by Steve Israel
ROAD TRIP
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2004
After morning prayers, Hassan sent Pervez to pick up the car that would deliver them to Paradise. They’d found it two weeks earlier in the classified section of the PennySaver News—a rather morbid listing of cars, homes, jewelry, apparel, and other earthly possessions of those who permanently departed South Florida’s retirement communities. Dead people were one of the fastest-growing demographics in Boca and its environs. The PennySaver was a combination obituary page and Craigslist.
Hassan paid cash for a late-model Cadillac, sold by one Sylvia Goldstein, whose husband, Jules, had just passed away. It was perfect: a deep trunk for the explosives, a GPS that advised misdirected terrorists to turn around “at the next legal U-turn,” a Bose sound system to play Rona’s relaxation CDs, and a still-active subscription to OnStar (“Hello, OnStar? I locked my keys in my car and have to blow myself up. Can you unlock it for me? Thanks!”). It also had room for a tattered copy of the Qur’an, which Hassan had tucked into the glove compartment.
They assembled around Jules’s black Caddy in the employee parking lot of the Paradise Hotel and Residences. Pink clouds dotted the early-morning sky, and the lights of distant vessels bobbed on the dark horizon of the Atlantic. Collectively, almost intuitively, they inhaled the sea air, knowing they would never smell it again. They knew Paradise had seventy-two virgins, but there was no theological commentary on whether it had a beach. Or even a pool. They slid into the car, closing the doors gently, Pervez at the wheel, Hassan next to him, and Achmed and Azad in the backseat. Hassan couldn’t resist turning his head and taking his own final look at the towel hut standing in the glare of a single spotlight, a light that grew dimmer as they drove out of the lot.
Their orders were to move the cell to an industrial park in Miami, closer to the presidential debate. Fakhir, the Martyrs of Militancy cell manager/waiter, had procured a warehouse where the cell would be sequestered for the next three days. This phase was the most critical of any suicide bombing operation. Most suicide bombings fizzled in the final days, when the “suicide” part became more real to the bomber. A special place was needed where Fakhir could keep his eye on the bombers and they could keep their eyes on one another, ensuring no second thoughts—no dropping out—limiting loose talk that could be overheard by the wrong people. For the next three days they would eat together, sleep together, plan together, and dream about virgins together.
As Pervez steered onto Collins Avenue, Hassan sensed tension in the car.
Achmed said, “Turn on the radio.”
Pervez pressed the radio’s scan button, and the Caddy was filled with bursts of Latin music, then pop rock, then angry conservatives, and, finally, gospel preaching.
“Switch to another station,” said Azad.
“I want to hear this,” Pervez insisted.
Why? Hassan wondered.
“Put on some music,” Azad insisted. “Put on some Beyoncé.”
“I hate Beyoncé!” Pervez said. “Besides, I am the driver and the driver decides what to listen to. And I choose this.”
“And I choose to tell you to pull over so I can get out!” blurted Azad.
The car fell silent, except for the staticky voice of the preacher, who had finished with the Jews and was now moving on to the homosexuals. Hassan knew Muslims couldn’t be far behind in the pastor’s hate parade.
Pervez turned his head toward Hassan, as if to ask for guidance. “Keep driving,” Hassan ordered. “Everyone use your breathing exercises. Like Rona instructed us.”
Something is wrong, he thought. A sense of doubt was corroding the mission. For that split second when Azad demanded that they pull over, there was an unspoken relief in the car. As if the best course to Paradise was a U-turn. Even Hassan thought, What’s better, to sunburn at a hotel or to burn in hell?
He felt a sudden urge, and reached into the glove compartment for his Qur’an. He leafed across worn, dog-eared pages and his eyes scanned type-print faded from fingertips that had swept across the words for so many years in search of comfort.
Hassan silently read: “Oh you who believe! What is the matter with you, that, when you are asked to go forth in the cause of Allah, you cling heavily to the earth? Unless you go forth, He will punish you with a grievous penalty . . .”
In other words, go forth, Pervez!
The pastor began reviewing the range of foreign policy options in Baghdad: “Thou shalt surely smite the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword, destroying it utterly, and all that is therein, and the cattle thereof, with the edge of the sword!”
Hassan flipped some pages. “And slay them wherever you find them and drive them out of the places whence they drive you out . . .”
The preacher cried: “And Jee-suss said: ‘Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword!’ America, it is time for the sword!”
Hassan found this passage: “Smite you above their necks and smite all their fingertips off them.”
The preacher countered: “Fear God who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”
Hassan read: “I will punish them with severe chastisement in this world and in the Hereafter . . .”
And so it went. Passage versus passage, attack and counterattack, violence against violence, now and forever. An eye for an eye and a truth for a truth.
Hassan continued scanning, desperate for a particular passage about the seventy-two virgins that awaited him. But there was nothing. Sure, there were some references to Paradise, mentions of ornate decor and fine wines, and one’s choice of fruit and meat. And there was something about dark-eyed, untouched maidens, which had potential. But Hassan couldn’t find anything that pointed to seventy-two virgins on the menu. Maybe it is all-inclusive, Hassan thought, like at the resort, which troubled him. Because the joke at the resort was that all-inclusive meant all-out sucker.
He turned off the radio. The car rolled from one paradise to another in silence, and the words of the pastor and the Qur’an tumbled together in Hassan’s mind.
Sitting inside a retrofitted U-Haul van, Alonso Diaz reported into a microphone, “Vehicle proceeding south on Collins Avenue.” It was the most popular radio traffic report in America that morning.
In Washington, Bill Sully watched a monitor with a dot moving slowly across a map, transmitted by a Species Management Surveillance drone purloined from the US Park Police in a trade for three FDA analysts and a recently intercepted shipment of Cuban cigars.
In Melville, Long Island, Tom Fairbanks watched another GPS image. There was Morris Feldstein’s car. Starting another week of travel across Long Island’s North Shore. With a detour ahead.
GOING-AWAY GIFTS
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2004
They slept fitfully, dreaming of martyrdom and of McDonald’s, of jihad and Beyoncé, of lives past and kingdom come. The warehouse was sweltering hot. With cots assembled in one corner. A large floral rug sat in the center of the sprawling gray cement floor. Oversized pillows lined the rug’s edges, for sit-downs. An office-style kitchenette had been stocked with a nice selection of martyr munchies: herbal teas and diet sodas, crackers, chips, and hummus. Massive industrial shelves lined the walls, jammed with cartons of lightbulbs, black panels, wires, and electrical components.
“We’ve opened a solar lighting company,” Fakhir had explained. “It’s the next big thing.”
At ten o’clock, a shrill bell pierced the tension of the warehouse.
“What’s happening?” Azad asked.
Fakhir smiled. “Nothing to worry about! We have expected company, with gifts selected especially for you!”
Hassan thought, What do you get a suicide bomber who soon won’t need anything? Do they make two-day pocket calendars?
Fakhir peered outside through an open door. He stepped back in
and pressed a button on the wall. A large steel garage door began lifting, squeaking and groaning. A white Mazda slipped in, the garage door closing behind it.
A thin, wiry man popped out of the driver’s seat and said in a nasal voice, “As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa alaykumu s-salam,” everyone mumbled back.
“Brothers,” Fakhir clapped. “This is Hosni. Come, sit.”
They all crouched on the rug. Fakhir sprawled against some pillows. Hosni sat cross-legged. Hassan noticed he had a habit of licking his lips.
“So,” said Fakhir. “You brought the gifts?”
“Yes. You have the money?”
Hassan disliked the newcomer.
Fakhir tossed a canvas tote bag across the rug. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Hosni riffled through it then cradled the bag at his side.
“Now, show us what gifts you have brought to us,” Fakhir said, clapping his huge hands.
Hosni pulled a remote keypad from his pocket and pressed a button. The beeping ricocheted loudly off the walls, causing the cell members to twitch in anticipation of the drone missiles. But all that happened was the harmless pop of the car trunk opening. Hosni reached inside and pulled out two heavy backpacks, then two small white boxes. He placed the backpacks in the center of the rug.
“Wow! North Face!” Azad admired.
“Do not open them. They are packed just right. Just for you. If you disturb what is inside it may not work. Or may work too soon. Keep them in a safe place. Store at room temperature.”
Contents may explode under pressure, in other words.
“Two brothers will wear backpacks to the target. Two other brothers will drive them, drop them off, and then leave.”
I’ll drive, all four brothers thought.
Hosni opened the small boxes and produced two Nokia cell phones.
“Do not use these phones. They will be traced. Each cell phone detonates a different backpack. Fakhir will remain here. When he receives a signal that the time is right, God willing, he will use each phone. The numbers are already programmed into speed dial, Fakhir. Brothers, when Fakhir calls, your mission will be accomplished. And you will be true martyrs.”
Hassan, who would be on the receiving end of one of those calls, didn’t like the idea of speed-dialing to martyrdom. Fakhir, on the other hand, seemed fine with it.
Hosni stood. “I ask Allah to reward you greatly, brothers, for the work you have done. May He grant you sincerity and acceptance of the deeds.”
The four men stared anxiously at the backpacks.
Moments later, Hosni pulled his car out of the warehouse, the cash-filled tote bag at his side. He drove according to the specific directions he had been given, and twenty minutes later pulled into a Starbucks. He dialed a number on his cell phone.
The person who answered said only: “You delivered the package?”
“Yes, sir. As I promised.”
“And they paid you the money?”
“Yes, sir. I have it with me.”
“If any of it is missing, our agreement is off.”
“No, sir! No, no, no. It is all here. I swear.”
“Did you give them the instructions on how to use the package?”
“Yes, sir. Just as you told me.”
“And did they ask questions? Did they seem to doubt your instructions? In any way?”
“Oh, no, sir. They understood. Do not open the backpacks. You call the numbers on the cell phone and . . . boom.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You still have to hope I trust you. Now, look in your rearview mirror.”
“Sir?”
“Look in your rearview mirror. There is a black Chevy with two men. They will follow you to your apartment. They will pick up the money. And they will give you what we promised.”
“First class, sir? As we discussed?”
“Have I ever broken a promise?”
“Never, sir.”
“Then don’t ask. Good-bye.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And thank you, Hosni! Alonso Diaz thought. Thank you for your meritorious service to the people of the United States of America! Thank you for being the best informant a Fed could have!
As tokens of our esteem, may we present you with one get-out-of-jail-free card, one visa to return to Egypt, and a one-way ticket from Miami to Cairo, departing tonight. Not first class, unfortunately. Center seat in coach, actually. You may like to flee the country in style, but the OMB (Office of Mismanagement and Bullshit) prohibits the use of federal funds for first-class travel. Look at it this way, Hosni, a center seat for a fourteen-hour flight to Cairo beats years sitting in a federal detention center for overstaying your student visa.
As-salamu alaykum.
Vice President Cheney disliked delivering bad news to the President. But that is what he was doing that morning. Holding a newspaper to his chest, walking across the portico that separated the White House residence from the West Wing, and waiting for the President to finish his morning run so he could deliver bad news. Karl Rove walked next to him, huffing with indignation.
Adding to the mood, gray clouds darkened the White House grounds, threatening rain. Secret Service agents stood at odd angles, staring into the space in front of them like well-dressed garden gnomes as the President raced around the track.
Finally, Cheney saw Bush walking across the Rose Garden. He wore gym shorts and a Texas Rangers T-shirt, rested both hands on his hips, and was panting.
“Some greeting committee!” the President said breathlessly.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Cheney said. “How was your run?”
“Good pace, Big Time. You should try it someday,” the President chuckled.
“Sir, we thought you should see this. It’s a little disappointing.” He extended the newspaper to the President, unfolded to the offending page. Rove sunk his hands into his pockets.
The President scanned the page, then blinked as he cocked back his head. When the President blinked and cocked back his head, it meant he was surprised—and not pleasantly.
It was the morning edition of President Bush’s hometown newspaper, The Lone Star Iconoclast, one of the very few “lame-stream” newspapers the President didn’t dismiss. This newspaper was a real newspaper. Small town. Authentic. American! It read the way the President walked—with a swagger!
And its endorsement headline that day read: KERRY WILL RESTORE AMERICAN DIGNITY.
Bush returned the paper to Cheney and stared hard at Rove. “Well, Boy Genius, that’s a whoopin’ right there. Now what?”
“Mr. President, it’s a big zero!” Rove replied. “This newspaper will be out of business before you know it. And you will still be President.”
Bush frowned. “Bad timing. Two days before my first debate with our opponent!”
Cheney nodded. “I know, Mr. President. But we are ready for him! Just remember your debate prep. Keep turning it back to national security. Remember what we rehearsed. ‘September eleventh changed everything. We must fight the terrorists around the world . . .’ ”
“So we do not have to fight them here at home!” the President concluded.
Rove coached: “Steadfast and strong versus . . .”
“Uncertainty and weakness!”
The soft thunder of a plane taking off from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, only a few miles away, rolled across the South Lawn. The President turned and watched the plane disappear into the clouds.
“You know, I wake up every morning thinking about how to keep Americans safe.”
Rove said, “That’s good, Mr. President. Let’s use that,” and wrote it down.
The Vice President said, “Sir, one more thing. About the debate.”
“Go on.”
&nb
sp; “DHS picked up a significant threat. We intercepted it and are running an active counter-operation on it. The threat is against the University of Miami. They are targeting the debate itself.”
A blink and shift of the head. “Al-Qaeda?”
“No sir. A new group. Likely more lethal than al-Qaeda. They’ve penetrated throughout the homeland, I’m afraid. New York. Florida. All over. They call themselves the Abu al-Zarqawi Army of Jihad Martyrs of Militancy Brigade. Probably entered the country during the previous Administration.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“But we can’t say it enough,” Rove chirped.
Cheney continued: “There is absolutely no risk to the debate. We have informants embedded and we are in control. But we suggest letting them operate for as long as possible. Then disrupt. Probably tomorrow night. Or maybe even Thursday morning.”
“But that’s right before the debate.”
“Yes it is, Mr. President,” Rove said. “And our success in stopping this attack will dominate the news cycle before the debate.”
The President nodded. “Am I supposed to know all this or is this one of your deniable implausibilities?”
Cheney said, “That would be plausible deniability, sir. And yes.”
“Yes, that I deny knowing? Or yes that I cannot know. Because I know already so if asked I should just deny.”
“Yes, sir,” Rove said, but wasn’t sure what he had just agreed with.
“Sir, just as a precaution, DHS Science and Tech wants to outfit you with a protective device at the debate,” Cheney said.
“What kind of device?”
“A new kind of ultra-thin body armor.”
“Dick, America can’t see their President in some kind of fancy bulletproof vest at a debate!”
“Nobody will be able to tell, Mr. President. It’s the latest technology. And undetectable.”
“Okay . . . but I think the word is indetectable.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President gazed again across the South Lawn and thought of what stretched beyond. The full expanse of the nation, which, he knew, was safer. Al-Qaeda had been brought to justice. The Taliban removed from power. Libya disarmed. A strategy of freedom around the world. He thought of that day, when he climbed that pile of debris at Ground Zero in New York and announced to the world what would be done about it. He looked back at Rove and Cheney and said, “We’ve climbed the mighty mountain. I see the valley below. And it’s a valley of peace.”
