The Towers Still Stand
The Towers Still Stand
AFTER A FAILED 2001 PLOT TO DESTROY THE WTC, ONLY ONE MAN CAN STOP TERRORISTS FROM STRIKING AGAIN
Daniel Rosenberg
Copyright © 2016 Daniel Rosenberg
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9781530398829
ISBN-10: 1530398827
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907257
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
This book is dedicated to the thousands of victims of 9/11. A percentage of the profits will be donated to the 9/11 Tribute Center, which helps teach future generations about the impact of the attacks.
Contents
PART ONE: SEPT. 11, 2001
CHAPTER 1: KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN: 3 A.M. EDT
CHAPTER 2: NEW YORK CITY: 6:45 A.M.
CHAPTER 3: BOSTON: 7:59 A.M.
CHAPTER 4: WHITE HOUSE INTERLUDE – 8:12 A.M.
CHAPTER 5: UNITED FLIGHT 93: 8:48 A.M.
CHAPTER 6: AMERICAN FLIGHT 77: 8:58 A.M.
CHAPTER 7: THE WHITE HOUSE: 9 A.M.
CHAPTER 8: KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN: 8 P.M. LOCAL TIME
CHAPTER 9: KARACHI, PAKISTAN: 11:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME
CHAPTER 10: LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: NOON LOCAL TIME
CHAPTER 11: SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 12:30 P.M. LOCAL TIME
CHAPTER 12: WHITE HOUSE: 4 P.M. ET
CHAPTER 13: WORLD TRADE CENTER: 6:30 P.M.
PART TWO: SEPT. 11 AFTERMATH
CHAPTER 1: THE WHITE HOUSE BASEMENT
CHAPTER 2: THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM
CHAPTER 3: THE DIRECTOR AND THE SHEIK IN KANDAHAR
CHAPTER 4: VIRGIL’S DECISION
CHAPTER 5: NANCY AT HOME
CHAPTER 6: JARRAH TAKES CARE OF BUSINESS
CHAPTER 7: VIRGIL TAKES CARE OF BUSINESS
CHAPTER 8: COMING TO AMERICA
PART TWO – THE PLOT ADVANCES: 2006
CHAPTER 1: GERMAN CONNECTION (SUMMER 2006)
CHAPTER 2: NANCY CONTEMPLATES A CHANGE
CHAPTER 3: VIRGIL CATCHES UP
CHAPTER 4: CHICAGO CONNECTION
CHAPTER 5: THE DIRECTOR IN NEW YORK
CHAPTER 6: JARRAH IN CHICAGO
CHAPTER 7: NANCY IN IRAQ
CHAPTER 8: FLIGHT TO CHICAGO
CHAPTER 9: CHICAGO INTERLUDE
CHAPTER 10: VIRGIL RETURNS TO GOVERNMENT
CHAPTER 11: CHICAGO BREAK-IN
CHAPTER 12: A POTENTIAL OPENING
CHAPTER 13: ALEV AND JARRAH
CHAPTER 14: HELD HOSTAGE
CHAPTER 15: OPEN HOUSE, WTC
CHAPTER 16: ADAM MAKES HIS MOVE
CHAPTER 17: GOING HOME
CHAPTER 18: A CHANGE IN PLANS
CHAPTER 19: VIRGIL AND HARRY AT THE CAPITOL
CHAPTER 20: NANCY IN IRAQ
CHAPTER 21: BACK IN WASHINGTON
CHAPTER 22: ALEV REACHES OUT
CHAPTER 23: “SECURITY” GUARD
CHAPTER 24: FAA WARNING
CHAPTER 25: FACING A TOUGH DECISION
CHAPTER 26: ALEV IN GERMANY
PART THREE – TERROR STRIKE
CHAPTER 1: BWI AIRPORT
CHAPTER 2: FINAL WORDS
CHAPTER 3: MORNING IN MANHATTAN
CHAPTER 4: SECURITY CHECK
CHAPTER 5: FINAL PREPARATIONS
CHAPTER 6: VIRGIL IN D.C.
CHAPTER 7: TAKING OFF
CHAPTER 8: ATTACK
EPILOGUE
Part One: Sept. 11, 2001
CHAPTER 1
Kandahar, Afghanistan: 3 a.m. EDT
The call of the muezzin rang out from the towering, green-domed mosque at the center of town. The sun beat down, searing the low-roofed buildings of the Taliban’s capital with 90-degree heat, about typical for lunchtime in mid-September in southern Afghanistan. The streets emptied as citizens entered the nearest buildings to worship. Failing to pray five times a day was a serious crime.
“Allahu Akbar,” the muezzin’s voice called, audible for miles through powerful speakers perched on buildings downtown.
In the main room of a flat-roofed, mud-walled home near the outskirts, a house like all the others on this unremarkable street, a black-bearded man – known by the rest of the world as Osama bin Laden but by his followers as simply “the Sheik” - was on his knees on a prayer mat with a small group of acolytes, bending over to kiss the ground as he prayed. Even on his knees, the Sheik towered over the group, and when they stood up at the end of prayers, his six-and-a-half foot height became fully apparent. The bright sun shone through the window – really just a hole carved in the mud building. The floor was bare concrete, with sandals lined up at the front entrance, where a blanket served as a door.
The house, like all the others in this community, was surrounded by a low mud wall with a darker brown door in the center, leading to the inner courtyard. The only thing that stood out about the place, other than the bearded Sheik himself, was the presence of two security guards in front of the gate – both armed with Kalashnikov machine guns and wearing military fatigues. They had also been on their knees praying, guns still strapped to their sides, but now they stood as a lone man wearing a dull brown robe approached along the empty street, carrying a clear plastic bag with a radio inside.
“The Sheik is expecting me,” the visitor said upon reaching the gate. All of the men wore beards, and all wore wrappings around their heads to protect against the fierce heat. The guards eyed the radio in the bag suspiciously, and motioned for the visitor to hand it over. They turned it round and round in their hands, opening up the battery case, making sure it wasn’t an explosive.
The visitor was a relatively young man, judging by the blackness of his beard and his spry step. From the dust on his robes, it was obvious he’d walked a long way. He waited patiently while the guards examined the radio, and then handed them a piece of folded paper. “Here is my identification.”
The guards handed back the radio and looked over the paper. One of them nodded. “Yes, he is the Sheik’s expected guest,” he told the other. After briefly subjecting the visitor to a pat-down and finding no weapons, the guards escorted him through the barren courtyard to the home’s blanketed front entrance. One of the guards briefly went in with the visitor’s papers, and then quickly came back out. He motioned the visitor to enter. All of this was familiar procedure to the visitor, who had known the Sheik for several years.
Inside the hut, the Sheik watched as the visitor pushed through the blanket door into the relatively cool interior. The Sheik came slowly forward and embraced the man, who dropped his bag temporarily on the floor to hug the Sheik back.
“As-salamu alaykam,” the Sheik said in his quiet, almost shy voice as the two embraced. His visitor repeated the words. They separated, stepped back to examine each other’s faces, and both smiled. The Sheik’s smile lit up his otherwise solemn visage for a moment, and the visitor looked him over, thinking to himself that the Sheik appeared thin and ill. His long, pale face looked even more pale thanks to the white wrap he wore around his head. His beard was more flecked with silver than it had been a few months ago, when the visitor was last here, and the Sheik - dressed in his usual flowing white robes which somehow never picked up dust like everyone else’s - was obviously uncomfortable standing. Always thin, the Sheik now appeared skeletal. His frame could scarcely be carrying 160 pounds, the visitor thought. The three young acolytes who had just finished praying with the Sheik were back at their studies, sitting on the floor and trying to be unobtrusive.
“Ah, you brought it. Thank you,” the Sheik said in Arabic, noticing the plastic bag for the first time.
“It’s battery powered, correct? We have no electricity.”
“Yes, of course,” the visitor replied. He pulled the radio out of the bag. “I brought extra batteries in case we need them. This radio is a special one. It can pick up broadcasts worldwide. We should be able to monitor things very easily. I’ll show you.” He held the device toward the Sheik, intent on explaining its capabilities further. But the Sheik waved him away.
“We can test it later,” he said. “It’s still several hours until we’ll hear anything. Please put it over there.” He motioned toward the bare floor by the wall, where the sandals lay. “Did you have the chance to say midday prayers? It’s not too late.”
The visitor, who had actually stopped in the road and prayed at the muezzin’s call, let the Sheik know he already had done so. He put the radio down where the Sheik had motioned, still wondering why after years helping the Sheik with all sorts of complex technological implements, he had been asked to bring him a simple radio, and why it was so important that it be delivered immediately.
“Good,” the Sheik replied. “Let’s go inside and I’ll get you a cup of tea. You’ve come a long way and you must be hot. We can catch up on your latest activities.”
“Thank you so much,” the visitor replied.
The Sheik limped as he escorted the visitor past the acolytes into another small room, and closed the curtain behind them. Outside, the street was quiet, baking in the sun. A mangy yellow dog walked slowly by, tongue hanging out as he searched for shade.
CHAPTER 2
New York City: 6:45 a.m.
The sun rose over New York on what looked like another beautiful late summer day. The sky was a deep, dark shade of blue. The towering profiles of the two World Trade towers punctuated the skyline, gleaming in the early sunlight. Despite the early hour, many office workers were already at their desks high up in the towers, getting ready for the opening of the U.S. financial markets or catching up on overnight market developments in Europe and Asia. Few bothered to look out of their windows at the dizzying views of city and harbor below. Only tourists wasted time admiring the scenery.
CHAPTER 3
Boston: 7:59 a.m.
An American Airlines 767 took off for Los Angeles from Logan Airport. Minutes later, a United Airlines 767 departed Logan for the same destination. Neither of them would make it.
CHAPTER 4
White House Interlude – 8:12 a.m.
Virgil Walker, the President’s expert on terrorism, paced methodically back and forth across the ragged blue carpet of his office in the basement of the White House. His pacing was somewhat awkward due to the small confines of the room and because he walked with a limp, the reminder of a college football injury. He was alone in the room, most of which was occupied by a large wooden desk covered with papers and books in haphazard piles, some a foot high. A framed photo on the desk showed Virgil and President Clinton posing, Virgil looking intently into the camera and Clinton with that famous smile of his, arm around Virgil’s shoulder. The photograph was signed by the former President, “Best wishes, Virgil. Remember to smile next time!” There were no family photos.
The curtains were closed, and the only illumination came from a small desk lamp that cast little light through its dust-covered shade. The walls held shelves of books, messy and disorganized, most of them concerning Islamic terrorism.
Virgil himself didn’t look much better. He was wearing khakis and a wrinkled white Oxford shirt. He’d left his worn-out shoes under his desk and was pacing around in his black socks, one of which had a hole through which stuck his hairy big toe. His thick brown hair, with silver flecks here and there, especially along his unfashionable sideburns, needed cutting, and stuck out from the back of his head. He read a document as he walked, lips moving slightly. Not looking where he was going, he stumbled over a book, stubbing his bare toe.
“Dammit!” he yelled, and kicked the book into a corner. It flipped over, showing its title, “In the Shade of the Koran,” by Sayyid Qutb.
Even as he read the day’s briefing documents for the third time, he went over in his mind the last eight months since the new administration began. He couldn’t remember a more frustrating stretch in his 25-year career in government.
The problem was, despite his high position, his constant warnings about a possible domestic threat from Osama Bin Laden didn’t get listened to. His forehead, already lined with wrinkles, creased all the more as he considered his predicament. Part of it, he supposed, was his status as a holdover from the last administration, run by Democrats, not Republicans.
And maybe it was his height. He was a short man – no more than 5 feet 7 inches – and had always kept in shape. But now, at the age of 50, a slight belly protruded above his belt, reflecting too many late nights working and ordered-out, quickly-eaten meals. Many people literally looked down on him, and sometimes misjudged him as diminutive in importance as well. Those who knew him well were aware he’d been a star running back at his Division Two college despite being the shortest one on the team. He never missed a game, until the injury his senior year knocked him out of the sport for good and left him with the limp even now, 30 years later.
But in the new administration, no one knew that about him. He was just the little guy from the old administration, admired, certainly, for his knowledge, but also associated with what the new leaders saw as the prior administration’s failings. He also couldn’t glad-hand like the rest of them, especially the guy running things on the floor above.
Virgil pushed some papers from the corner of his desk and rubbed his nose. He reflected back on the President’s Daily Brief report from intelligence agencies early last month warning that Bin Laden was determined to strike in the United States. Virgil had seen it as reinforcing the advice he’d been giving over the last months. But none of the others at the meeting gave it the attention it deserved. Instead, the President had asked a few questions and then moved on to the next subject. This despite Virgil’s pleas to spend more time considering the situation.
“Something terrible is brewing; I’m sure of it,” he had told the President and the rest of the national security team that day. But he sensed no urgency from anyone else, and he could almost hear them saying to themselves that once again, it was just Virgil, the old administration’s hanger-on, Mr. Chicken Little.
CHAPTER 5
United Flight 93: 8:48 a.m.
United Flight 93 from Newark to San Francisco had taken off minutes ago and was climbing toward cruising altitude. In business class, where three Middle Easterners sat, a male flight attendant circulated through the aisle, handing out reading material. “Let’s see,” he was telling a business-suited, slightly pudgy middle-aged man in the third row. “We have the Economist, BusinessWeek and Fortune.”
“I’ll take a Fortune,” the man responded briskly, reaching his hand out for the magazine without looking at the flight attendant. He was staring intently at his laptop, which was resting in his ample lap. He accepted the magazine without saying thanks, and the flight attendant kept the well-trained pleasant smile on his face as he walked to the next row.
Up front in seat 1B, Ziad Jarrah braced for action. There was no one in the seat next to him, so he had the row to himself. He was thin and olive-skinned, with piercing dark eyes. His face was well proportioned, with a somewhat prominent nose providing distinction. Until recently, he’d worn a thin beard with no mustache, but he had shaven it off. His clothes were “dress casual,” khakis and dark green polo with a white t-shirt showing beneath it near his neck.
Jarrah glanced at his watch. Four minutes left until the planned time. Two brothers were in row five, and two more of the faithful were in coach. The decision of when to act was Jarrah’s to make, and the others awaited his signal. He would pilot the plane into either the White House or Capitol.
In his right hand, Jarrah held his Nokia 7110, a black device with a small screen and an antenna at the top right. On this screen, he could monitor headlines, weathe
r and email. And this phone, which all of the lead brothers carried, had been carefully modified by Jarrah, the group’s chief technician, to allow connection to networks even while in flight. There was no other phone on the market with this sort of connectivity, and the brothers had found it quite reliable during their rehearsal flights across the country in recent weeks. Jarrah had been checking it nervously ever since the flight began. He knew that the brothers who had taken off from Logan airport in Boston should be reaching their targets shortly, and he was waiting to see the news flash across his screen. He looked at it again. Nothing.
This puzzled him. He checked his watch: 8:50. If the planes had taken off on time, they should have reached the target. It wouldn’t take long, he knew, for the news to be reported. He held the phone up to eye level to check connectivity. Two bars. It was connected. Still no headlines crossed on CNN. The phone couldn’t show him the actual CNN web site, only a list of headlines. But that’s all he needed. His stomach tightened, and he shifted slightly in his seat. He turned around to look back at the brothers, but the flight attendant was in the way and he couldn’t see them.
Jarrah’s brow wrinkled, and he began methodically tapping his fingers on the armrest. The plan was for the four planes to hit their targets all around the same time, but the towers were to be hit first. What if something had happened to the other brothers and the plans went wrong? They’d never discussed this during their meetings, and he couldn’t remember what the Sheik, if anything, about what should happen if plans failed. The Sheik and his second in command, a shadowy man known only as “the Director,” mostly communicated with Atta, the lead hijacker on American Flight 11 from Logan, not with Jarrah. The Director’s face appeared in his mind, with its burning eyes and snake-like smile. Jarrah shuddered.
He looked again at his watch: 8:53. Sweat began popping out on his face and under his arms. He checked the phone again. The bars were down to zero – no, wait – they popped up to a single bar. The CNN headlines had updated again since he last looked. A single new headline now stood out at the top of the list:
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