THE HARDEST PART of directing a field maneuver from Washington DC is having to rely on status reports before decisions are made. Johansson found the lack of activity in or around Maljamar an annoyance. He paced back and forth in his darkened Command Center while keeping an eye on all the large monitors displayed on the wall overhead.
At 8:30, Mark Ramirez relayed a report from Agent Cebeck to Johansson and both field units of the JTTF. His report said Bashir had exited the front of the house and removed items from the one of the cargo units on top of the Suburban. He then drove the vehicle around to the side of the house where he parked it, and carried the items inside. Cebeck's next report came later that afternoon at four o'clock. A large, older man had stepped out on the front porch and looked around a few minutes, then reentered the house. Johansson continued to scrutinize every scrap of intelligence.
In his pocket his phone rang. The first call was from his daughter. His brother in Maryland called an hour later. He didn't have time for personal calls. He turned off his phone. He had more important things to think about than family matters.
FIFTY-ONE
BEFORE GOING TO MALJAMAR Bashir planned the dinner with great care. He wanted it to be appetizing for everyone so they would find the food irresistible. Considering the diverse backgrounds and nationalities, the meal would be a culinary challenge. He settled on Ottoman lamb, jeweled rice, tomato salad, and for dessert pistachio baklava. To shorten the preparation time, he had mixed all the dry ingredients at home and stored them in separate plastic bags, all carefully marked. Many of the wet ingredients were also stored in jars with tight fitting lids. At home he practiced preparing each dish several times to be certain the dinner would come off without problems. Now in this remote desert house, he proceeded with confidence.
Abdullah sat separate from the others, thinking about the conflicting opinions expressed around the table earlier. Except for Rashid, who remained neutral throughout the meeting, he felt alienated from Kosloff and Suri. The Russian's accusation that his handlers in Rome did not approve of his target selection, festered in his mind. How dare this relic from the Soviet Union take it upon himself to evaluate my plan, and claim it is not supported. He is delusional. My work continues to be sustained with unlimited funding from Rome. Suri's did not consider the level of retaliation each scenario would cause the Americans to take against my people. Our minimum attack will deter major U.S. meddling in our affairs and show the fallacies of America's foreign policies. A maximum attack would force retaliation of inconceivable proportions.
Rashid interrupted Abdullah's reverie. "There is much responsibility resting on your shoulders, Abdullah." He took a seat at the other end of the sofa. "Only a brave man would sacrifice his safety for the advancement of holy jihad and the love of his people."
Abdullah listened to these sympathetic words. Maybe he wasn't alone in his determination to do the will of Allah, the Omnipresent. He agreed with Rashid's comments. "They," he motioned toward the others, "serve only their own interests. I evaluate the consequences of my actions."
"Yes, you have a rare opportunity to serve Islam. Timing is important. When will the stadium attract the greatest crowds?"
Abdullah studied Rashid's face. His questions took him off guard. He thought about the football schedule and tried to remember when the rival teams of New Mexico State and University of New Mexico would play. Before he could sort that out, Bashir announced dinner would be served momentarily. Standing, he replied, “Soon, Rashid, soon.”
The Russian took his place at the head of the table. Abdullah selected the chair at the other end, wanting to be as far from Kosloff as possible. Rashid and Kassar faced each other. No one noticed the absence of a place setting for Bashir.
Carrying a tray, Bashir served drinks to everyone–water for all and sparkling apple juice for the Muslims. Alexander Kosloff expressed pleasure when a bottle of vodka was set before him with a glass of cracked ice. The Russian touched the bottle and said aloud, "Not only a civilized drink, but Snow Queen Vodka, from Kazakhstan, magnificent!" He poured his glass full and raised it. "A toast. To all who seek a better life." No one needed a translation. Rashid and Kassar joined in, but Abdullah only touched his glass.
Bashir quickly left and returned carrying a tray of four plates of food with generous servings. Each plate was adorned with attractive garnish. He served Abdullah last. When he set the plate in front of him he whispered in his ear, "Drink, but do not eat if you wish to live." Abdullah froze and continued to stare at his plate. A ripple of fear consumed his body. He gripped his fork, and picked up his glass. His hand trembled.
In the kitchen, Bashir prepared a meal of lamb cut into small pieces for his dog who he respected only for his fearless aggression. The dog attacked the meat with zeal.
In the dining room the Russian eagerly ate his food starting with the lamb, which he washed down with a gulp of vodka after each bite. Kassar tried the tomato salad, tested the rice, and then sampled the meat. When Bashir brought in the pistachio baklava, he ate some of that, too. Rashid pushed the food around on his plate with little enthusiasm. Bashir had made such an effort to please everyone. The buttered rice, with nuts and berries, added color to the meal. He concentrating on that more than the lamb and tomato salad. Abdullah stared at his plate. It all smelled and looked delicious.
The first to feel the effects of the colorless, tasteless gamma-hydroxbutrate mixed into the food was the Russian. He went from a gregarious playful dinner partner to a listless and then silent man. When his head fell back and his arms dropped to his sides, Rashid and Kassar assumed he had drunk too much vodka. When Kassar's head dipped down, then descended into his plate of food, it was too late for Rashid to react. He tried to stand, but lost consciousness as he fell to the floor in slow motion. Abdullah watched this spectacle speechless, unable to grasp its meaning.
Bashir entered the dining room holding a semi-automatic 9mm handgun with a suppressor attached almost doubling the gun’s length. Abdullah jumped up. "What have you done?" He screamed. "Why are you armed?"
"I am following orders," he answered perfectly composed. While he spoke, he fired a shot through the head of the Russian, rocking him violently to the side. Blood and brain tissue splattered against the nearby wall. "I serve the successor of the Prophet Muhammad, and Supreme Head of the Society of Rule by Sharia Law." He positioned the gun at the base of Kassar Suri's skull, and then fired a bullet that tore through his brain and split the top of his head, spraying a path of bloody gore across the table and into Rashid's food. Bashir walked around the table and stood over Rashid who lay on the floor unconscious. He never took his eyes off Abdullah when he fired two rounds into Rashid al Youris killing him instantly. He then raised the gun and pointed it at Abdullah.
FIFTY-TWO
MIKE JOHANSSON ARRANGED a four-way call with Mark Ramirez, Leader Davis and his counterpart Leader Perry positioned east of the house. "It's five o'clock and nothing new," he said speaking with restraint through compressed lips. "What the hell is going on?"
Assault Leader Davis spoke first. "Not much, sir. My observers report to me every thirty minutes.”
Perry, head of Alpha Unit added, "We did see a man exit the back door and untie a dog and lead it back into the house. Didn't seem important. I planned to mention it during our half hour check in."
"Untied a dog–took it in the house?"
"Yes, sir. A Doberman a few minutes ago. Been tied up all-day. Cebeck wouldn't have seen that, he's around front."
Johansson couldn't fault them for a lack of activity. He felt nervous about Rashid's continued exposure to danger. "If Rashid al Youris leaves–as soon as he's out of sight, you close in and rescue him. No gunfire if you can help it, but get him away safe. You understand?"
Davis answered for both of them. "Yes, sir. We have a plan. We'll intercept them before anyone knows what happened."
"What about Cebeck?"
"We're keeping an eye on him. Agent Kohen tried to figure a way to get food and w
ater to him, but I didn't want to take that chance. He'll survive."
"Yes, he'll survive.”
Davis waited a long second. "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"What if they leave during the night? It could be messy."
Johansson scrubbed his hand over his face. "This is a three-step operation. First you get Rashid. Second, you debrief him on the spot, and then tell me what he says. I'll decide when we take the house."
"Yes sir." Davis hesitated again. "What if we don't get Rashid?"
Dealing with this threat to national security had to be his first concern, even though his anxiety about Rashid's safety tormented him. He lowered his voice. "We'll do what we have to do."
FIFTY-THREE
BASHIR HELD THE GUN with both hands, removed his finger from the trigger, and placed it against the trigger guard. His aim did not waver, nor did his intense eye contact with Abdullah, who held onto the back of his chair to steady himself. Only five feet separated them. "And were you told to kill me?" Abdullah asked in a shrill voice.
Bashir calmly considered the question. "That's optional."
Abdullah took a deep breath and struggled to take charge of himself. He waited to respond, hoping this might be a test and would end soon. Bashir's eyes did not flicker. "Optional? You dare to stand there pointing a gun at me and say my death is optional?" Abdullah's grip on the chair turned his knuckles pale. "There is nothing optional about my mission. I am the chosen vanguard of Allah the Exalted. The man who will change history." He tried not to look at the hole in the end of the gun barrel. "I will give new life to our holy jihad against the infidels of the west, who dare to impose their will on us." In a scathing tone he ordered, "Put down that gun before Allah strikes you dead."
Bashir ignored the order. "You may consider my warning to not eat the food laced with Liquid X a professional courtesy."
"A courtesy?"
Bashir slipped his finger off the trigger guard. "Yes, a courtesy not extended to our former associates who now lay silent around us."
Abdullah, who cared little for the others, now faced an immediate threat. Bashir was inferior to him in every way, but the gun gave him power. "You are my servant. It is not your decision to bring my crusade to an end."
"True, it is not my decision, and yes I am a servant, but not your servant. I spared you from my meal of death because you deserve a chance to redeem yourself."
"Redeem myself?"
"Yes, to fulfill your pledge to do the work of Allah the Magnificent."
Abdullah, stupefied by this contradiction, blurted out, "But I am fulfilling my pledge!"
"Our leader, Caliph Abd al-Ghayb, described it best. He said you have lost your way. You are influenced by weak morals and a lack of discipline–unwilling to sacrifice for Islam. Your plan would waste a rare opportunity to inflict monumental chaos among our enemies while allowing you to survive."
Abdullah fired back, "Untrue! My plan will save Islam from a catastrophic retaliation by the Americans. A calculated attack, as I plan to carry out, will get their attention and make them question their further involvement in our affairs. A reckless attack and loss of American life will force them to annihilate our people!"
Bashir sneered. "So you stand by your football stadium target in Las Cruces, and a ground level detonation?"
"My target will cause many thousands to die, you fool."
"Words, Abdullah. You speak many words that hide the truth: you are a coward. You plan to live, not die for Islam."
His face flushed, Abdullah shouted out his answer. "If necessary I will die a martyr, but I shall not commit suicide. The Quran forbids it, as you must know."
"Then, my misguided soldier of Islam, I will grant your wish of martyrdom." Bashir's finger pulled the trigger sending a hollow point 9 mm bullet into Abdullah al Jamal's chest.
BASHIR LOWERED THE GUN and watched the man from Saudi Arabia die. Abdullah lie on the floor, an expression of disbelief on his face, and eyes open wide as if straining to see a fading light. His hand covered the wound that oozed blood between his fingers. When he sucked in his last breath, it left his mouth agape.
His killer, standing in an-ever widening circle of blood, surveyed the room decorated with splatter patterns and fragments of human tissue. He studied the motionless bodies around him, each in a different grotesque pose as if in a wax museum of horror. A wave of satisfaction flooded through him. Phase one complete.
He moved into the kitchen.
The Doberman pincher lay next to his bowl of half eaten meat. Careful to avoid a damaging ricochet, he leaned down and fired a shot into the dog's head. Then he tossed the silencer equipped handgun into a metal garbage can and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. The clock on the microwave oven read 6:15. He had much to do in a short time.
He opened a kitchen cabinet and removed the black duffle bag that contained Abdullah's money, and set it on the counter. He checked the bag for booby traps and found none. The bag contained tens of thousands of dollars and a handgun Abdullah had replaced last night as everyone slept. Bashir knew this because he had watched Abdullah’s movements.
Next he retrieved the heavy lead container that housed the nuclear bomb. Abdullah had cleverly hidden it under his bed–who would guess? The oversized briefcase with the detonators and battery charger sat perched in plain sight on the living room coffee table displayed by the Russian who had considered it of no value to him after their meeting. Bashir gathered these items and made a pile on the kitchen counter. Then he went about the house turning on lights so the place would look lived-in tonight. He closed most of the window blinds and locked the front door.
Based on the range-finder readings calculated in his field binoculars, the man across the highway in the white van would not be a problem if he stayed put. Everything depended on the house appearing occupied and normal. Bashir searched his mind to be sure he had performed everything that needed to be done. Satisfied, he then returned to the kitchen and removed a plate of food from the refrigerator he had set aside for his dinner. He heated it in the microwave and sat down to feast on his delicious meal. When he finished eating, it would be time to leave, right on schedule. Life couldn't be better.
Bashir welcomed the heavy cloud cover that made the night exceptionally dark. It would allow him to slip unseen into the backyard and open the shed that hid Abdullah's old 1979 pickup, the one he had bought for Abdullah months earlier. He hoped the truck would start, but if it didn't he had an extra twelve volt battery in the Suburban.
Dressed in black pants and shirt, at 8:15, well after the sun had set, he moved catlike across the back porch. Crouching down, he took a few steps at a time until he reached the shed, a light rain begin to fall. Bashir opened the door six inches. The bottom edge scratched a shallow grove in the dirt. He lifted the door enough to clear the ground and slowly walked it open.
Back in the house he put the lead box under his left arm and held the briefcase handle and duffle bag straps in his right hand. When he got to the truck he opened its door and the dome light came on. Good, he thought. The battery still has a charge. He yanked the cover off and twisted the bulb. It went out. After packing the briefcase, the bag and the box behind the seat, he inserted the spare key he had saved into the ignition, and turned it. The engine hesitated, cranked twice, and then started. "Bless Mohammad the Prophet and Allah the Merciful," he whispered and put the truck in low gear.
Bashir had researched his escape route. He would not drive on highway 82. His plan was to head south into the open desert, making slow progress in the darkness at about two miles an hour. He turned on the windshield wipers, but did not turn on the lights and didn't touch the brake pedal. If he had to stop he would use the emergency brake. Bashir dodged the endless maze of oil field pump jacks, work-over rigs and storage tanks. Often he avoided crashing into a fenced area by the sound of a pump motor straining against the lift cycle.
Ten miles from Maljamar lay state Highways 62 and 180. He hoped to inters
ect with those roads by midnight. At ten-thirty, when the odometer registered five miles from the house, he stopped and pulled out his phone. He entered a predetermined code.
Next to the house, in one of the cargo containers on top of the Suburban, he had stored 150 pounds of PBX plastic bonded explosives. Buried in this highly stable material, Bashir had planted a detonator complete with a tiny antenna. Even at his distance, the initial explosion lit the night sky, shattering the house, the Suburban, Abdullah's old car and everything within a hundred yards. The oil storage tanks on the east side ruptured and soon ignited, sending a fireball and black smoke into the night sky.
Bashir flipped on the headlights, increased his speed to five miles an hour, and never looked back.
FIFTY-FOUR
THE FORWARD OBSERVERS SAW and heard the explosion first. For a brief second a brilliant white-hot light lit the countryside and the night sky. That stab of light blinded those closest to the blast, leaving them momentarily sightless. An instant later a thundering blast rolled through the darkness followed by a shock wave of heat swift enough to make the observers cringe while huddled flat on the ground–their hands clutching the dirt. As if alive with evil intent, a bulbous column of orange fury boiled aloft, writhing like a tormented beast. Those in the rear witnessed the ball of fire belch upward, encircled by a rolling ring of white smoke, lit by incandescent gases. Burning fragments of debris whirred over the landscape, some striking the surface with a thud. Large and small fires burned on the ground like scattered campfires.
Pressure from the blast opened a rusted seam on the side of a nearby crude oil storage tank, causing a steady stream of oil to flood its base. Burning embers from the explosion settled on the exposed fuel, igniting a new fire. Heat from this inferno caused the warped seam to split open, creating a fiery torch that shot up the side of the tank making more fuel gush out. Within seconds a massive fireball filled the air with billowing flames that created thick black smoke visible by the light of the fire that rose twisting and changing shape as it grew higher into the night sky. Glowing light from this hellish scene revealed the tortured land.
The Seventh Message Page 24
