by J B Black
CHAPTER 8
The Black Cat Night Club
Paris, France
Saturday, April 17, 2010
1:00 a.m. Local Time
The panic-stricken young women, who were crowding into the lady’s restroom of the popular Paris nightspot, The Black Cat Night Club, paid no attention to the large, ugly woman who was standing at the far end of the vanity countertop smoking a cigarette. The woman watched as more and more young women crowded into the restroom until finally not another person could fit inside the close confines. One of the women closed the door and leaned against it in an attempt to prevent it from opening.
Randall Wilson, the large, ugly woman standing in the rear of the lady’s restroom, was wearing a black dress with long sleeves, an evening shawl, flats, a blonde wig, and makeup. He had an oversize leather tote bag hanging from his left shoulder. He had to admit that he looked hideous.
Minutes earlier, one of Randall’s accomplices, while standing in the middle of the crowd on the dance floor, had detonated his vest bomb killing and wounding a large number of the club’s patrons.
After the explosion, Randall’s other accomplices blocked the nightclub’s exits and started shooting anyone trying to leave the club. Pandemonium ensued. Many of the women in the nightclub rushed to the women’s restroom seeking shelter.
Randall watched as the women stared nervously at the door listening with anxiety to the gunfire and screams outside the restroom. Some of the women were making barely audible noises as they whimpered to themselves worrying about what would happen next. The fear in the room was palpable and Randall was savoring the moment.
By Randall’s estimate, there were thirty-five to forty women packed in the restroom—hoping and praying that somehow they would be spared the violence that was occurring outside the door.
As the women continued staring apprehensively at the door, Randall smiled to himself. He dropped his cigarette on the floor, crushed it out with the toe of his shoe, and then reached inside the large tote and brought out a mini Uzi submachinegun. He unfolded the stock and changed the selector switch from Safe to full-auto.
“Your attention please, ladies,” Randall announced.
As the women turned toward his voice, Randall opened fire.
* * *
Randall was sitting in the back seat of a black Citroen 4-door sedan that was slowly driving down the street away from the death and mayhem he had caused inside the nightclub.
The building that housed the nightclub was on fire and flames were pouring out of windows on the second and third floors. Inside the nightclub there were more than two hundred dead and wounded. Randall and his group of radical Islamic terrorists were having a very successful evening.
Randall was looking out the car’s rear window as the first responders arrived on the scene. Two fire trucks, four Police cars, and an ambulance pulled up in front of the nightclub. The firemen began unloading their firefighting equipment while the police began trying to restore order to the crowd of people out on the sidewalk. The paramedics quickly found a badly wounded survivor and began administering first aid.
Randall looked down at the cell phone he was holding and selected the speed dial function. He pressed the number one on the speed dial and looked back up just in time to see one of the four explosive-laden vehicles his men had parked near the front of the nightclub explode. Then, one after the other, he detonated the other three car bombs.
For several moments, Randall sat watching the devastation caused by the explosions. Finally, he turned around in his seat to face the driver.
“Allahu Akbar, Rashad,” Randall said. “Not bad for a night’s work. Take me home my friend.”
CHAPTER 9
The Blue Heron Restaurant
Washington, D.C.
Friday, April 16, 2010
7:30 p.m. Eastern Time
Megan Gallagher was sitting at a table for two sipping from a glass of Chardonnay while waiting for her dinner companion to show up.
Megan was blind as a bat without the oversize, black horn rimmed glasses she wore. At work, her male co-workers thought the glasses made her look like a sexy librarian. She glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant, for what must have been the third time, and was rewarded with the sight of Hassan. He was making his way through the throng of people milling around the front entrance of the restaurant waiting for a table on a busy Friday night. Megan raised her hand and waved to Hassan, who, once he spotted Megan, changed course and headed in her direction.
When Hassan arrived at the table, Megan stood up and they hugged each other fondly. Megan gave Hassan a quick peck on the lips before sitting back down again.
Not too long after their chance encounter at the airport in Atlanta, Megan had called Hassan and he had asked her out to dinner. In spite of the fact that both of their schedules were incredibly busy and often conflicting, they had managed to see each other once or twice a month since.
As soon as Hassan took his seat, the waiter appeared at his side to take his drink order and, once he was gone, Megan smiled and asked excitedly, “Did you hear about the attack on the nightclub in Paris?”
“Yes, I was listening to the news reports on the radio on the drive here,” Hassan said. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “By all accounts, the infidels were caught completely by surprise.”
Hassan leaned back in his chair and, in a normal voice, said, “How are things at the State Department?”
Megan, who was an Under Deputy Secretary at the State Department, felt as though she had barely survived the long and tedious week of bureaucratic nonsense. It seemed that departmental infighting, and interdepartmental backstabbing was par for the course at the State Department these days. She was looking forward to blowing off a little steam with Hassan who was her one and only current lover. But first, she had something she needed his help with.
Before Megan could reply, the waiter reappeared with Hassan’s drink. Noticing that neither party had opened their menu, the waiter said, “Why don’t I give the two of you a few minutes to catch up before coming back for your dinner order?” before hurrying away to another table.
Megan raised her wineglass to Hassan and said, “Here’s to the end of another bad week in the annals of my country’s imperialist ways.”
Hassan looked at Megan in surprise and said, “And I thought that such good progress was being made with this new administration. Your country got out of Iraq like your President Soetoro promised, and you’ve been drawing down your forces in Afghanistan with an announced date by which you’ll be completely out of the country and no longer meddling in their affairs. You no longer allow your CIA to torture prisoners for information. And you’re releasing the prisoners from Gitmo so they can return to the battlefield. Sometimes I think you just like to complain about everything.”
“It’s in my nature,” Megan replied.
“When you called today about having dinner, you said you had something important you wanted to discuss with me,” Hassan said.
Megan, who had always been active in progressive politics, had been an exceptionally hard worker for the Democrat Presidential candidate in the last election. Her contribution of both her personal time spent in getting out the vote and helping to raise a substantial amount of campaign donations for the candidate had resulted in her receiving a political appointment to a position in the State Department that allowed her to continue to fight for her favorite cause—Palestinian liberation.
In her position as an Assistant Under Deputy Secretary, she was privy to confidential information in a number of areas. Sometimes she had access to classified data she had no business having access to. Today had been such a time.
“I came across some information today,” Megan said. She took another sip of her wine, then continued, “that I think you’ll find of interest.”
Hassan’s antenna went up and he asked, “What is it?”
Megan glanced to her left and then to her right before leaning
closer to Hassan and said, “Not here. I’ll tell you back at my place after we finish our dinner.”
* * *
After dinner, Megan drove to her three-story, brick colonial home in the Georgetown area of Washington, DC and pulled into the garage. Hassan, who followed Megan home from the restaurant, pulled his car into the garage a second later.
They entered the house together and went into Megan’s entertainment room where there was a large leather couch facing a large screen TV mounted on the wall. On the coffee table in front of the couch there was a small desktop computer setup. Megan had paid a nerd at the local computer store so that she could use the TV as a computer monitor whenever she wanted to.
Megan went over to the couch, sat down in front of the computer, plugged a thumb drive into a USB port, and then turned on the computer and the TV.
Megan indicated that Hassan should sit on the couch next to her.
While the computer was booting up, Megan looked at Hassan and said, “Do you remember hearing about the Lashwan Massacre last year?”
“If you’re referring to the incident in Afghanistan where a rogue American soldier massacred a group of Taliban,” Hassan replied, “yes, I remember hearing about that. The news media called him the Butcher of Lashwan, if I remember correctly.”
“Your memory’s good. What you’re about to see is the video that was taken by the two Americans who were responsible for the massacre,” Megan said.
“Are you telling me you have actual video of the Lashwan Massacre that was reported in the press?” Hassan asked.
“Yes,” Megan replied. “The Americans involved recorded the incident using small sports video cameras attached to headbands they were wearing at the time. The first segment of the video is from the camera of the American who was on the left side of the room. The second segment of the video is from the camera of the American who was on the right side of the room. I must warn you that it is pretty gruesome.”
Hassan sat back on the couch, faced the TV mounted on the wall, and, after a moment of hesitation, said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Megan used the computer’s mouse to click on the video’s play button.
Almost immediately, Hassan was sitting on the edge of the couch watching intently as the gunfight unfolded. The sound of gunfire filled the room. The cameras had recorded both video and audio.
It didn’t last long and, when the video ended, Hassan turned to Megan with a shocked look on his face.
“It occurs to me that it would be a tremendous recruitment tool for some jihadist organization, if they could show a video on the internet of one of the Americans who was responsible for the Lashwan Massacre confessing to his crime and apologizing to jihadists everywhere,” Megan said. “And, after the confession and apology, show the beheading of the infidel for all to see.”
Hassan looked at Megan, completely dumbfounded by what she had just said.
“Don’t just sit there looking at me that way. Do you or don’t you know of anyone who would be interested in avenging the deaths of the Taliban who were massacred and making the Butcher of Lashwan pay for his murderous act?” Megan asked, knowing full well that, for as long as she’d known him, Hassan had ties to radical Islam.
“I think that I can make that happen, if you can tell me the identity of the Americans involved.”
Megan handed Hassan a large manila envelope.
“What’s this?” Hassan asked.
“Ever since the Lashwan Massacre occurred, I have been using my position at the State Department to try to find out the identity of the Americans involved.
“This week, I was finally able to track down a report about the incident along with the video you just saw. Although the report was heavily redacted, I learned that one of the men was the soldier the news media called the Butcher of Lashwan and the other American involved was in the CIA.
“Everything in the report pertaining to the CIA officer was completely redacted, but the identity of the soldier wasn’t. Once I had his identity, I hired a private investigator to track him down—and discovered he’s no longer in the military.
“In that envelope is everything you need to bring the Butcher of Lashwan to justice. His name, his address, and recent photographs of him that were taken by my private investigator are in the envelope,” Megan said.
Hassan opened the envelope and examined the contents.
“That’s an unusual name. I can see why he goes by the nickname of Reb,” Hassan said, as he returned the documents to the envelope.
Hassan looked at Megan and said, “As of this moment, the Butcher of Lashwan is living on borrowed time. What can I do to show my gratitude for providing me with his identity and location and your brilliant idea of what to do about him?”
“I have one request,” Megan said, as she stood up from the couch. “I want a front row seat as the plan develops.”
“As you wish, my dear Megan,” Hassan said.
Megan took Hassan by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom.
CHAPTER 10
Institute for Palestinian American Relations
Washington, D.C.
Friday, April 16, 2010
11:00 p.m. Eastern Time
After leaving Megan’s home, Hassan drove directly to his office at the Institute for Palestinian American Relations, which was now located in the high rent district of Washington, D.C. on K Street thanks to the generous donation made by Faisal al-Waheed.
Hassan could not believe his good fortune. Of all of the places in America where the Butcher of Lashwan could have ended up, he was in Seaside Beach, Alabama—no more than a stone’s throw from the mosque in Pensacola, Florida where he had three teams of trained jihadis who could carry out the plan that had been suggested by Megan. There could be only one explanation—it was the will of Allah.
Hassan had no doubt in his mind that Allah had provided him with this opportunity to avenge the deaths of the Taliban who had been murdered by the Butcher of Lashwan. And he had no doubt in his mind that Faisal would have no objection to him using the jihadis in Pensacola for that purpose.
Once he was seated at his desk, Hassan turned on his computer and accessed the website he operated on the darknet.
Always security conscious, Hassan and the Imams in the network, used burner cell phones for any voice communications that involved sensitive material they didn’t want the American intelligence agencies listening in on. The phones were only used for a limited period of time—usually not more than a day—depending on the circumstances and were disposed of afterwards. Whereas the American intelligence agencies could eavesdrop on the voice communications between Hassan and the Imams, the best they could do was pinpoint the general area the phones were being operated from. As long as Hassan and the Imams stuck to their Sinbad and Imam code names, their identities were safe.
This security procedure of discarding burner phones after a single use necessitated that Hassan have a means to get the phone number for the currently-in-use burner phone of the Imam he needed to contact and likewise the Imams needed a way to get the phone number for Hassan’s currently-in-use burner phone. The solution was the creation of a website on the darknet known only to Hassan, the Imams, and Faisal.
Hassan maintained the website on the darknet so that he could update the Imams in his network with the phone number of his current burner cell phone and they could update him with theirs without the American intelligence agencies being able to spy on them. Hassan accessed his darknet website and selected the web page for Abdul Aswad, the Imam in Pensacola, Florida. He dialed the phone number that Abdul had posted there for the burner phone that he was currently using.
“Allah is Great,” Abdul Aswad answered with the proper code phrase to indicate that he wasn’t compromised.
“Allah is Merciful,” Hassan said, giving the correct countersign code phrase indicating that he wasn’t compromised either. “Imam, this is Sinbad. I apologize for the lateness of my call—”
“I know t
hat you wouldn’t call unless it’s a matter of importance,” Abdul interrupted. “How may I be of service?”
“You are right, it is a matter of the utmost importance. Allah has given us a mission of the utmost importance,” Hassan said. “Are you in a secure location? I have something to discuss with you that requires privacy.”
“I am alone.”
“How goes the training for the teams?”
“It is going well,” Abdul said. “All of the teams are dedicated to their training.”
“Are they ready for a field trial?”
“Yes, I believe they are,” Abdul said without hesitation.
“Have you heard of the Butcher of Lashwan?” Hassan asked.
Abdul searched his memory for a few moments before saying, “Yes, yes, something about an American soldier who had gone rogue slaughtering several Taliban in Lashwan, Afghanistan last year. I remember seeing the news about it. Why do you ask?”
“Imam, I’ve just uploaded a file for you with the name, current address, and photographs of that American soldier—his name is Reb Rogers,” Hassan said. “This man Rogers lives in Seaside Beach, Alabama not far from your location. I would like one of your teams to capture Rogers, video record his confession and apology for what he did at Lashwan. Have him beg for forgiveness like the cowardly dog that he is, and then behead him. A video recording of his confession and beheading would be a propaganda bonanza for our cause, don’t you think, Imam?”
“I agree, Sinbad. When would you like this done?” Abdul asked.
“The sooner the better.”
“I have a team in mind,” Abdul said. “I will contact them first thing tomorrow morning and tell them to make preparations for this mission. When I see them at the night prayer service tomorrow night I will tell them who their target is and give them his address and the photographs. Once they are on their way, I will contact you to let you know that the mission is in progress. Allah willing, this infidel dog will pay for what he did at Lashwan and we will have a video to post to the internet that will draw recruits to our cause like shit draws flies.”
