Khalil watched a man in a suit carrying a briefcase into Duane Street. He smiled and thought that perhaps Miss Mayfield's death had caused her colleagues to work on their Sabbath day.
It was Khalil's wish to penetrate the security of this building at a time when there were few people at work, and go to the upper floors where the Anti-Terrorist Task Force was located. And then he would kill whoever was in the offices.
Malik had called his plan insane and said to him, "It is acceptable for you to martyr yourself in the cause of our people, but I don't think you will accomplish much, Asad, before you are killed. Or worse, captured."
Khalil had replied, "The greatest heroes of Islam were those who rode alone into the enemy camp at night and cut off the head of the chief in his own tent."
"Yes," Malik agreed, "and if you had a horse and a sword and your enemies were armed with swords and sleeping in their tents, this would be a good thing, and I would approve. But I assure you, my daring friend, you will get no farther than the lobby of that building before you are killed or captured."
Khalil had not argued with Malik, but again he thought that his mentor displayed too much caution. The Americans, in general, were arrogant, and their military and their security forces thought of themselves as invincible, which made them careless. And, he was certain, they had learned nothing on September 11, and nothing in the year and a half since then.
In any case, his Al Qaeda friends had told him they would pick the target, and for security reasons the target would not be revealed to him until the end of his mission.
Amir broke into his thoughts and said, "Sir? Perhaps we should not park here too long."
"Are you nervous, Amir?"
"Yes, sir."
Khalil reminded him, "You are doing nothing wrong, Amir. So do not act like a guilty man."
"Yes, sir."
"Go."
Amir put the taxi in gear and moved slowly south on Broadway. He inquired, "The World Trade Center?"
"Yes."
Amir continued south. He said, "There is an observation platform from which you can see the site." He added, "It has become an attraction for tourists."
"Good. I pray there will be more such attractions in the years to come."
Amir did not reply.
They turned west onto Cortlandt Street, and Amir said, "Straight ahead, sir, is where the Towers once stood. The elevated platform is a block to the right, and if you wish to see the hole in the earth, I will stop near this platform."
Khalil replied, "Yes, good. But first I must go to see the building of the Internal Revenue Service, which I am told is on Murray Street."
Amir did not ask why his passenger needed to see that building, and he turned right on Church Street and passed beside the observation platform.
Khalil could see that there were a number of people entering and exiting from the long platform, but otherwise these streets were nearly deserted.
Amir turned left into Murray Street, a one-way street of dark office buildings. Khalil noted that there were a few vehicles parked at the curbs, but no moving vehicles except his taxi, and no pedestrians.
Amir pointed to the left and said, "There is the building of the American tax authorities."
"Stop across the street."
Amir pulled to the curb opposite the building.
Khalil said, "I will walk back to the observation platform from here."
"Yes, sir." Amir put the vehicle in park and asked in a carefully worded sentence, "Will I be continuing my service to you, sir?"
"I think not."
"Yes, sir… Our mutual friend mentioned a compensation-"
"Of course." Khalil leaned down to the floor and took from his overnight bag a long ice pick, and also an American baseball cap that said "Mets" on the crown. He assured Amir, "You did an excellent job."
"Thank you, sir."
Khalil gripped the wooden handle with his right hand, looked around to be sure they were alone, then glanced up to determine the position of Amir's head and the clearance of the roof. He then brought the ice pick around in a wide, powerful swing. The tip of the pick easily pierced Amir's skull and entered through the top right portion of his head.
Amir's right hand flew back and grabbed Khalil's hand, which still gripped the ice pick. Amir seemed confused about what had happened, and he was pulling at Khalil's hand and twisting in his seat. "What…? What are you…?"
"Relax, my friend. Do not upset yourself."
Amir's grip on Khalil's hand started to loosen. Khalil knew that the thin length of metal in the man's brain might not kill him immediately, so he had to wait for the internal bleeding to do its work. But Amir was taking his time about dying, and Khalil was becoming impatient. He looked through all the windows of the taxi and behind him he saw a young man entering Murray Street. He was dressed casually, and Khalil did not think he was a policeman, but he could be a problem.
Amir said weakly, "What has happened…?"
Khalil extracted the ice pick, slipped it into his jacket pocket, then pushed the baseball cap over Amir's head and said to him in Arabic, "The angels shall bear thee up to Paradise." He reached over the seat and took Amir's cell phone from his shirt pocket. There were too many calls registered on Amir's phone from Khalil's phone number.
Khalil took his overnight bag and exited the taxi. The man on the sidewalk was now less than thirty meters from him, and Khalil walked toward him. The man had obviously not noticed anything that had happened in the taxi, and Khalil did not want to have to kill him on the street, but it might become necessary. He passed the man on the sidewalk and looked back at him as he approached the taxi.
The man glanced at the taxi but kept walking, and Khalil continued toward the corner of Church Street. He looked back again and was startled to see Amir out of the taxi, still wearing the baseball cap, his arms flailing and his legs trying to propel him forward. The man who had passed by the taxi continued on, unaware of Amir, who now collapsed in the street.
Khalil continued to the corner, cursing his choice of the ice pick, thinking perhaps the Glock would have been a better choice for both of them. In any case, the business was complete without too much difficulty, and as he turned the corner onto Church Street he knew that any danger to himself was past. He dropped Amir's cell phone into a storm drain and continued.
There were a few vehicles and pedestrians on Church Street, and he saw that most of the people were a few blocks ahead near the covered platform that overlooked the place where the jihadists had achieved their great victory over the Americans. He picked up his pace, anxious to see this.
As he walked, he thought about what had happened a few minutes earlier. He learned something every time he killed a man; he learned how men met their death, which was interesting, but not instructive. It was the techniques of death that concerned him-the instrument chosen, the picking of the time and place, the stalking of the victim, and his approach, and, of course, the decisions concerning a quick, painless death or a slow and painful one. Was it business or was it pleasure? He knew that Amir's death would not be immediate, but it should have been quicker and relatively painless. And yet the man had clung to life and caused himself some unnecessary anguish. He recalled that it was Boris, many years ago, who had encouraged him to choose an ice pick in certain circumstances. Boris had told him, "It is easily concealed, it is quick and silent, and it penetrates anything on the body. It is also nearly bloodless, and it is always fatal if delivered into the brain or the heart."
Khalil would have to tell the all-knowing Boris what happened with Amir. Perhaps he would even demonstrate the problem to Boris.
He thought, too, of Corey's wife, and he was pleased with his method, which could not fail to impress Khalil's compatriots and colleagues, and also strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. His only regret was that the woman's death was relatively painless, and perhaps too quick. As for Corey, he would pray for death after Khalil finished with him. Some business, much pleasure.
Kha
lil reached the area of the platform and saw a set of steps that ascended to the top. He followed a young couple who were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, holding hands. In Europe he'd actually seen men and women entering Christian cathedrals with their legs exposed, and he wondered if anything was sacred to these people.
He climbed the stairs and saw that the platform was covered, and it held perhaps fifty people, most of them dressed as disrespectfully as the young man and woman ahead of him. He noticed, too, that nearly every person had a camera, and they were taking pictures of the vast hole in the earth, and some people posed at the railing with the site behind them.
There were a number of hand-lettered signs stuck in various places and one of them read: HALLOWED GROUND-PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL.
Khalil recalled similar notices in the cathedrals of Europe, asking for silence and respect, and it had struck him that such admonitions should be unnecessary; surely they were unnecessary in a mosque.
Another sign said HERE, NEARLY THREE THOUSAND INNOCENT MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN DIED IN AN ATTACK OF UNSPEAKABLE EVIL. PRAY FOR THEM.
Rather, Khalil intended to pray for the ten men on the two aircraft who had martyred themselves here for Islam.
He noticed, too, a number of floral bouquets fastened to the railings, and this made him think of the Haytham daughter. A beautiful young woman, but quite obviously not a modest one. The worst punishment was always reserved for those who had been given the light, and then turned from it. There was no place in Paradise for the Haytham family; there was only the fires of eternal Hell.
Asad Khalil looked now over the vast excavation below him. He was surprised to see that no rubble remained, and the earth was bare, though the sides of the excavation were lined with concrete walls that rose from bottom to top, a distance of perhaps fifty meters. A large earthen ramp led into the excavation, and he saw trucks and equipment sitting motionless at the bottom of the pit.
He looked at where the North Tower had been and recalled the first attack of February 26, 1993: a van, filled with explosives, detonated in the underground parking garage. The damage to the building had been slight, and the number of people killed had not exceeded six, though a thousand were injured. There had been concern among the jihadists that this failed attack would act as a warning to the Americans and that they would understand that the Towers would again be the target. But the Americans had drawn no such conclusions, though Khalil thought that even an idiot should have known what was planned for the next time.
Khalil looked out across the open pit to the damaged buildings that bordered the destroyed area. Then he looked into the sky where the two towers had risen, and he recalled the images he had seen of people jumping from the burning buildings, hundreds of meters to their deaths. The world had seen these images, and everywhere there were public expressions of sympathy, of shock and horror, and much anger. But privately-and sometimes publicly-as he had seen and heard, there were other emotions that were not so sympathetic to the Americans. In fact, there had been much happiness among some people, and not all of them were Muslims. In truth, the Americans were not as loved as they thought they were, or as they wished to be. And when they discovered this, they seemed to be the only ones who were surprised.
A middle-aged man standing near him said to his wife, "We ought to wipe out those bastards."
"Harold. Don't say that."
"Why not?"
The woman seemed to be aware that the man standing close to them might be a foreigner. Perhaps a Muslim. She nudged her husband, took his arm, and moved him away.
Khalil smiled.
He now noticed a small group of young men and women wearing T-shirts that showed the face of a bearded man on the front, and the words "What Would Jesus Do?"
Khalil thought that was a very good question, and although he had studied the Christian testaments, which were holy to all Muslims, as were the Hebrew testaments, he could not satisfactorily answer that question. Jesus had been a great prophet, but his message of love and forgiveness did not speak to Asad Khalil. He much preferred the stern words and actions of the Hebrew prophets, who better understood the true hearts of men. Jesus, he decided, deserved to die at the hands of the Romans, who knew the danger of a man who preached peace and love.
The small group of young men and women were now kneeling at the rail, praying silently, and Khalil had no doubt that they were praying not only for the dead, but also for their enemies and asking that God forgive them. And that was good, Khalil thought; it was the first step toward the victory of their enemies. The Romans themselves became Christians and did more praying than fighting, and they, too, got what they deserved.
The sun was in the western sky, and it shone down into the covered walkways and on the faces of the people who were part mourners and part curiosity seekers. Some of them, Khalil thought, did not comprehend what had befallen them, and some only dimly understood why this had happened. Most of them, he was certain, saw this event as a single incident, without context and without meaning. The Americans lived in the moment, without history and thus without prophecy. Their ignorance and their arrogance, and their love of comfort and their disobedience to God, were their greatest weaknesses. The moment in which they lived was passing and there was no future for them.
The sound of sirens brought him out of his thoughts. He glanced back at Church Street and saw two police cars with their flashing beacons moving rapidly in the direction of Murray Street. He assumed they were responding to a call regarding a dead taxi driver. Or perhaps not so dead. But even if Amir survived, he knew less than the police themselves knew by now.
Amir, however, knew how Khalil was dressed, and that he was now on the observation platform of the World Trade Center. So perhaps it was time to leave.
Khalil uttered a silent prayer for the fallen martyrs and ended with his favorite verse from an ancient Arab war song. "Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament, it carried none but the notches on the blade."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Asad Khalil sat alone on a bench in Battery Park, so named, he understood, because this southern tip of Manhattan Island once held forts and artillery batteries to protect the city. Now it was a pleasant park with views across the bay, and the enemy was inside the city.
He opened a bottle of water that he had bought from a street vendor and took a long drink, then used some of the water to wash specks of Amir's blood from his right hand.
He put the bottle in his bag for possible future use, then retrieved the cell phones of the two dead Federal agents. He turned on the phones and saw they still had service, which surprised him. It was possible, he thought, that the police or the FBI had not yet noticed that the phones were missing. The Americans, in true cowboy fashion, always worried first about the guns.
He accessed the text messages on Haytham's phone and saw one new message, from PARESI, CAPT., ATTF/NYPD.
This was the man, he knew, who was the superior of Corey. Khalil read the message and saw that it was a short command, calling the police detectives to duty, and instructing them to begin surveillance of the Muslim community WITH SPECIAL EMPHASIS ON THE LIBYAN COMMUNITY.
This was to be expected and it did not cause him any alarm. His potential contacts in America were not all Libyans; there were his Al Qaeda friends from other Islamic nations. His only Libyan contacts so far had been Farid in California, and Amir here in New York, and both of them were now in Paradise, far beyond American surveillance.
There were no other messages on Haytham's phone, and he shut it off.
He accessed the text messages on Mayfield's phone and saw a new text from Walsh. It read: TO ALL FBI AGENTS AND NYPD DETECTIVES: TWO LIBYAN INFORMANTS IN NY METRO HAVE COME FORWARD WITH INFO ON SUSPECT KHALIL IN CONUS. CHECK E-MAIL FOR DETAILS AND OPERATIONAL INSTRUCTION REGARDING APPREHENDING SUSPECT. WALSH, SAC, ATTF/NY.
He shut off Mayfield's phone and thought about this. If this was true, it presented some problems to him and to his mission. In fact, he wou
ld not know who to trust.
He realized, though, that if this message from Walsh had been sent to all agents and all detectives, then it should have appeared on Haytham's screen. But it had not. And Walsh did not know at the time he sent his message that he, Asad Khalil, would have Haytham's phone in his possession. So why was the message not on Haytham's phone? And why was it on Mayfield's phone? She was dead when the message was sent.
Therefore, he thought, this was a false message, sent only to Mayfield's cell phone, which Walsh must now suspect was in the hands of Asad Khalil. And this was why Mayfield's phone was still in service.
He sat back on the bench and stared out at the sunlit water. So perhaps they were being clever. But not clever enough.
Or… possibly it was a true message, but not actually sent to all detectives and agents despite the heading. Perhaps they did not trust Haytham. Or perhaps Haytham was not included for some other reason.
In truth, Khalil did not know all there was to know about the inner workings of the Task Force, which was not as well known to Libyan Intelligence-or to his new friends in Al Qaeda-as was the FBI, for instance.
In any case, this message had all the tell-tale signs of disinformation, and that was how he would regard it, which would please Boris, who had spent days teaching him about this. Boris had said, "The British are masters of disinformation, the Americans have learned from them, the French think they invented it, and the Germans are not subtle enough to put out a good lie. As for the Italians, your former colonial masters, they believe their own disinformation and act on it." Boris had concluded his lecture with, "But the best disseminators of disinformation in the world are the KGB."
Khalil had not wanted to insult his trainer by challenging him, but he had nevertheless reminded Boris that the KGB no longer existed, and so perhaps the word "are" should be replaced with "were."
Boris had gotten used to Khalil's insults, subtle and otherwise, and only laughed at them between glasses of vodka. Malik had advised Khalil to be easier on the Russian, saying, "He is a lost soul from a lost empire-the godless and godforsaken human wreckage of a sunken ship who has washed up on our shores. Use him, Khalil, but pity him. He will never leave here alive."
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