by Steve Israel
Strange behavior set off the clanking of alarms in the Colonel’s hair-trigger mind. Col. McCord spent his military retirement keeping his eyes on things from behind the living room drapes, or scanning the street from his immaculately swept porch, or watching from the foot of a driveway that glistened with an annual application of sealant. He methodically entered his observations in his college-ruled spiral-bound notebook, which, once filled with notations, would join a growing collection placed in chronological order in the safe of his “safe room.”
In clear and boxy penmanship he wrote:
“FRI 9/10 0800 hrs. Female suspect departs 19 Soundview Ave. Carrying two bags.”
“So now what are you looking at?” his wife asked as she poked her head in from the kitchen. She held her favorite coffee mug, the one from the Colonel’s secret retirement party, with a picture of Lenin and the imprint: I BROUGHT DOWN THE EVIL EMPIRE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY COFFEE MUG.
“Nothing,” McCord insisted.
“What now, Chuck? Communists at the Meltzers’? Aliens at the Slaters’?”
“How about association with terrorists! At the Feldsteins’!” He swung his body toward her, then back to the window, regretting his disclosure. There was a time when you couldn’t get something out of him with a cattle prod. Literally. His discipline was slipping. He was getting rusty. He would punish himself later. With a cattle prod.
“Terrorists. At the Feldsteins’. Oooh-kay, I’m going to watch Good Morning America. You keep your eyes on the terrorists.”
He had heard that mocking tone before. But history always vindicated his suspicions. Who could see around every corner, think five steps ahead, predict threats, and lay out a response?
Colonel (Ret.) Chuck McCord. Patriot.
He climbed the stairs, the exposed wood creaking under his feet, and entered what his wife liked to call “the bunker,” even though real bunkers are underground and this one had a second-story view of the McCords’ immaculate backyard. McCord locked the door behind him.
He leaned over a desk, connected a cable between a digital camera and a laptop, and began downloading multiple images. Images of Rona loading the suitcases in her car. Images of the car backing out of the driveway. And one unflattering shot of a disheveled Morris Feldstein, loosely wrapped in a bathrobe, bending at his curb to retrieve his morning Newsday. He also e-mailed his summary of the conversation he had overheard the night before, while crouching near the Feldsteins’ shrubs.
The Colonel pressed Send and watched as a tiny envelope fluttered before whisking off the screen.
Fairbanks’s computer pinged with an incoming message: an e-mail from [email protected]. He opened the attached photographs. A broad and uncharacteristic smile broke across his face.
“Jesus, Mary, and Morris!”
McCord’s message was received. By now, it had probably been intercepted and processed by NICK. Fairbanks’s fingers raced against the keyboard.
“C’mon. C’mon. C’mon!” he hoped as his monitor blinked.
Then:
NICK ALERT NICK ALERT NICK ALERT
YELLOW WATCH UPGRADE
NICK HAS FOUND MULTIPLE THREAT PATTERN[S] FOR FELDSTEIN, MORRIS SOLOMON
UPDATED TERROR PATTERN
DATA FILE: 22/08/NYLIFO/1515HRS/0-14-1827-1452-R
FILED BY HATTTL (HON AGENTS TERRORIST-THREAT TIP LINE)
FIELD OF INTEREST: LONG ISLAND, NY
SEE LINKS:
MUZAN, HASSAN
FELDSTEIN, RONA JANET
FILE # PPI-FELD136-NY-4268-7010(a)
NICK ALERT NICK ALERT NICK ALERT
UPGRADING FELDSTEIN, MORRIS S. TO:
YELLOW WATCH
YELLOW WATCH
YELLOW WATCH
:(
MEDITATION FOR MARTYRS
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2004
They are torturing me, thought Pervez. He sat nervously. His eyes clamped shut. Resisting. Resisting. Gasping for air.
“Gently. Breathe gently,” the voice commanded.
They were in a darkened room. They had been placed onto straight-back chairs and ordered to sit with their hands on their thighs, palms facing upwards. Pervez could hear a gentle trickle of water and the soft clangs of a wind chime from audio speakers. He had been trained to resist the ear-splitting torture of hard rock. Not Enya.
He sensed the others around him. Hassan, Azad, and Achmed. Breathing in and breathing out.
“Breathe through your nose. Feel the sensation of air as it gently touches your nostrils. Experience the breath. In and out. Breath by breath.”
Pervez fought back. His eyelids fluttered and he clenched his fists and gasped for air again.
“Perhaps you should ask Pervez about his mother,” Hassan whispered.
“Shaaaaaah,” said Rona. Then: “In . . . out . . . in . . . .out. In. Hold it. . . . Now ooouuuuuttttt. Release the pressures.”
Pervez thought of the pressures.
The stinging in his cheeks when his father slapped him for not studying the Qur’an.
The pounding on his door when the Taliban delivered the news that Nek, his older brother, had been killed by the NATO men in Afghanistan. The rage at his father for sending Nek across the border to kill the NATO men even if it meant he might be killed by them. The sensation that he would be the next of Nek’s eight brothers to die unless he found a way to stay alive.
The persistent voices of the Taliban promising Pervez’s father free tuition and hot meals for Pervez at the madrassa. The hate-filled voices of the madrassa teachers telling him the NATO men and the Jews killed Nek. The hot, dry taste of vengeance in his mouth.
The feel, the sound, the smell of his knives entering the flesh of the animals on which he practiced. Animals he imagined as NATO men and Jews and infidels. The feel of the blade against the tips of his young fingers. Slicing his own skin, intentionally drawing his own blood. To feel the blood oozing from his flesh as his brother must have felt. But also to grow accustomed to the pain and the smell and the feel of blood. So that he would not fear taking it or giving it.
He heard Rona, almost whispering: “Now breathe in. Purifying breaths in. Cleansing breaths.”
He inhaled. He could feel the knives but he was in his special place: Paradise. He felt the warmth of the sun on his neck as he bent over his knives. He heard the soft gurgling of the cool river next to him. And the cooing of the virgins who had come to admire his skills. Baskets were spread before him. Overflowing with the luscious fruits of Paradise. Grapes and dates and palms; oversized oranges, lustrous red apples, and giant yellow lemons. And platters of juicy meats. He felt the knives slicing through the fruits, releasing pungent juices that trickled onto his fingers. He heard the rhythmic chopping of his blades. He was an artist. Preparing a banquet for a guest list of seventy-two. Plus himself.
Now he was at peace. Breathing free.
Next to him, he could hear the others. The long, relaxed breaths of Hassan, Azad, and Achmed. In their own special places.
After the breathing exercises, they would have what Rona called “Group.” Sitting in a small circle around her. Sharing their feelings. At first they were hesitant. But before Rona arrived at the condo/safe house, Hassan told them three things:
First, sharing with Rona would make them better fighters.
Second, it would help clear their minds and sharpen their concentration.
Third, it was no shonda to get some help.
Before long, Azad shared his guilt about the adultery he had committed. He had succumbed to a temptress: America. After all these years living under her skirts, how hard it was to resist her seductions! Laughing at her clever wit on HBO and Comedy Central. Humming her songs tentatively during American Idol. Gawking at how richly adorned she was in her malls and on her freeways and billboards. Feeling as if his first love
, Yemen, was now stifling and dour. His new mistress was scintillating and open. And free.
Of course, Hassan had instructed them not to share anything about their true purpose in America. Because there was a difference between counseling and confession. Especially if the latter landed them in Guantánamo. Plus, Hassan told them that even though he trusted Rona, she could be a bit of a yenta.
At the end of their session, Rona said she would give them certain tools, using her fingers to punctuate the word tools in the air. To help them communicate more effectively, to manage their anxieties, and overcome their doubts. To clarify their thoughts and validate their feelings.
Finally, Rona left. Leaving them with something she called a “care package” that she brought from New York: a cellophane-wrapped chocolate babka from Bruce’s Bakery, a dozen bagels, and three little blue boxes of Celfex samples from Morris’s basement closet.
PART FOUR
WAKE UP, SLEEPER CELL
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2004
“Your long wait has come to an end, brother. Your patience will be rewarded. In Paradise!”
Fakhir smacked his lips so hard that a residue of hummus oozed from both sides of his mouth. Hassan wanted to offer him a napkin, but such a gesture wouldn’t be well received by the Official High Representative of the Commander of the Abu al-Zarqawi Martyrs of Militancy Brigade, who also happened to be headwaiter of the Souvlaki City chain restaurant where they were eating. So Hassan nodded, and watched as Fakhir shoveled another spoonful of hummus into his mouth. His heavy jowls wobbled as he chewed.
“How I envy you, Hassan. To be given a mission of such importance to our Prophet. To be at the door to Paradise.”
And how I envy you, thought Hassan. To be waiting tables in a Souvlaki City franchise, making nice tips and gorging on free falafels while I plan to blow myself up.
Earlier that day, Hassan had received a text message instructing him to meet “your old family friend” at Souvlaki City in Fort Lauderdale. That was prearranged code, and when Hassan read it his hands trembled. Sure enough, when he arrived at the restaurant, Fakhir the waiter greeted him, led him to a reserved table in a dark corner, far away from any patrons, and instead of taking his order, took a seat. Being a waiter, it turned out, was just Fakhir’s day job. His real career was controlling several dozen al-Zarqawi sleeper cells embedded on the East Coast of the United States.
Rona would have said, “Who knew?” But Hassan chose not to say that to Fakhir.
“You will attack in about two weeks,” Fakhir declared. “Make your preparations.”
Hassan sat, shredding a napkin. “I do not think two weeks is enough time.”
“You have orders, brother. Two weeks.” And then, after popping an entire grape leaf into his mouth, Fakhir said, “After so many years on inactive status, I would think you would be anxious to . . .”
Blow myself up? Not really. I mean, there are certain things you don’t rush into.
“There are problems. Achmed suffers from separation anxiety disorder. Azad? Antisocial personality disorder. And don’t get me started on Pervez.”
Fakhir stopped chewing long enough to raise his eyebrows. “You have been watching too many episodes of Dr. Phil on American television. What is it with this country, anyway? Every channel you watch has a psychiatrist!”
Hassan thought: You know who deserves her own show? Rona! Much better than those celebrity shrinks on TV.
“What will we attack?”
Fakhir pushed his hummus to the side, leaned in, and said softly:
“You will attack the infidels nearby. In Miami.”
“What is the target?”
Now Fakhir smiled. “Perhaps if you watched more news and less Dr. Phil, you would know. In Miami, on September thirtieth, the Americans will hold an election debate on their national television. Between the candidates for President. You will blow the whole thing up. The whole world will watch, Inshallah.”
Gottenyu, thought Hassan, but he chose not to share that with Fakhir either.
DROP THE GUITAR!
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2004
Squeezed in at the rear of the White House Situation Room, Jon Pruitt felt like the unwelcome but necessary wedding guest. Every once in a while Karl Rove or Scooter Libby would throw menacing glances his way from their corner of the room. But Pruitt felt protected in his corner, blocked by the crowd of Homeland Security, National Security, Aviation, Immigration, and Customs officials who hovered around him.
The managers of an unfolding crisis sat around a large conference table. The Vice President at the head, his eyes frozen on a large screen; Pruitt’s boss, the Secretary of Homeland Security, who responded to every development with a heave of the shoulders; the Attorney General; the heads of the recently reconfigured Transportation Security Administration; US Immigration and Customs Enforcement; US Customs and Border Protection, and the Federal Aviation Administration.
All the deck chairs on the Titanic, rearranged in the White House.
The crisis at hand was an incoming threat, traveling hundreds of miles per hour, pointed at the East Coast of the United States.
A United Airlines jetliner was carrying suspected terrorist Yusef Islam.
Or, as he was more commonly known, Cat Stevens. The singer and songwriter.
The man who wrote the words “Oh baby, baby, it’s a wild world” was about to understand just how wild a world it was.
“Are we sure about this?” Pruitt had asked the Homeland Security Secretary as they sped toward the White House.
Ridge responded, “Yusef Islam is on the no-fly list. The Vice President wants the plane intercepted and diverted.”
“Lots of people are on that list who shouldn’t be. This will be awfully embarrassing if we’re wrong.” Pruitt sighed.
“He converted to Islam. He is accused of financially supporting known terrorist organizations in violation of US law.”
“He wrote ‘Peace Train.’ ”
Now, the Vice President commanded the effort that would prove America’s willingness to pay any price and bear any burden in the struggle against rock.
“Status,” snapped Cheney.
“Fighters are scrambled,” someone in a blue air force uniform reported. “The United crew has been ordered to divert to Bangor.”
Pruitt was going to suggest the evacuation of Maine, but decided to keep that to himself since Cheney was likely to agree and maybe double-down with Massachusetts. Can’t vote for Kerry if you are living in a Red Cross shelter in Vermont.
Next to Pruitt, an official clutching a batch of papers suddenly whispered, “Oh shit. Goddamit!”
“What’s wrong?” Pruitt asked.
“You don’t know the proper spelling of the name Yusef by any chance, do you?”
“Is it Y-o-u-s-e-f? Or Y-u-s-e-f?”
“No clue. Why?”
“ ’Cause the Yusef on this flight may not be the right terrorist. It’s the guy with an O in his name who’s on the no-fly list. Not the guy whose plane we just intercepted.”
“Fuck!” said Pruitt. Then, just to make a point, he added, “This is with a U.”
“Should I tell them?”
Why, thought Pruitt. The birds are up in the air. The flight is headed to Bangor. They’ll get their pre-election headlines that the Administration stopped another color-coded threat. And maybe in a few weeks, there will be a story on page A20 of the Washington Post that they had the wrong guy and no threat.
Meanwhile, a grateful nation will celebrate stopping a man whose worst crime was the song “I Love My Dog.”
LONG DISTANCE
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2004
In the Martyrs of Militancy safe house—also known as the Feldstein family condo in Boca—Hassan found a quiet room away from his comrades. He sat on an edge of the Feldsteins’ bed, atop a flor
al comforter that still smelled new. He could hear the rhythmic chopping of Pervez’s favorite dagger against a cutting board in the kitchen, and the drone of Dr. Phil on the flat screen in the living room. It was dark, and Hassan whispered cautiously into a phone:
“Hello, Mrs. Feldstein.”
“Hassan? Oh my God, are you all right? You haven’t called! I thought something happened, God forbid.”
That he had called three days before didn’t ease his guilt.
“I am sorry. I have been very busy. I—”
“I almost called the emergency rooms to make sure you were okay.”
Try calling after September thirtieth, he thought.
“Everything is fine.”
“What’s wrong, Hassan? I can tell from your voice something is bothering you.”
“Nothing. I am—”
“Are you having that pain?”
It was late September, and things were slow at the main pool at the Paradise. No tourists, no bikinis. No bikinis, no groin pain.
“I feel okay, Mrs. Feldstein.”
“It’s Pervez, isn’t it?! Is he taking his Celalax?”
“Pervez is fine. He is chopping up a nice fruit salad in the kitchen right now.”
“Tell him not to forget to mix in my secret ingredient.”
“He will not forget.”
“So nu? If it’s not Pervez, what is it?”
If Hassan could have, he would have erupted into infantile wailing to his surrogate Jewish mother. He would have cried to Rona about how he was about to execute his mission and would never see her again. He would have blubbered that he did not want to go to Miami, or, after that, in a million pieces to Paradise. He would have admitted that folding towels seemed like a better long-term growth opportunity than a suicide bombing.
If he allowed it, he would have told her about the other night, when he went online and researched the Florida Atlantic University degree program in Hospitality Management, and how just before hitting the SEND ME MORE INFORMATION banner, he felt an overpowering sense of betrayal to the Martyrs back in Tora Bora. He had sat paralyzed at the computer, caught between the guilt of moving forward and the guilt of moving backwards.
