by Lou Mindar
Chapter 76
January 2001
There were three flight schools operating out of the Venice airport. People Scott spoke to at the first two flight schools didn’t know anyone named Marwan al-Shehhi. What if the people at the last flight school didn’t know al-Shehhi either? Maybe he took flight lessons under an alias.
The last flight school was Huffman Aviation. It was housed in a large metal building with a small office on one end and an airplane hangar at the other. The office area was surprisingly clean and attractive. To the left of the entrance was a service counter, and behind the counter were two men, each wearing blue slacks and white, short-sleeved shirts with blue epaulets on the shoulders.
“Can I help you?” the man with the black hair asked. “Are you interested in learning to fly?”
“No. I’m actually trying to find one of your students,” Scott said. “I was hoping I could catch him here.”
“Which student?” Black Hair asked.
“His name is Marwan al-Shehhi.” Scott tried to remain calm. He smiled as he spoke to hide his nervousness.
“He used to train here, but he’s been gone a while.”
“Gone? To where?”
The second man behind the counter stepped forward. He was bald and spoke with a slight accent, but Scott couldn’t place it. Maybe German or Austrian. “Can I ask why you’re looking for Marwan?”
“I talked to him on the phone a few weeks ago about buying my car. When we talked, he said he took flight lessons here.”
The bald man nodded. “I’ll bet it’s an expensive car,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Scott asked.
“Because everything Marwan and his pal Mohamed do is expensive and flashy,” the bald man said. “Their clothes are expensive, their watches and jewelry are expensive, and they both always have a big wad of cash on them.”
“And they spent most of that money at the strip clubs up in Sarasota or down in Port Charlotte,” the black-haired man said.
“Do you know if Marwan is coming back?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know,” the bald man said. “He finished his training last month. Got his commercial instrument rating. My guess is that he’s going back home to get a job.”
“Where is home,” Scott asked.
“United Arab Emirates.”
Scott knew al-Shehhi was coming back. He’d have to be back in the country some time before September 11. “If he comes back, do you have an address for him?”
“Why do you need his address?” the bald man asked.
“I’d really like to sell him that car.” Scott smiled and shrugged. “I could use the money.”
Black Hair and Baldy looked at each other, then Baldy stepped over to the computer sitting on the counter. He punched in some information on the keyboard, then read the computer screen. “We have 516 West Laurel Road in Nokomis.”
“Nokomis?”
“It’s about ten or fifteen minutes north of here,” Black Hair said, pointing.
“Great. That’s really helpful,” Scott said. “Thanks.”
“Be careful of Marwan’s pal, Mohamed,” the bald man said. “He trained here too, and he’s a weird son of a bitch. Marwan is all right, but there’s something wrong with Mohamed.”
“I will,” Scott said. “Thanks for the heads up.”
*
The house sat back off the street just four or five lots from Blackburn Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. Scott had expected Marwan to live in a big, expensive house, based on the flight instructor’s detailing of his spending habits. But it wasn’t big at all. In fact, the small cottage with the faded yellow paint that sat at 516 West Laurel Road was just a step or two above a shack. A rutted dirt driveway led up to a one-car carport, and the lawn was weedy and overgrown. It looked abandoned.
An older man with white hair and wearing shorts was across the street trimming the hedges that ran along the street. The man was staring at Scott, and when Scott noticed him, he waved. The man nodded cautiously.
Scott turned the car off and walked across the street to where the man was working. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his tanned, wrinkled skin hung loose on his bones.
“Hello. How are you?” Scott asked.
The man grunted.
“Have you seen anyone over at that house?” Scott pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward al-Shehhi’s house.
“Not in a few days,” the older man said. “I hope they’ve moved out.”
“Really?”
“You’re damn right. They’re loud and unfriendly. One of them got drunk and backed his car through my hedges.” The man pointed at an indentation in the hedge. “Didn’t bother to tell me about it. I had to go over and confront him. He was hungover, still smelled of booze from the night before. He took a big wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Told me America would pay for its sins and then he shut the door in my face.”
“Doesn’t sound too friendly,” Scott said.
“The other one is more friendly. Waves once in a while when he sees me. But the clean-cut one, he’s a bastard.”
Scott offered a sincere smile. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
“You’re not a friend of theirs, are you?”
“No,” Scott said. “I was just hoping to sell a car to one of them.”
“Nothing against you selling them a car, but I hope they never come back.”
Scott thanked the older man again and got into his car. As he drove away, he saw the man go back to work on his hedges.
Scott let out a long sigh. He felt like he had been holding his breath ever since he pulled up in front of al-Shehhi’s house. What if Marwan or his pal Mohamed had been home? What would he have done? He needed to do a better job of thinking things through.
He drove to his hotel on Tamiami Trail in Venice and went to his room. He needed to decide what to do about al-Shehhi. But the more he thought, the more confused he became. He’d decide on one course of action just to decide against it the next day. In between, he left the hotel and drove past al-Shehhi’s house, hoping to find him home, but always grateful when he found the driveway empty. On his fourth day in Venice, there was a black Mercedes Benz in the driveway. He pulled around the corner onto Bayshore Road and parked where he could keep an eye on the house.
Late morning turned into late afternoon when he saw someone come out of al-Shehhi’s house. The man had thick, shiny black hair that was combed straight back. He wore an expensive looking gray suit with an open-collared shirt. The suit looked like it had been starched and pressed. The man had no facial hair and he wore what looked to be a permanent scowl on his face. Scott’s first impression of the man was that he looked dangerous. This must be Mohamed. The man the neighbor had called a bastard backed the Mercedes out of the dirt driveway and drove east toward Tamiami Trail. Scott followed.
With Scott trailing several car lengths behind, the Mercedes turned north on Tamiami Trail and made its way to I-75. They continued north, driving ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit. In Sarasota, Mohamed pulled off the Interstate and drove to the Sarasota Airport. Scott followed the black car into arrivals and pulled to the curb, two cars behind the Mercedes. Mohamed got out of his car, walked around to the passenger side, and lit a cigarette. He leaned against his car and smoked.
Scott watched Mohamed and wondered how much hatred you’d have to feel to martyr yourself to any religion or cause. To be so committed to a belief that you would willingly sacrifice your life in order to kill those you viewed as an enemy.
Mohamed dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. He lit another one. More people came out of the terminal, and Mohamed took notice of the younger women. He didn’t try to hide his interest or be surreptitious. He stared long and hard.
Mohamed suddenly stood straighter when a man wearing glasses and a goatee approached the car. The man smiled and waved. Mohamed simply pointed at the trunk of the car, then got
in behind the wheel. This new man—the one Scott recognized as Marwan al-Shehhi—loaded his suitcase into the back of the Mercedes, then got into the passenger side. The Mercedes pulled away from the curb.
Scott followed Mohamed and Marwan south down I-75 into Venice, but he let them go once they got off the Interstate. When they turned left, he turned right, and drove to a gun store he had seen during his travels.
In the store, Scott saw rifles and shotguns hanging on the walls, and handguns inside glass cases. He didn’t know much about guns, and the number of models and calibers confused him. He had no idea what kind of gun he needed.
“Can I help you?” a man behind the counter asked. The man wore khaki pants and a dark blue button-down shirt. He had a thick beard, and Scott noticed he carried a handgun in a holster on his right hip.
“I’m not really sure what I’m looking for,” Scott said. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about guns.”
“We can help you figure that out,” the man said. “What do you plan to do with the gun?”
Scott looked up quickly and immediately felt a panic. He had to remind himself that this man had no idea who he was or what he was planning. “Just something for self-defense,” Scott said. “Nothing too showy or obvious.”
The man nodded and pulled three handguns out of a glass case. He told Scott about each one, including the manufacturer name, model number, and caliber. “These three are all revolvers,” the man said. “The upside is that a revolver won’t jam. It’s reliable, so you know that when you need it, it will be there for you.”
“What’s the downside?” Scott asked.
“The problem with revolvers is they hold a relatively small number of bullets. Each of these holds six bullets. And even with a speed loader, they’re slow to reload.”
Scott nodded his understanding, but the truth was he was getting confused again.
“Now, let’s look at semi-automatics.” The man motioned for Scott to follow him to the other end of the glass display cabinet. He pulled three guns out and placed them in front of Scott on top of the cabinet. He listed off the manufacturer, model, and caliber just like he had with the revolvers. “These guns hold more ammunition than the revolvers, and they’re quicker to reload, as long as you have another magazine ready to go.” He pulled the magazine out of one of the guns and showed it to Scott.
“And the downside?”
“Semi-automatic handguns can sometimes jam. It isn’t common, but it can happen.”
Scott looked the guns over like he was inspecting expensive jewelry, looking but not touching.
“Pick one up,” the man said. “See how it feels.”
Scott carefully picked up one of the semi-automatic handguns and held it out in front of him. It was heavier than he expected.
“Aim it over there.” The man pointed to a wall across the room.
Scott aimed the gun at the wall and imagined al-Shehhi and Mohamed staring back at him. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He lowered the gun and leaned heavily against the display case.
“Why don’t you see how a revolver feels?” the man asked.
Scott felt light-headed. The thought of killing made him nauseous and uneasy. “I think I’m going to hold off for now,” Scott said. “I’ll come back after I think about it.”
The gun salesman smiled. “When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”
Across the parking lot, Scott saw an office supply store. He went in and bought a typewriter, a ream of paper, envelopes, and a book of stamps. On his way to the hotel, he stopped at a pharmacy and purchased latex gloves. A letter to the FBI may not be as effective as shooting Marwan and Mohamed, but it would have to do.
Chapter 77
April 2001
Four months after sending the letter, he still had not heard about the FBI uncovering a terrorist plot. He watched the news every night and subscribed to both the Washington Post and New York Times, but neither printed a word about a foiled terrorist plot.
Scott worried that the FBI hadn’t believed his letter or taken it seriously. Or maybe it was lost in the mail. He regretted relying solely on the letter to get the job done. Even if he couldn’t pull the trigger himself, maybe he could find someone to do it for him. He decided to drive back to Venice.
When he pulled up in front of the faded yellow cottage, he saw that the grass had been cut and there was a “For Rent” sign in the front yard. Scott pulled into the drive and walked up to the house. Looking through a front window, Scott saw the house was empty.
He walked quickly across the street to the house where the man had been trimming his hedges during Scott’s last visit. He knocked on the front door. A few moments later, the same old man answered.
“I was here a few months ago,” Scott said. “I asked you about the guys living across the street. Do you remember?”
“You wanted to sell them a car,” the man said.
“That’s right. I still have the car, but it looks like the guys across the street have moved. Do you know where they went?”
The man seemed surprised at the question. “I guess you don’t know.”
“Know what?” Scott asked.
“That crazy Arab I was telling you about, the one that gave me a thousand dollars for running into my hedge, he shot the other one, then turned the gun on himself. They found the bodies right over there in that house.”
Scott’s eyes grew wide. “When did that happen?”
“A little over a month ago. There was still police tape around the house up until a week or two ago.”
“Wow, they’re both dead.” Scott was lost in his thoughts. “But if they’re dead, what does that mean to the plot?”
“The plot?”
Scott shook his head. “No, nothing. I was still hoping to sell my car.”
“I don’t think either of them is going to need a car where they’re going.” The old man laughed.
Scott drove into Sarasota and felt like he was in shock. How could the two terrorists be dead now, five months before the attack? He needed to know more.
He went to the Sarasota Library and asked the librarian how he could find out more about a murder that took place a month or two earlier. She looked through copies of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune and found one story, from the March 22, 2001 newspaper. The headline from the story was, “Nokomis Deaths Ruled Murder-Suicide.”
According to the story, police believed that Marwan al-Shehhi of the United Arab Emirates was murdered with a single gunshot to the head. His attacker, Mohamed al-Sayed Atta of Egypt, then turned the gun on himself. Both men were found dead in the home they shared in Nokomis.
Scott thanked the librarian for her help and went back out to his car. Had his letter led to the deaths of Marwan and Mohamed? It must have, since it was the only thing that had changed from his previous lives. He wouldn’t know for sure until September 11, but for now, it looked like his plan might have worked.
Chapter 78
September 2001
Scott got up early and parked himself in front of the TV. He watched CNN. The news anchors reported on mundane news, but there was no mention of a plane crashing into the Twin Towers in New York. By ten o’clock that morning, he was feeling positive. By noon, he knew that his letter had stopped the attack.
That afternoon, he popped open a bottle of champagne and drank to his success. The quest to stop the terrorist attacks had been an all-consuming endeavor. Even when he wasn’t actually working to find Marwan and Mohamed, he was thinking about it, trying to figure out what more he could do. Now, sitting in his home drinking champagne, alone, he felt that old ache for a relationship. He felt euphoric to have stopped the terrorist attacks and saved all those lives, but it would have been so much sweeter if he had someone to share it with.
Over the next several days, he considered his options. He thought about reaching out to Kathy again. Whatever relationship they could build would be completely different than the one they had built previously.
Another
option was tracking down Sheri. She had only been gone a few months, but maybe she was ready to give romance another try.
He could try to find Ashley. There seemed to be a connection between them, both in college and during his previous life when he had run into her in Los Angeles
Each day brought new possibilities. While out kayaking near Big Torch Key, Scott came up with the notion of trying to reconcile with Holly. It was a crazy idea, but what if working through their problems was the reason he had been given this life? Wasn’t it possible that they were supposed to be together? Scott doubted it, but he allowed the thought to occupy his mind as he paddled back home.
When he got there, Rodney, the old man who rented the house Sheri had lived in, met him at the dock. Rodney’s eyes were wide open, and he seemed to be upset about something. Scott got out of his kayak in the shallow water near shore and pulled it up next to the dock.
“Everything okay, Rodney?” he asked.
“Did you hear about the plane crash in New York?” Rodney asked.
The blood drained from Scott’s face. He shook his head. “No. . .”
“It’s on the news,” Rodney said. “Two planes. Hit the Twin Towers.”
Scott sprinted toward the house and turned on the TV. He had to see for himself what was happening. The news anchor on CNN was explaining that at approximately 9:00 that morning, a commercial airliner had struck the north tower. About fifteen minutes later, a second jet flew into the south tower. On TV, the towers were burning. Police and firefighters were rushing into the buildings trying to save people, but Scott knew how this would turn out.
The news anchor droned on about the attack, then suddenly stopped. As the TV continued to show pictures of smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the anchor took a deep breath.
“This just in. We’re getting word of another plane, another commercial jet, crashing into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. We have news crews on the way to the Pentagon to bring you pictures of that catastrophe.”
