.

  His life sucked. He still had this free room from the Order, and he got a weekly cash envelope. In return he was expected to be at their beck and call for all sorts of piddly shit. Mostly deliveries. Like just now: Take a cab to a downtown office, pick up an envelope and cab it uptown. Save the receipts and get reimbursed.

  Shit, man, he had more talents than that. He could be useful in so many ways if they’d just give him a shot.

  Yeah, he knew he’d lost a lot of credibility with that Tony thing. But goddamn it, he had seen him in the back of that cab. Trouble was, he could never find him again. The only explanation was that Tony must have been on his way out of town and never came back.

  Reggie went to the closet and pulled out his small, lightweight compound bow and a quiver of arrows. He carried them to the long hallway outside his room. The Order owned this old stone building off Allen Street on the Lower East Side. It had been built to house a bunch of people back in the old days but he was the only one who lived here now.

  Last year he’d made a man-sized target—really just an orange, one-piece coverall stuffed with rags—and tacked it to the wall at the far end of the hall. He nocked an arrow. The wheels and cams at either end of the bow did their job as he pulled the string back to his chin and took aim along the shaft. No wind or elevation to take into account, just a straight shot.

  He imagined it was Lonnie. Not his real name, Reggie was sure, but that was all he had to go on. The guy had gone all crazy on him when Reggie suggested sinking the truck with the girls in it. Drive it into the harbor and have done with it. No one left to point fingers. Shit, it made perfect sense to ditch the evidence, but Lonnie had sucker punched him, then busted his fucking knees.

  He remembered the agony of those knees. The Order had paid for their repair but he still walked with a limp and not a single day went by that they didn’t hurt. And on cold damp days like this one they ached through and through from morning on and all through the night.

  He loosed the arrow and it struck the jumpsuit in the knee.

  Someday, Lonnie. Someday we’re gonna meet up again, and then we’ll see who walks away. You gotta know I’m looking for you, Lonnie. It’s a big city, but I spotted Tony, didn’t I. And if you’re still here, one day I’ll spot you too. I don’t forget, and I never forgive.

  He put another arrow into the other knee.

  Where are you, Lonnie?

  5

  “Struck out again,” Jack said as he arrived at the rear counter of the Isher Sports Shop.

  Abe lowered his copy of the Times and glanced over the top. “Baseball already?”

  “No.”

  “A woman then?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Yes and no a woman? This is possible? You’re not sure? She’s not sure? A hermaphrodite?”

  “My latest prospective customer was an older woman.”

  “Nu. Your saying ‘prospective’ and ‘was’ in that sentence tells me what you meant by ‘struck out.’ Let me guess: She wanted you to kill her husband.”

  “No. This one was totally out of left field.”

  “Another baseball metaphor already.”

  “Listen: I walk into Julio’s and she’s already there, waiting at my table. Late fifties, maybe sixty, very well dressed, very much out of place in those surroundings.”

  “She wants you to torture her husband maybe?”

  “She tells me she wants me to right a wrong.”

  Abe shrugs. “They all want that, don’t they. What did her husband do?”

  “So I ask her who committed this wrong, fully expecting her to say—as you keep insisting with your interruptions—that it was her husband. But no. She says, ‘I did,’ and proceeds to tell me how she torpedoed her daughter’s wedding years ago because she didn’t approve of the guy, and the girl has been miserable ever since.”

  “So she wants you to marry her? How much is she offering to pay?”

  Jack ignored him—he was coming to see that sometimes selective deafness was the only way to deal with Abe.

  “Her daughter remained single and the man she never married turned out to be an all-right guy whose wife just died. She wanted me to get them back together.”

  Abe did something then that Jack had never witnessed: He burst out laughing. “Matchmaker Jack! Oh, my brain! A shray in my brain! It cries oy gevalt at the thought!”

  “It’s not that ridiculous,” Jack said, feeling a little miffed despite agreeing with him.

  After regaining control, Abe said, “So you turned her down, I hope. A shadchan you’re not.”

  “Of course I turned her down. What the hell do I know about playing Cupid? Jeez, why do the wrong people keep showing up on my doorstep? What am I doing wrong?”

  “You need better marketing.”

  “I’ve got word of mouth and that’s it.”

  “It’s not enough. You should take out ads already. I see it now: Got a problem? Call Repairman Jack.”

  “‘Repairman Jack’? Where did you come up with that?”

  “Off the top of my head just now. You like?”

  “I hate.”

  He searched for a sign that Abe might be offended but saw no trace.

  “What’s to hate? It’s brilliant, a thing of beauty.”

  “Sounds like an appliance repairman.”

  “To you maybe. But remember, I didn’t say, ‘Got a problem with your toaster?’ I said, ‘Got a problem?’ Keep it vague and open-ended. Let the person fill in the blanks.”

  Jack’s turn for a laugh. A small one. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Not a biseleh. Get a separate phone line, get an answering machine, and put classified ads in the papers.”

  “Under what? Business Services?”

  “Under Personal Services, of course. The kinds of problems you service tend to be very personal. Trust me, a flood of calls you’ll see.”

  “Mostly about broken toasters, I’ll bet.”

  “Of course. From nutcases you’ll hear as well.”

  “I already do.”

  “Just because they’re nuts doesn’t mean they don’t have problems—other than being nuts, that is. But amid the flood of responses you may find gold in your pan.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’m missing something maybe? Your current situation is just the way you like it?”

  “No…”

  “And you’ve got how many more prospects lined up at the moment?”

  “Um, none.”

  “Oh, well then don’t listen to me. You’ve got everything under control.”

  “Repairman Jack? Seriously?”

  “Excuse me. I should have said Repairman Shmuck.”

  Okay … now Abe was annoyed.

  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you.”

  “You want my advice, there it is. For free already.”

  He was serious. Jack thought it was a terrible idea but sensed he might have already bruised his feelings.

  “Well … I’ll … I’ll have to think about it.”

  But he knew he wouldn’t.

  6

  A moving car seemed the safest place to discuss terrorism, so Nasser had directed his driver to keep moving through the back streets of Jersey City.

  “Is there a problem?” Kadir said in Arabic from the rear, where he sat sandwiched between Mahmoud Abouhalima and the horse-faced newcomer, Ramzi Yousef.

  Nasser turned in the front passenger seat and replied in Arabic as he faced them.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Kadir glanced at the back of the driver’s head. “Are you certain he do
es not speak Arabic?”

  Nasser smiled. Brajko Klarić was another of Drexler’s Eastern Europeans—a Croat who barely spoke English, let alone Arabic.

  “Not a word. Go on.”

  “There must be a problem. All you had to do was give us the money, but we are going for a ride.”

  “Yes, there’s a problem. My people have rejected the idea of funding a Trade Center bomb.”

  Three sets of dark eyes widened as one. A wave of protests arose. Mahmoud’s voice cut through the babble.

  “Your ‘people’? We believed this to be your money. We believed you were in charge of it!”

  Nasser gave a helpless shrug. “We all answer to a higher power. My higher power does not believe the fall of the towers will have the desired impact.”

  “That is insane!” Yousef said in Pakistani-accented Arabic. “It will shock the world!”

  “No argument that it will shock America, but my people do not believe it will have sufficient international impact.”

  More babble.

  “The towers are the symbol of capitalism!” Yousef said. “America embraces capitalism and ignores Allah.”

  Personally Nasser was rather fond of capitalism. It worshipped markets rather than the local deity. Markets were reliable. Deities not so much.

  Kadir raised a fist. “By destroying the symbols of capitalism, we strike a blow for jihad, for Allah himself!”

  More babble, through which Nasser said, “But the rest of the capitalist world will remain untouched. Do you want that?”

  Wary silence followed.

  Nasser added, “Remember, you will get only one chance to shock the world. After the first bomb, security will clamp down like a vise, and placing a second bomb will be next to impossible. So you must think of the first bomb as the only bomb. And as such, you must choose the target that will offer the most wide-reaching impact.”

  He thought he was making a reasonable argument. Personally he agreed that knocking down the towers would be more shocking, but plausible alternatives remained and he had to push them. He only wished he knew why.

  “And what would that be?” Mahmoud said in a sour tone.