“You will feel no pain,” his recruiter in Nablus had promised him, although no suicide bomber had ever returned to give witness to the claim. “One moment you will be of this earth, and in the next you will be in Paradise.”
“Insha’allah,” Muhamed whispered, lost in his thoughts as he turned the corner onto Rocky Mountain Avenue, one block from the school.
The morning was suddenly deathly still. Where before the traffic flowed along Swallow, nothing moved here.
Muhamed pulled up short, realizing that something was wrong. He looked around. There was no traffic. No trucks or cars on the street. Not one person on the sidewalks. No kids in front of the school. No school buses.
He was alone, and suddenly conscious of how difficult it was to walk with twenty kilos of Semtex strapped to his body.
Even the McDonald’s across the street seemed to be deserted. At this time of day the drive-in lane should have been filled.
It came to him all at once that he had failed.
A pair of police cars appeared at the end of the street and stopped in the middle of the intersection. Their lights were flashing but there were no sirens.
Muhamed stepped back and turned around. Police cars, lights flashing, were blocking the way he had come.
The Qur’an says that for every people there is a messenger. Muhamed knew the words well. His messenger had come for him, but the issue between them could not be justly determined now. Somehow the authorities had found out he was coming here.
He put his hand in his right pocket and pressed a key on the cell phone, and then held his breath, waiting for bullets to slam into his body.
No shots were fired.
He turned back in time to see at least a dozen sharpshooters suddenly appear on the high school’s roof. They were dressed in the same kind of camos that the Israeli soldiers wore when they came into the camps on hit-and-run operations.
It came to him that they had also failed, and he breathed a little easier. If their mission was to stop him from detonating his bomb, they were too late. His finger was on the key. Even if they shot him, he would press it as his life left his body.
None of the infidels would be hurt. But Osama’s message that America still was not safe, that al-Quaida and its brave mujahideen and brave Muslims everywhere were willing to give their lives for the cause of justice, would be made perfectly clear.
A heavily armored bomb-disposal truck lumbered from behind the school and headed across the parking lot toward him, stopping about fifty meters away.
Muhamed was no longer frightened. Even without success he knew that his path to Paradise was assured, for wasn’t he promised that every son or daughter of the one true faith who lost their lives in the jihad were of the pure of spirit?
“Lay face down on the street,” an amplified voice boomed from a speaker on the bomb disposal unit.
Muhamed took a step forward, surprised at how steady his legs had become.
“Thou must lie face down on the street.” The order came again, but this time it was in Arabic.
Muhamed took another step forward.
One of the sharpshooters on the roof rose up.
Muhamed closed his eyes. He could see his mother’s precious, loving face. Scolding him sometimes, but always with love.
“Allah O Akbar,” he whispered, God is great, and he pressed the key.
PART FOUR
SEVENTY-SIX
It was three o’clock in the afternoon of the next day when the Swiss ambassador, Helmuth Schmidt, left Dennis Berndt’s office in the West Wing. Their meeting had been as short as it had been surprising to the president’s national security adviser.
But then, he thought as he gathered his files and headed down the corridor to the Oval Office, this had been nothing short of a stunning few days. We’d dodged another bullet, largely because of Kirk McGarvey’s actions. At the very least, Haynes was going to win the next election by a landslide, and Americans had gained a new confidence in their government that had been badly shaken by 9/11.
The fact was that although the terrorist Khalil and Prince Salman were not the same man, they in effect had been partners. Khalil set up the attacks, and Salman funneled him the money through a bank in Trinidad. Schmidt had been very precise about his facts. His government had been investigating the prince for nearly two years, and among other items of interest they had uncovered was that most, but not all, of Khalil’s money had come from the prince. Several hundred thousand euros and other hard currencies had been transferred to Kahlil’s account by Salman’s wife, Princess Sofia.
In many respects she was even more devious than her husband. As far as the Swiss could figure, not one person in the Saudi government knew about her involvement, though there were some at the highest levels who knew about her husband’s financial dealings with al-Quaida.
Schmidt described her as a loose cannon, who not only knew of her husband’s involvement with bin Laden, but who also encouraged him to travel at certain odd times. On this point the Swiss federal authorities were a little less clear; they had not come up with any solid evidence. But it was believed there was a strong likelihood that Khalil had even given her instructions to help coordinate his moves with Prince Salman’s.
It would make her an accessory to acts of terrorism and murder.
“We can’t prove it, yet,” Schmidt admitted, “but our evidence is strong enough to deport her.” The ambassador was an older man, with thick white hair and impeccable Swiss formality. “We thought that your government should be made aware of our investigation in light of the recent events at the Salman compound outside Lucerne.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Berndt had said. “But what about Khalil? Do you know who he is? His DNA and fingerprints are not on any of our databases, nor has Interpol been able to help.”
Schmidt shook his head. “For a time it was thought that he was a resident of Trinidad and Tobago. This morning I was sent word that our inquiries there have so far turned up nothing.”
“He was an elusive man,” Berndt observed.
“Yes,” the ambassador said, rising. He took an accordion file folder secured with a string out of his attaché case and handed it across. “This is a precis of our investigation. Perhaps it will aid you in your hunt for bin Laden.” He shook his head. “This ugly business must be stopped.”
Indeed, Berndt thought, as the uniformed guards outside the Oval Office nodded to him. It would never be over until bin Laden was caught or killed. And even then, he had to wonder if there would be peace, or if some new Islamic fanatic with the same intelligence, charisma, and power would rise up. The war between Islam, Christianity, and Judaism had been going on for a very long time.
The Oval Office was abuzz with staffers coming and going, some of them on telephones or laptop computers, getting ready for the president’s talk to the nation this evening.
Haynes was sitting at his desk talking to someone on the phone and looking out the windows toward the Rose Garden. Secretary of State Eugene Carpenter sat next to the president, a handset to his ear.
Beckett spotted Berndt at the doorway and went over. He was animated. “How’d your meeting with Schmidt go?” he asked. “Did you manage to pour oil on troubled waters?”
Berndt smiled faintly. “I’m a persuasive man.” He nodded toward the president. “Who’s he talking to?”
“Prince Abdullah, the last big hurdle,” Beckett said. “Called to congratulate us on our victory.”