The Towers

by David Poyer

  “We’ve talked about his back before. He’s worried about it. That’s how this works, Scott. Find out what makes the subject tick, then exploit it.”

  The FBI agent rolled his eyes. The heavyset man darted a malevolent glance over the half wall at Al-Nashiri, then away. Aisha sighed and refocused. “We were speaking about the duty to oppose an apostate government. Is it the prisoner’s view that the current government of Yemen is un-Islamic?”

  “Is our current government an apostate government?” Al-Safani asked him.

  Al-Nashiri said in a weary monotone, the same tone he’d maintained for two months, “The Quran is clear. There is no leadership other than the commander of the faithful. Power comes from God, not man’s law. The only acceptable laws are those laid down by God and the Prophet. Yet this government executes those who wage jihad for God. Like Zein Al-Abidine al-Mihdar, punished for defending the faithful. Therefore it is apostate and no true Muslim can obey it.”

  He went on in a droning soliloquy, to which she listened closely. To every word, every intonation. Once in a while, her fingers tapped keys. She’d debrief from her notes at the video teleconference tonight, then follow up by e-mail with the text of the interrogation. The al-Mihdar he mentioned had been Islamic Jihad, executed by firing squad for killing British and Australian tourists. Interesting, though, that this time he used a different word for al-Mihdar’s death. Before, he’d always said murdered, or martyred. This time, the word was softer. Punished. Significant? Or not?

  “I’m not following this,” Doanelson whispered.

  “Shut up, Scott.”

  “What’s he saying? Is this another sermon?”

  “It’s the standard Salafi jihadi line. Just listen.”

  “The prisoner says, yes,” Al-Safani said, in English. Aisha stiffled a snort. Doanelson flushed. Al-Nashiri had spoken for five minutes; the official translation had been one word.

  The FBI agent bolted up and paced back and forth, hard leather soles scuffing the floor. He knocked into one of the brass spittoons and only just caught it before it went over. When he circled back, he muttered, “Let’s bet the house. We been here long enough. Ask him what’s going down. There’s something big. We know that. And we know he knows.”

  “This isn’t some twentysomething hacker, Scott. He’s gold-plated Al Qaeda. Tough as they come. The only way he’s telling us anything is if I can convince him we’re on God’s side. If I can, we’ll own him.”

  “Can’t these PSO guys apply some persuasion? They’re serving him breakfast in bed, instead. Buddies with the deputy director—”

  “Excuse me?” said Al-Safani.

  “Nothing. Or, yeah. Let’s cut the bullshit, Colonel. Ask this asshole what Osama’s got planned. Ask him—”

  Doanelson stopped abruptly, cut off with a squawk as she put out one foot. He toppled, flailing, and only just caught himself on the desk. He glared, face flaming. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “What did the fat one say?” Al-Safani asked in Arabic.

  “He was asking about the prisoner’s beliefs. Whether he truly believes killing other believers is the true way of jihad.”

  Al-Nashiri didn’t wait for the relay. For the first time, the prisoner looked across the half wall and met her gaze square on. “You say you are Muslim?”

  “It is so.”

  “And you work for the Americans?”

  “I am American.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Americans are Christian. They worship three gods.”

  Boy, had she had this conversation before. “I tell you truly, I made wudhu this morning like you. Made the hajj to Mecca. I’ve worshipped God all my life.” He held her gaze, steady brown eyes filled with hate, but also, the tiniest doubt. She forced herself to stare back. Drew a breath, then asked it. The question she’d saved up all these weeks, waiting for the moment when he might actually answer. “Many Americans are Muslim. And, yes, many more are people of the Book. But does the Quran teach us to kill them? A good Muslim treats Jews and Christians with kindness and justice. Only if they attack may we fight back.”

  “I’m not following this,” Doanelson broke in. She waved him off, desperately holding the prisoner’s gaze. Was she getting through? Would this be the payoff?

  “Then that is your answer. America has attacked us. Americans must die.”

  “Americans helped you fight against the godless, in Afghanistan. We’re trying to make peace in Palestine. We fought against the Serbs in Bosnia, to defend Muslims there. Truly, we are not far apart, you and I. Why is your belief so narrow? Is it possible, my friend, that you might be on the side of injustice?”

  “I am narrow? Perhaps the woman is right. The Prophet said there would be seventy-three different factions. But only one will find favor with God. Yes, our belief is fine as a razor edge. But on that razor”—the aging man’s gaze turned blazing—“our new martyrs will ascend to Paradise.”

  “Martyrs? What new martyrs?”

  He broke into a gloating smile. “You do not yet know? The ones even now in your country. The ones—”

  He halted as the colonel, rising, dropped a hand on his shoulder. “This interrogation is ended,” Al-Safani said loudly.

  She started to her feet. “What? No! He’s about to—he started to—”

  Doanelson, excited: “What did you do? What did you say to him?”

  “You may not speak to the prisoner. You have broken the general’s rules. Now you must leave.” Al-Safani snapped to the guard, who came forward.

  Al-Nashiri hoisted himself to his feet. His grizzled head hung. But instead of moving toward the door, he stepped up to the half wall, pressing his stomach against the top of the barrier. Half-turning, not looking directly at her, he beckoned.

  Frowning, she took a step forward. Then another.

  Without warning, he struck her backhanded across the cheek. She blinked, rocked back on her heels by the hard-knuckled blow. He brought his hand back to strike again, but she had her arm up to block. Began a chop to his throat, but by then Al-Safani and the guard were on him, shouting, pummeling, dragging him back.

  At the door he grabbed the jamb. Shouted back, “The Prophet cursed traitors. We force them to the narrowest part of the road. Evil, lying woman! You are murtadd, you are muharab; you fight as a soldier against Islam. You will burn forever. But before that, believe me, we will kill you.”

  “Get him out of here,” Colonel Al-Safani yelled. “No speaking to the prisoner! No speaking to the Americans!”

  “That was terrific,” Doanelson told her. “You got inside his head, all right. Really figured out what makes him tick. We done here?”

  She held her stinging cheek, blinking at the empty doorway.

  7:58 A.M., BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Cabin shaking, engines bellowing, American Airlines Flight 11 climbs off the runway bound for Los Angeles. Aboard the Boeing 767 are eleven crew members and eighty-one passengers. Fifteen minutes later a second 767 thunders off the same strip, this one bearing the blue-and-white logo of United Airlines. Both huge jets are fully loaded with fuel for their nonstop transcontinental flights.

  8:14 A.M., ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA

  The Metro’s waffled concrete echoed with hundreds of voices, the scuff of shoes. Dan stood behind a woman poised dancer-erect by the platform. A dog leaned into a strap she held tightly in her left hand. Its eyes met his for a moment, acknowledged him as human, dismissed him as no threat, and moved on, searching the crowd that streamed by. He realized it was a Seeing Eye dog. An electronic bonging; a hiss of air; the next train glided in. “Blue Line. Franconia-Springfield.”

  His gaze met the dog’s again as the Metro hushed to a stop. The doors whooshed open. He waited till those within exited, then followed the woman aboard. What must the world feel like to her? Did she envision, re-create it around her in her brain?

  The train rushed through darkness; lights flashed and occulted. It arrowed upward and emerged into blinding bri
lliance. Arlington Cemetery. Green trees overhanging the right of way whipped past. A new rush of air as the car braked. The blind woman and the quivering-alert dog sat next to a uniformed Air Force sergeant. An aged woman maneuvered a heavy suitcase. An Asian student slowly stroked long, black hair. Men in suits, in T-shirts. A middle-aged woman in a sari, a vivid white birthmark glowing on her cheek, chatted with a bored-looking girl in boots and a short leather skirt. He stood aside as a Midwestern family, all freckles and bouncy, redheaded children, got off.

  Hurtling once again through light-filled space, Dan thought: This is America. Not the one he’d grown up in, true. One of more varied hues, religions, customs, modes of dress, races. Not all liking one another. But somehow, each tolerating all the others. Not a melting pot. A kaleidoscope, falling into new patterns of color and beauty with each turn of the wheel.

  The light vanished, became streaking darkness again. A muffled turkey-gobble from the PA system announced the Pentagon. The sergeant stirred, and Dan followed him out.

  8:14 A.M., EST, ABOARD AMERICAN FLIGHT 11

  The FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign has just winked out. In the back, the flight attendants are maneuvering the cart into the aisle for beverage service. The passengers are opening newspapers, books, settling in for the long hours to the West Coast.

  In business class, the grim-faced, smooth-shaven little man the airline’s computer flagged as a flight risk back in Portland stirs in his seat. He looks behind him, down the rows of reclined seats. Businessmen. Families. Young women in provocative clothes. Old women foolishly trying to appear young. Jews, many of them.

  All unbelievers. Or, if some happen to be Muslim, they’re takfir—so deeply contaminated by the West they are no longer true followers of the Prophet, whose name he bears, peace be upon him.

  If the Plane Operation succeeds, there will be many deaths. Some innocent? Perhaps.

  This does not matter.

  In the thirteenth century, a scholar declared a fatwa. Anyone who aided an enemy, even if that enemy should be Muslim, anyone who bought or sold from him or even stood close to him, could be killed without infringing the Law. God would judge. If they were truly good, he would welcome them to Paradise. If evil, he would burn them in the fires of Hell. This righteous fatwa had been renewed, to bless the holy struggle against the Great Satan.

  The man rises slightly and looks ahead. His two friends in the second row of seats, just behind the cockpit, turn to look back at him. They think this is a routine hijacking.

  He never flew anything this large at the school. The biggest planes they had were Seminoles. Two engines, yes, but no jets. The simulator, yes. The flight-deck videos.

  But it won’t be the same. A chill shivers his back.

  Then he chuckles at his apprehension. The end will be the same, whether he strikes the target or not. Whatever happens, martyrdom is his. God is great!

  They’re still looking back at him, faces pale. He smiles and puts a finger to the tip of his nose.

  8:35 A.M., EST, THE PENTAGON, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  The escalator stretched up, up, groaning as it carried the flood tide of late-coming civil servants beneath an immense arch stained here and there with green leakage. A pregnant Marine with hair twisted in a French braid stood abreast of him, gaze lost in the distance. She slowly crept ahead as their escalators climbed.

  As he reached the mall, his cell phone trilled. He started, then fumbled for it.

  “Dan. Thought about my offer?”

  Torgild Schrade. CEO and owner of GrayWolf Security Enterprises. A classmate from Annapolis. They’d run into each other the year before, when Dan’s team had been training in close-quarters combat. “Ah—yes, I have, Tor.”

  “We’re going to see action. A major ramp-up in our contracts. Going to need some sharp people to oversee them.”

  “What action’s that, Tor?”

  “Overseas. Look, I’ll be in town soon. You still live in Arlington?”

  “Yeah, but my duty station’s in Norfolk. I’ll probably retire from there.”

  “Whatever. What do you say, want to get together?”

  Dan was walking now at a moderate pace past the candy stores, flower stores, bookstores of the mall. Most weren’t open yet, but the drugstore already had a line at the checkout. He said politely—nobody wanted to get on the secretive multimillionaire’s bad side—that he didn’t want to jump without looking. “I want to take some time off, maybe get some sailing in, before I decide what to do next.”

  “Don’t wait too long. I want you on board.”

  Dan reached the guards at the check-in. He held up ID card and building pass. It was the best official photo he’d ever had taken. He looked lean and distinguished. “I’ll think about it, Tor. Seriously.”

  Schrade hung up. Dan huffed a sigh and turned off his cell, heading up the gleaming waxed tile of the ramp. He didn’t need phone calls like this. Not before meeting the bane of his career. Who had—he had no doubt, though there’d never be any fingerprints—caused him to be passed over for captain.

  First, though, a couple of other folks he wanted to drop in on, shipmates, classmates. A broad, polished-tile corridor stretched ahead. He searched his memory, oriented—it always took a while, when he came back to the Building—then headed for the E ring.

  Dick Enders was in Naval Personnel. When Dan opened the door, Dick’s face lit up. “Dan! Dan Lenson!” They shook hands. “Great to see you. Where you headed?”

  “The NCC.” The Naval Command Center.

  “Who for?”

  “Vice Admiral Niles.”

  Enders’s eyebrows rose. “Huh. Nicky Niles. Not good news?”

  “I got passed over.”

  “You can’t be serious. What in hell do you have to do to get promoted?”

  “Don’t know, but I guess I haven’t done it.”

  “Man, that sucks. Know where it is? That’s Bay Four Hundred. Corridor Four.” He called to the enlisted woman out front, “I’m walking Commander Lenson over to the NCC. Back in twenty.”

  “Sir, you have a meeting—”

  “Have ’em stand by, be right back.” He patted Dan’s arm. “And Nicky wants to see you—why?”

  “I’m not sure. To gloat?”

  “Yeah, he’s got that reputation.”

  They walked the short way, around the wide A-ring corridor, nearest to the center court. Dan looked out the windows at the sward of green, at treetops, at the bandstand gazebo they’d called Ground Zero during the Cold War. Joking that more Soviet warheads were targeted on that gazebo than on any other building on earth. Past them hurried scores of busy men and women in uniform and out, contractors in suits and ties, a polished, glossy undersecretary with his aide at heel. Dan thought of Blair. Losing her job here had upset her more than she’d let on. To be one of the most powerful women in the country, then suddenly to be no one … Enders kept up a running conversation as they marched. “First time they’ve overhauled this place since it was built. Tearing out all the windows. New HVAC, complete basement renovation. A fifth of the building at a time. Move everybody out to Crystal City, gut the wedge, rebuild it from the pillars out. Take out all the old wiring, all the asbestos. Here, you can see—this is where the rebuild starts.”

  A wooden construction barrier had been partially dismantled. Past it the floor turned from tile to seamless, high-tech terrazzo. Enders pointed at the new windows, explained they were blast-resistant, nearly an inch thick; the ones on the E ring were even heavier. The new walls were reinforced with steel. Faintly through the glass came the roar of a jetliner taking off from Reagan.

  When they turned down Corridor 4, headed toward the outer rings, Dan forgot walls and windows and clenched his fists.

  He and Niles had first met years before, when Dan had been weapons officer on USS Barrett, a Kidd-class DDG, with the famous spy Jay Harper. The senior officer had commanded Destroyer Squadron Six. To Dan’s surprise years later Niles had remembered him, picked him
off a list for the Joint Cruise Missiles Projects Office and assigned him to troubleshoot the failure-prone Tomahawk. They’d run into each other since, but the relationship, never warm, had soured further each time. What would be the opposite of having a rabbi? Whatever it was called, Niles was his. After Dan’s involvement in the near-assassination at the White House, Niles had “suggested” a medical retirement. When he’d refused, Niles had exiled him to the Tactical Analysis Group. For his “protection.” Dan doubted that. It was a stash billet, a place to stow him until his shelf life expired.

  Which now it had. Niles was vice chief of naval operations, the first African-American four-star admiral in American history. And Dan had to make up his mind whether he wanted a retirement ceremony. What did it mean that Niles had made it to the Grail and he hadn’t? He switched his mind off that self-pitying track. Retiring as an O-5 was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d survived, when a lot of the people he’d gone to sea with hadn’t. Aboard Reynolds Ryan. Barrett. Turner Van Zandt. Gaddis. Horn. He had the rest of his life ahead.

  Then why did it hurt? To be sidelined, thrown away, when it felt as if he were just learning his demanding trade?

  “E ring. Here you go.” Enders fitted his badge into the lock. Swung the door open, ushering Dan in. “You been here before, right?”

  He had, though not in this rebuilt space. It smelled new. The walls of the cubicles were unstained, the pillars freshly painted. Only a few personal photos and notes had been taped up. Boxes of documents teetered in cubicles; people were still moving in. Otherwise it was the usual Navy office. Officers in khaki. Enlisted in blues. The desultory underhum of telephone conversations. The burnt-coffee and sweetish powdered-creamer smells of a coffee mess. The click and whisper as a printer converted GSA bond into hard copy. Four large televisions flickered at the front, the volume turned down, all on news channels. The NCC was staffed around the clock. Its thirty-plus watchstanders kept tabs on the location and readiness of naval units around the world and monitored news and the intelligence reports that came over the SIPRNET. The conference room was off to the side. A lieutenant with an aide’s aiguillette stood outside it, briefcase at his Corfams, fiddling with a Palm.