The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

“It’s time,” Ramzi said. He shook Klaus for a second time. “If you’re going in with the maintenance crew, you need to leave soon.”

  Klaus blinked. Ramzi had worked through the night, and Klaus had stayed with him until he fell asleep in a chair. As he woke up, he remembered the last thing Ramzi had told him.

  “Don’t detonate before noon,” Ramzi had said, leering. “That’s when we’ll blow our bomb. Remember to get high enough that you won’t be wiped out in the initial blast. When you feel the building rumble, you’ll know my work is complete, and you can finish your task. If nothing has happened by twelve-fifteen, then, as the Americans say, bombs away.”

  “I’ll go to the seventy-eighth floor,” Klaus had replied, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “That’s where the transfer lobby to reach the higher floors is located. It’s low enough that, with the hole your bomb creates, we’ll leave a massive crater in Manhattan, and it’s high enough to generate a huge quantity of radioactive fallout. Mine will toss thirty-two floors full of infidels into the sky. With any luck, it’ll shoot them into the jet streams and drop them in bloody clumps over the country all the way to California.”

  Klaus shook himself to wake up. “That’s the wrong direction,” he said flatly, almost in a growl. "The jet streams will blow everything out to sea.”

  Ramzi regarded him with a dreamy expression. “I know. I let my imagination run away with me for a moment.” He scoffed. “Maybe some of it will land on Buckingham Palace in London."

  Klaus stretched, yawned, and scratched the back of his neck. Then he went to the next room to clean up and dress.

  “How will you get to the Trade Center?” Ramzi asked when Klaus emerged.

  “I’ll ride the bus. I scouted a stop used by a few of the center’s employees, and I’ve ridden the line a few times, so I’ll look familiar to them. I’ll go in with them. Our brother on the inside will pass me through.”

  “He’s doing a great service for our jihad. Do I know him?”

  Klaus shrugged. “I don’t know. My hawaladar in Tripoli directed him to me. He only knows to let me in, nothing more.”

  Ramzi nodded his approval and gestured to the small door of the storage room where Sofia was held. “Do you want to see the woman again?”

  Klaus shook his head. “I don’t want to be corrupted on this of all days. I’ll just go. Be sure to deal with her as promised.”

  Ramzi gave him a somber look. “After the bombing, we’ll celebrate with her, and then I’ll take care of it. You can damn me to hell from Paradise if I fail. Do you want breakfast before you go?”

  “I’ll have several hours with nothing to do before you arrive. I’ll put some fruit and bread in my toolbox to eat if I get hungry. That will make the contents look even more innocent.”

  They walked to the entrance of the workshop together, embraced, and kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “Live a long and happy life,” Klaus said, “and then I’ll see you in Paradise.” He started to leave and then, on impulse, turned back. “Who’s going to drive? Not Salameh, I hope.”

  Ramzi grunted. “Not Salameh. I have a friend who grew up in New York City. He was a limo driver here for many years and knows all the streets. He’ll drive us to the target the smoothest way, without jarring the nitroglycerine.”

  Klaus stared, his doubt manifest in his expression. “Why have you tolerated Salameh?”

  “He’s my friend. He came here with me for jihad.”

  Klaus shook his head. Then he turned, waved over his shoulder, and started down the driveway carrying his toolbox.

  After Klaus left, Ramzi went to the van and checked all the connections, then woke up Salameh and the limo driver.

  “Time for final preparations,” he said, his passive expression belying the tingling of excitement he felt.

  Salameh turned over on his mattress on the floor, pulled his blanket back over his head, and groaned his objection to having his sleep interrupted. Then he yawned and reluctantly climbed out of bed.

  Tariq, the limo driver, bounded to his feet. “Let’s go.” He prodded Salameh. “Who else will ever have an opportunity like this one?”

  The two followed Ramzi back into the workshop. He opened a locker and gestured at four gray buckets made of heavy plastic with sealed lids. A very narrow tube protruded from the center of each one.

  “These go in the van.” He peered sternly at Salameh. “Do I need to remind you how carefully you have to carry them?”

  Salameh regarded him with wild eyes and shook his head.

  “If you drop them,” Ramzi continued, “we’ll leave a crater in New York City, but we won’t hit our target and our rewards in Paradise will be greatly diminished. Do you understand?”

  Salameh nodded and picked up one of the buckets.

  “Arrange them in front of the blue plastic barrels,” Yousef said.

  Once the nitroglycerine was loaded, Ramzi demonstrated how to thread the detonation cords through the surgical tubing. “This will subdue the smoke, so people are less likely to notice it. In the parking garage, that probably won’t be an issue, and we’ll lock the van anyway. The tubing will also slow down the burning, giving us time to escape from the blast area.”

  “Do you mind telling me how it all works?” Tariq asked.

  “Of course,” Ramzi said with pride. “The blue plastic barrels are filled with several hundred pounds of urea nitrate crystals mixed with nitric acid. The yellow barrels behind them contain sulfuric acid. We’ll insert the detonation cords through the tubes on top of the nitroglycerin in the gray buckets. They are the fuses that ignite the nitroglycerine. When it explodes, it will cause the other elements to explode. Above the barrels are pressurized canisters of compressed hydrogen. That’s what will make the explosion reach high into the building.”

  “And above that will be Klaus and his bomb,” Tariq breathed.

  Ramzi nodded. “When we park in the garage, light the fuses—and run.” He laughed.

  They finished loading their cargo and inserting the fuses. Then Salameh glanced toward the storage room door.

  “What about the woman?”

  “She’ll be here when we get back. Klaus gave her to me. You can have fun with her afterward.”

  Salameh looked at his watch. “We won’t leave for another hour. Can’t we play with her a little now?”

  Ramzi glanced at the door and then back at Salameh’s hopeful face. “All right, but just for a few minutes—if you can bring her here. She’s tied up in there. Can you handle her by yourself?”

  Salameh grinned, lascivious intent gleaming in his eyes. Without saying another word, he headed toward the room.

  Sitting on the floor next to the door with one of the ropes in her hands, Sofia dozed intermittently. Not knowing when she might need agility more than warmth, she had taken off her heavy coat and draped it over her shoulders.

  She heard the men in the other room moving about and talking, but she could make out none of the conversation. Then she heard approaching footsteps and the key turning in the door.

  She leaped to her feet and crouched, the rope strung between both hands. Her coat fell to the floor.

  The door opened. A man stepped in, silhouetted against the light.

  Sofia sprang. Crossing her arms and tossing the rope around Salameh’s neck, she yanked it tight.

  Not being a true garrote, the rope tightened and pinched off Salameh’s airway, but did not cut into his skin. He immediately tossed furiously from side to side, fighting to remove a demon from his back. As his breath constricted, he panicked and slammed Sofia back against a wall.

  She held on, but Salameh slammed her again and again. The rope slipped through her hands, burning them.

  In the other room, Ramzi and Tariq heard the commotion and came running. In the dim light that spilled into the closet, they saw that Salameh had fallen to his knees and was clutching at his neck while Sofia clung to his back, still holding the rope around his throat. They rushed to his sid
e and beat their fists into Sofia’s head and hands until she let go of the cord.

  Salameh fell forward, supporting himself on his hands and catching his breath while Ramzi and Tariq pulled Sofia into the other room. Forced to the ground on her stomach, she was helpless to stave off the blows Tariq delivered to the back of her head while straddling her.

  Moments later, Salameh reeled from the closet, lust for vengeance written on his face. He staggered toward Sofia and delivered a powerful kick to the side of her head.

  Her mind reeled, her vision blurred, and she lost consciousness. Blood spilled to the floor from an open gash above her temple.

  Salameh continued kicking until he had exhausted himself.

  Panting and sweating, he looked up at Ramzi. “What should we do with her?”

  “Throw her in the van. She’ll be one more infidel the authorities will try to piece together in two hours.”

  47

  “Atcho, get some rest,” Burly urged. “Building management has a full staff and augmentation. If Klaus comes in, we’ll get him.”

  Atcho shook his head. “He can set that bomb off any time. We have to get close to him before he knows we’ve spotted him. Let’s hope he hasn’t decided to go martyr on us. If he has, all bets are off. Have you distributed those NUKEXs?”

  “We had some flown in last night, but we don’t have enough for the entire staff. I gave them to Luciano and showed him how to use them. He’ll distribute them as he sees fit. You got yours?”

  Atcho patted his jacket and nodded wearily.

  They were sitting at a desk in the middle of the World Trade Center security operations control room in Building 7 of the complex. From that vantage, they could see most of the plaza on the north side of both buildings. Arrayed on the walls around them were banks of monitors that officers were watching closely.

  Atcho heaved a sigh. “Even with all these eyes looking for him, Klaus will be tough to spot. Is there any progress on setting up full inspections at the entries?”

  Burly scoffed. “There are ‘political considerations.’” He mimed quotation marks in the air, and his expression projected his disgust. “The building is governed by the port authority, which falls under city government, and the politicians don’t want to upset the public.” He shot Atcho a sympathetic glance. “Anything on Sofia?”

  Atcho closed his eyes and shook his head. “The news stations broadcast the picture of her and Klaus everywhere, the police mounted a huge search, and the FBI is working with them. People are calling in by the hundreds, but no solid leads. The trouble is that law enforcement is viewing this as a vendetta kidnapping, and not what it really is—Klaus’ deliberate diversion. He wanted me here in New York City for the big bang, and here I am.”

  “Then Sofia’s effort was useless?”

  Atcho pushed his chair back, dropped his hands between his knees, and lowered his head. “I don’t want to think that. Her aim was to smoke Klaus out. She did that. We know for certain he’s in the city, and he wouldn’t have spotted her at the WTC if he wasn’t scoping it out. She pinpointed the target. His freedom of movement will be restricted too, because more eyes will be searching for him.”

  He looked up suddenly and scanned the room. “We’re looking at this the wrong way, Burly,” he exclaimed. “He won’t come in wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. What time is it?”

  “Nearly eleven o’clock. What are you thinking?”

  “Remember in Berlin, Klaus and his brother came into the hotel dressed as maintenance men to kidnap me? They had inside help and breached State Department security.”

  He jumped to his feet and grabbed the nearest security officer, a shift supervisor, by the shoulder. “Do you monitor employees as they enter the building?”

  The man nodded and pointed to a row of screens watched by only a light crew. “Over there. I can get them to pull up this morning’s clips.”

  “Do it and have your crew check for anything irregular on employees coming in this morning.” He handed the officer a photo of Klaus. “This is the face.”

  “We all have that, sir, but we’ve been focusing on the public entrances.”

  “Exactly. Get people to review videos of everyone coming in through the staff entries. Look for anybody carrying something, anything that appears bulky. Chances are, the guy we’re looking for is already inside. If you spot him, track which building he goes to and let me know immediately.” He paused a moment in thought. “Can you pull a one-hundred-percent accounting of where each employee is?”

  The security officer nodded. “It’ll take some time.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty, thirty minutes.”

  “Do it. Do you need to clear it with Luciano?”

  “No. He told me to fully cooperate.” The man hurried away to carry out Atcho’s instructions.

  Burly nudged him. “You really think he’s here already?”

  “He has Sofia, and he has me where he wants me. He’s ready to pull the trigger.”

  Klaus remained in a men’s restroom near the staff entrance for a time, and then moved to a coffee shop. He lingered there only long enough to appear to grab a cup of morning coffee before heading out to complete routine tasks. Then he went to another restroom, and finally made his way into a long underground tunnel that would take him to the North Tower. Arriving there, he looked at his watch with dismay. He still had three hours to kill.

  Finding a broom closet, he deposited his toolbox in a dark corner and swept the floor outside, watching closely for anyone entering the storeroom.

  Another hour passed. Retrieving his toolbox, he made his way to the Paths Concourse and sought out the coffee shop where he had observed Sofia yesterday, smiling at the memory of her forced composure when he had confronted her.

  He looked at his watch again. Still two hours to go. One hundred and twenty minutes—and then poof. He smiled again, picturing flying, mutilated bodies disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

  He sauntered back into the maintenance areas below ground and found a cargo elevator for the higher floors. His contact in WTC security had provided him with a pass, which he used with no difficulty. On arriving at the seventy-eighth floor, he took a few minutes to observe the breathtaking view of the city and the countryside beyond. He had read somewhere that, on a clear day, the Twin Towers were visible from Bear Mountain, a few miles south of West Point. He smirked at the thought. We came so close to getting your family, Atcho, but we’ve got your wife, and we’ll get you today.

  He made his way to the nearest maintenance room, found a dark corner to open his toolbox, and began munching on an apple.

  Salameh held the garage doors to the workshop open while Tariq edged the van into the driveway, and then closed them. He hurried to enter the van through the rear, since the side doors were blocked by the collection of blue, gray, and yellow plastic barrels.

  No one spoke. Ramzi sat in the front passenger seat. Sofia, bloodied, limp, and intermittently conscious, had been propped in the only unoccupied space on the floor. On entering and settling across from her, Salameh prodded her again with the bottom of his boot and then two more times for good measure. He grinned at Ramzi, who, eyes wide, signaled for him to stop and pointed at the nitroglycerine.

  Salameh understood the message and fell into sullen silence.

  Tariq guided the van with great care over the rough driveway and emerged onto Pamrapo Avenue, sliding into mid-morning traffic. He drove southeast and followed the main road, then turned north on Garfield Avenue. His route was carefully chosen for smooth driving with the fewest number of stops, the least traffic, and the best road surface. Tariq took care to keep a distance between the van and vehicles ahead, gliding to a halt when necessary, always mindful of the destructive cargo behind him.

  Ramzi sat rigidly, allowing only his head and eyes to move, watching in all directions, including checking on Salameh to be sure he behaved himself.

  Salameh continued to eye Sofia in sullen silence
, nudging her with his boot whenever Ramzi was not looking.

  They reached Interstate 78 and turned to traverse the Holland Tunnel. Tariq drove at a speed that kept traffic flowing past him on the left. On reaching the other side, they took the exit that wound around toward West Street and then turned south.

  The tall spires of the Twin Towers loomed ahead of them. Ramzi viewed them with the detached attention of an engineer examining a project, reviewing in his mind the placement and magnitude of forces required to bring them down.

  48

  “There.” Luciano pointed at the video screen in front of him. “Play that back,” he instructed the officer working the controls.

  As Atcho watched with Burly and Luciano, a man dressed in a maintenance uniform entered the field of view. He moved with a line of employees entering the World Trade Center through a staff portal.

  “Look,” Luciano exclaimed as the video rolled. “He has trouble with his ID card, then he’s taken aside by a security guard, and watch this—he’s allowed through.” He turned to another officer. “Get that security guard and bring him to me.”

  “Have you tracked where the man went, the one who had trouble with the ID?” Atcho asked. “The video is too grainy to make him out. He looks like he’s carrying something, a container of some sort.”

  “We’re combing the files,” Luciano said. “He went straight to a restroom and stayed there for an extended time, and then made his way to a coffee shop. We don’t know yet where he went from there. We’ll keep looking.”

  “I’ll wait. Warn your people to look out for him, but if they see him, they need to keep a distance. That container could be the bomb.”

  “It’s time to evacuate the building,” Luciano said.

  “If you do that, he’ll know we’re on to him, and he’ll blow it,” Burly interjected. “For whatever reason, he seems to be biding his time, like he’s waiting for something. Instead of causing a panic that could alert him and trigger his action, let’s use the time to get close to him.”