Nimri slid the initiators into the engines, seating them with dabs of superglue so any jarring wouldn’t dislodge them. A model rocketeer attached his firing wire to the igniter terminals with a pair of alligator clips so they would come off when the rocket fired and he could use the wire over and over again. Nimri soldered the copper wire to the initiator terminals. Then he taped the wire to the engines, again so any impact wouldn’t yank them out.
The engines would have to swim in gasoline. Nimri rolled a condom over each engine, sucked the air out, and taped it closed over the wire. Then he dipped each of the sheathed engines into the can of rubber cement. He made them in bunches, not trusting enough to have only one engine in each tank of the trailer.
His final step was to open up the bodies of the two cell phones and solder two foot-long lengths of wire to the two contacts that led to the cell phone ringers. The cell phone batteries would put enough current through the wires.
They taped the engines together like bunches of bananas. The wire was coiled and tied with wire twist-ties for easy deployment.
Nimri had saved one of the prepared engines. They took it down to the basement and secured it in the vise on Oan’s workbench. Nimri twisted the engine wires onto the wires of one of the cell phones. He moved anything flammable out of the way. “Fill a bucket with water,” he ordered Dawood. Just in case. He felt he was forgetting something, and kept looking around. Ah. “Disable the smoke alarms,” he said to Omar.
When all was done, Nimri flicked open his own cell phone and dialed the number of the one on the bench. From the moment he pressed the Send button he was counting off the seconds in his head.
A click, a pop, and a foot of orange flame erupted from the end of the engine. It burned for only a second, but that was more than enough. The melting rubber cement began to drip onto the wooden bench, so Dawood threw the bucket of water on it.
The basement filled with the smell of burning rubber and acrid propellant.
“Perfect,” Nimri declared.
Omar went to open the bulkhead door to the driveway, to ventilate the basement.
“What a smell,” Dawood declared.
“It’s beautiful,” said al-Sharif.
Eventually the faint odor drifted up to the second floor. Along with the sound of jubilant voices.
Steven Oan said, “Dad, they’re going to take your truck and blow it up.”
“I know,” Joseph Oan told his son.
“We have to do something,” Steven said.
“Steven, quiet,” Yasmin ordered.
“If anyone does anything, then we’ll die,” said Joseph. “I know men like these. Killing is nothing to them. They think God is with them, so everything they do is allowed.”
“But they’re going to blow up your truck. Maybe at the White House.”
“Quiet, Steven,” his mother ordered again.
“Steven,” his father said, “you’re a brave boy. Almost a man. Your great-grandfather and grandfather were brave men, and they were killed in Lebanon. Your uncle was a brave man, and he’s dead. I lost them all. I won’t lose you and your mother. You don’t say anything to these men. You don’t do anything unless I tell you.”
“Listen to your father,” Yasmin added quickly, making her husband sigh.
Steven retreated into sullen silence. That moment in every boy’s life when he finds out his father really isn’t a hero is a hard thing to take.
23
Nimri held up his cell phone. “I will receive a call every fifteen minutes. If I do not answer, my men will call back immediately. If I do not answer again your wife and son will die. So the police stopping the call will do no good. If anyone other than me answers the phone your wife and son will die. If the police arrive at this house your wife and son will die immediately. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Joseph Oan. He knew he was defeated. The youngest gunman and the leader were both dressed in the old work uniforms he kept for gardening. They’d thought of everything.
“You have no choice,” said Nimri. “Deliver the truck to us, and you will be safe. Your family will be safe. You know nothing else—you have no responsibility. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Joseph Oan repeated. He watched his wife and son being tied to chairs again.
“We have no wish to harm believers,” said Nimri.
“What about all the other believers you’ll kill today?” Steven demanded from his chair.
“Steven!” his mother and father both said sharply.
“God directs all events,” Nimri replied. “If they believe in Him and the Last Day, they will find Paradise.”
Dawood drove Oan’s Lincoln, with Oan in the front seat and Nimri sitting behind him. Al-Sharif followed them in Yasmin Oan’s Chevy Blazer. Omar remained with the family.
As they entered Springfield, Nimri asked, “Will you have a full load of fuel today?”
“I usually do,” said Oan. He thought about begging them to stop. But he knew they’d only laugh at him. He also knew that whenever what they were going to do happened, he’d be blamed for it. He’d probably have to go back to Lebanon. But at least they would all be alive.
Nimri was watching Oan thinking. “When I was in Tora Prison, they would shock me with an electric prod, much like the kind they use on cattle. The guards loved to do that, and they loved to show me that it was made in America. They did not even have to pay for it—it was given as aid. And while you have your good job, your grand car, your house with the garden I have seen in the yard, and you lose your faith pretending to be an American—you pay for the tyrants and their electric shocks. So remember, Youssif al-Oan, I will keep my promises. The promise of life, and the promise of death. It is up to you.”
The car stopped. As Oan unsnapped his seat belt, Nimri tapped him on the shoulder. Oan turned to look over the seat. Nimri was holding up his cell phone.
Oan watched his Continental drive off. A couple of coworkers were just parking their cars. “Hey, Joe.”
Oan waved.
“Who was that in your car?”
“Relatives,” said Oan.
“Staying over, huh? When mine fly in I always have to give them my car for the day, too.”
Oan nodded.
Inside, the dispatcher said, “Joe, you sure you’re all right? You still look sick.”
“I’m okay,” said Oan.
“You want to take an easier route today? Ernie’s out for the week, you can take his.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Oan, chilled at the thought of what would happen if he drove out in a smaller tanker filled with diesel instead of gasoline.
“Whatever you say,” the dispatcher replied, handing him his delivery printout.
Nimri, Dawood, and al-Sharif waited at the Springfield Mall. Every fifteen minutes Omar called.
The constant ringing was making al-Sharif edgy. “I’m worried about this guy.”
“I knew his brother in Afghanistan,” said Nimri. “His brother was a hero. He is a coward. He will do anything to hang on to his life.”
“I hope so,” said al-Sharif. “You never know when a punk is going to decide he’s not a punk anymore.”
“God’s will, brother,” Nimri said soothingly. “God’s will.”
“God’s will,” al-Sharif repeated dutifully.
“There’s the truck,” said Dawood.
“Be calm,” Nimri counseled him for the umpteenth time. “Drive carefully until you regain the feel of the vehicle. There is no rush.”
“Yes, brother.”
Then to al-Sharif, Nimri said, “Take him home. Wait with Omar for my call. Keep him safe, unless there is an emergency.”
“I don’t like leaving witnesses, brother.”
“Witnesses to what? What can they do, show artists how to draw pictures of our faces? They know nothing else. Not our names, not our plans.”
“I hate that kid,” said al-Sharif.
“He is annoying,” Nimri conceded. �
�But he knows the Book. He is not apostate. I do not want his blood on my head, unless I cannot avoid it.”
“You’re our leader,” said al-Sharif.
Nimri patted him on the back. He and Dawood got out and approached the tanker. In the fuel company uniform, no one should notice.
Joseph Oan climbed down from his cab.
“How many gallons?” Nimri demanded.
“Eight thousand, eight hundred,” Oan replied.
Nimri was jubilant. “Go with the man who is in your wife’s vehicle. He will take you home to your family.” He held up his phone again. “Remember, I will be calling him also.”
Oan nodded and trudged off toward the Blazer.
Nimri climbed into the cab and deactivated the GPS locator so the fuel company would not be able to track the location of the truck. Al-Sharif had al-Oan’s work cell phone. If his company called, Oan would tell them it had to be an equipment failure. If anyone called the company to complain that their day’s fuel delivery had not arrived, and the company called Oan, then Oan would have his excuses ready and al-Sharif’s pistol to his head.
“Drive a bit in the parking lot until you feel comfortable,” Nimri urged Dawood. “You will follow me, but the traffic may split us up. If that happens, you know where to go next.”
Nimri embraced him. “I have faith in you.”
“Thank you, brother,” Dawood said emotionally.
Nimri watched him carefully. Dawood seemed to handle the truck well. Finally it could be put off no longer—he signaled the boy to follow him out of the mall.
Watching in his rearview mirror, Nimri cringed as the trailer wheels went over the curb.
They turned onto Interstate 95, and from there it was only a short drive to Interstate 495, the western half of the Capital Beltway. As always on the Beltway, at any time of the day, the traffic was chaotic. As he’d predicted, it did split them up. Nimri proceeded to their first destination, resolving to trust in God. He would not call Dawood’s cell phone and distract him from driving unless it was absolutely necessary.
Just as he was thinking it had become necessary, Dawood pulled into the truck stop near Tysons Corner. As instructed, he went into the store and bought himself a soft drink and a snack.
They had the whole day to kill. Nimri’s plan was to spend it circling the Beltway. But only once. Dawood would pull into a truck stop, buy something, and remain there for exactly one hour. Then move on to the next truck stop Nimri had chosen the previous day, repeating the routine. Not long enough for anyone to begin to wonder why the tanker was parked and not on the road. And long enough to keep Dawood’s driving to a minimum. No one paid any attention to trucks coming and going at truck stops. Just as at the club in Bangkok, Nimri believed firmly in hiding in plain sight.
At every stop he called Dawood on the phone and chatted to keep his spirits up. Dawood felt obligated to report everything he did anyway, including his trips to the bathroom.
By 4:00 P.M. they had gone almost completely around, and were near the Maryland side of the Potomac River. Nimri had made allowances for rush hour. It was time to rig the vehicle.
They did it right at the truck stop. In plain sight. Dawood raised the truck hood, and he and Nimri in their uniforms looked like employees dealing with a problem. Nimri had the model rocket engines and wire in a canvas tool bag.
He had consulted knowledgeable people in Pakistan, and knew what to do. He made sure he was completely grounded, no trace of static electricity. It didn’t take much of a spark to ignite gasoline fumes. Climbing up the ladder to the top of the trailer, he walked to the back and opened the first loading hatch just enough to get the cluster of engines in, keeping his head away from the fumes. He let the wire run through his fingers until he heard the splash, then shut the hatch quickly and secured it. The wire was secured with duct tape and uncoiled from the bag as he backed down the walkway on his knees.
Nimri followed the same procedure with the other three compartments, taping the wire down along the side of the walkway.
The job went very quickly. The wiring was run alongside the other truck wires and cables, and fed into the cab.
Nimri taped the two cell phones to the wall of the cab near Dawood’s head. Very carefully, he spliced the cell phone wires to the loop leading out to the trailer, painstakingly wrapping each splice with electric tape.
Dawood sat in the cab with him while he worked.
“Brother Abdullah?”
“Yes, Dawood?”
“I have a request.”
Engrossed in what he was doing, Nimri almost erupted with a what now? And would have, except he was afraid of making the boy jumpy. Inwardly, he chastised himself for his temper. “What is it, Dawood?”
“I want to stay with the truck. I want to be a martyr.”
Nimri had not planned it as a martyrdom operation. There had been so many problems with the jihadis of the Blessed Tuesday dropping in and out of the operation. It had only been God’s grace that the attack had come off so well. He had also not wanted to travel with a martyr who might back away at the last moment. It was safer to go alone. His plan was that the truck would sit by the side of the highway with the hood open, but locked. Unable to be moved unless by a special tow truck, and everything would be finished before one arrived.
Having someone in the truck would change the plan. It would ensure the detonation, though, and lessen the time of exposure on the highway.
Yet again the emotions built up and made him feel like shouting. A year of meticulous planning, and now, with time so short, forced to consider a new set of consequences. “Are you sure you wish to do this, Dawood? I am pleased with your performance. You do not need to do this.”
“I’ve thought about it, brother Abdullah. I want to be remembered like the mujahideen of the Blessed Tuesday. I want to taste Paradise as a martyr.”
Nimri still worried about his plan, but he did not feel he could deny martyrdom to one of the Faithful who desired it. “Very well.” He reached into his bag and took out a mushroom switch and a battery pack. Any pressure on the oversize plunger head of the switch, like a slap, would close the circuit. “I was going to prepare this only if you were stopped before you reached your destination, and were faced with capture.”
He mounted the switch on the dashboard, wiring it and the battery pack into the two spare connections in his firing system.
Nimri would have preferred to rig one of the hatches to explode when opened, and perhaps a mercury-switch booby trap to explode the trailer if all failed and the Americans tried to move it. But these would take time to rig, and more important, Dawood would have to arm them properly after he stopped for the last time. Too much complication—too many chances for mistakes. Nimri could easily visualize Dawood blowing up the trailer prematurely. This way he only had to turn on the two cell phones.
They were ready. “Tell me once more,” he said to Dawood.
Dawood repeated his instructions perfectly.
Now Nimri was emotional. “Then instead of me following and picking you up, brother, I will leave you now. You will fly directly to Paradise. God willing, one day I will join you. Prepare the way for me.”
They embraced. “I will, brother,” said Dawood.
“Remember your final words,” Nimri said into his ear. “Activate the switch only if the convoy has passed you and nothing has happened. I will call you once you have stopped and are prepared. I promise you, you will never be forgotten.” He broke the embrace, touching Dawood’s head gently.
The big diesel rumbled to life. Dawood released the brakes with a blast of air and left the truck stop, waving good-bye.
24
Beth Royale and Paul Moody paused at the front door of the house in Reston, Virginia, to shake hands with the owners.
Ed Storey was waiting out at the curb. He gripped the walkie-talkie radio on his belt and squeezed the Transmit bar four times, breaking squelch. A few seconds later Lee Troy appeared around the side of the house a
nd came down the driveway.
“Another nothing,” Beth said.
“What’s next?” Troy asked.
Storey shot him a look that failed to take effect.
Beth leaned in the car and plucked the next file from the stack. The FBI computer system was state-of-the-art, for 1990. “Manassas. Joseph Oan. Used to be Youssif al-Oan, changed it when he naturalized. Pronounces the last name like Owen now. Drives a tanker truck for a fuel company. He and his brother were orphaned in Lebanon. Came here to live with an uncle. The brother went the radical route, killed in Afghanistan. But he thinks we don’t know about the brother. Scheduled to be interviewed by the Washington field office every quarter. No record of any kind. Pillar of the community, attends a moderate mosque. Wife and a twelve-year-old son.”
“Sounds like good cover,” said Storey.
“That’s the third time you said that today,” Moody mentioned.
“That’s the third time I’ve meant it,” Storey replied. “If I was running sleeper agents I’d want them flying under the radar just like that. Being good citizens, not attracting any attention.”
Beth kept out of the conversation, skimming the file reproduction. “Gentlemen?” They all turned to look at her. “Let’s go to Manassas.” She gave Storey the address.
Storey and Troy were driving another Grand Cherokee. Black, but with tinted windows this time. Also armored. Part of the office motor pool, usually staged for deployment overseas.
“I’m definitely reenlisting,” Troy announced.
“You don’t say?” said Storey.
“Hell yeah. I’m sure as shit not getting out and joining the FBI. What could be more boring than driving around all day talking to people? Wait . . . no, there’s nothing more boring than that.”
“The FBI’s loss is the navy’s gain,” said Storey. Troy was pretty sure Storey was fucking with him. Problem with Storey was that the fucker was so dry you could never be 100 percent sure of anything. “Traffic around here drives me crazy.”
Threat Level Page 24
