Lights from the hotels and other tall buildings reflected in the still waters of the bay in multicolored profusion, but the narrow rocky beach was empty except for two men, one of them dressed in a business suit and waiting near a jet black Mercedes E350 parked beneath a palm tree at the downtown marina. Huge multimillion-dollar yachts were tied up at the docks, and the only sounds were from the distant traffic at the Arch Roundabout. The night was warm and humid, a slight haze softening the stars overhead.
The other man, Imad Najjar, sat in the darkness on his Vespa beside an advertising kiosk fifty meters away from the car, watching the man he was supposed to meet. He was young, only nineteen, and until an hour earlier when he had begun smoking hash, he had been filled with fear. But now he was flying, like a bird with wings, far above even the range of a Kalashnikov rifle. He was dressed in blue jeans, a UCLA Dept. of Athletics tee shirt, and Air Jordans. His hair was cut very short, and a four-day stubble darkened his narrow face that was all planes and angles.
His eyes were alive, and he could see for ten million kilometers with perfect clarity. He could even see his own death, and it was as if a great joy awaited him in Paradise.
Imad had to laugh. That was the line they had fed him and the others last year in the training camp outside Drosh in the mountains of northwestern Pakistan. But he had been westernized by his father to expect — and feel comfortable with — money and the gadgets and comforts it could buy, so he never bought into the Muslim fundamentalist mumbo jumbo.
Bin Laden had not been up there in the camps, and the rumor was that the Americans had killed him in one of the first raids in the war in Afghanistan. But the mujahideen instructors had been filled with the holy zeal; this was a jihad, a striving against the Western infidels.
Some of the students had swallowed the idea, but they were mostly the losers. West Bank Palestinians, Cairo slum kids, a few spoiled Saudis, angry Iranis, and the odd lot that included one seriously screwed-up kid from Chicago or Seattle or someplace like that.
But there were women in the camps, and good hash, and the promise of money to the right boy or girl doing the right thing for the cause, at the right time and against the right enemy. A suicide bombing on an Israeli target — say, a bus in downtown Jerusalem or even Tel Aviv — would net the bomber’s family thirty-five thousand dollars or more — paid in U.S hundred-dollar bills, which Imad thought was ironic as hell.
He checked his wristwatch. He was five minutes early. The bastard could wait for him. Nobody was going to say that Imad was an ignorant Bedouin, anxious to prove his conviction to the cause. Tonight was nothing more than another simple delivery, for not much money.
His parents had immigrated to Saudi Arabia in the seventies, and his father had gone to work for Bin Laden Construction, working on the holy places at Mecca and Medina, and becoming wealthy in the process. Imad went to the best private schools, first in Riyadh and then the King Abdul Aziz University in Jeddah, where Osama bin Laden himself had gotten a degree.
Imad was one of the rich kids who flew up to London or Paris whenever the urge struck them. After graduation, their parents told them, things would change. So while in university they were expected to study as well as have fun.
He took another toke on his bomber joint, cupping the glowing tip in his palm.
Construction was boring. Acting the part of the international terrorist was exciting. So long as his father’s money continued to flow, Imad figured he could attend classes from time to time; go on sabbaticals, as he thought of them, to places like Pakistan and Iran; and run the occasional mission when it was convenient and interesting.
Having a little extra money he’d earned himself was a plus. And when he returned to school from one of his missions, he got a lot more respect, not only from his professors, but from the liberated girls.
Life was good. Insha’allah.
He took another hit, then carefully snuffed out the glowing tip, pinched the end, and stuffed the roach in a side pocket of his backpack, before he started the rental motor scooter and slowly putt-putted to his contact.
The man at the Mercedes was much older and much better dressed than Imad was. He was slightly built, sloping shoulders and long legs. And he was intense; his eyes continually darted toward the marina entrance as if he expected someone to show up at any moment.
“My name is Achmed.”
“I am Imad. And before you ask, no, I was not followed. I made sure of it.”
Imad had worked with a different cutout each time, but they all seemed to be alike in their nervousness, as if they expected the CIA to jump out of the shadows, guns blazing. This one was no different.
He had seen the change in practically everyone since the September eleventh attack on the U.S., and the American invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq. Iran was probably next because of Tehran’s defiance over the nuclear question. Pakistan was coming under increasing fire from the West, and North Korea was skirting the edge of disaster.
On top of all that, the rumor on the street was that al-Quaida was preparing another spectacular strike on the U.S. mainland. This time it would be more personal than 9/11.
“Americans should never feel safe anywhere in the world, especially not in their own homes,” his professor of economics had emotionally told his class two weeks ago.
The feeling that Damocles’ sword was about to fall had infected the entire region. In cities from Riyadh to Islamabad ordinary people were stockpiling food and water. Hospitals were hoarding medicines. Police units were sticking close to their barracks. And the Arab press in general was less strident in its attacks on Westerners.
But watching CNN and some other Western media outlets, Imad couldn’t see that anyone in Washington or London was picking up on the obvious signals that the Muslim world was holding its collective breath.
“This is not a game,” Achmed warned sharply. He took a VHS tape from the car and handed it to Imad. “People’s lives, including your own, will depend on how well you do tonight. We have long memories of who our friends and our enemies are.”
Imad realized that the man was frightened. “I’ve done these things for the cause before. Nothing will go wrong tonight. I’ll deliver this to the Al Jazeera studio, and in the morning I’ll be on the first flight back to Jeddah.”
“I was told to expect someone older.”
“I think they wanted someone like me — someone anonymous — for this kind of delivery,” Imad said.
“You’re a rich man’s son.”
Imad looked pointedly at his cutout’s Mercedes. “Exactly,” he said. “Which here in Qatar makes us anonymous.”
Achmed’s expression darkened, and his eyes darted to the highway as a noisy diesel truck passed. “If you fail, your body will be identified, and there will be unnecessary attention.”
Imad laughed. “No chance of that happening. My father would disown me, just like Osama’s family disowned him. We’re both criminals.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Osama bin Laden was like a god.
Achmed held out his hand. “I’ve changed my mind. Give me back the tape. I will get someone else to deliver it.”
Imad stuffed the tape in the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll do it, no problem.”
“It is important.”
“What about my money?”
Achmed slowly shook his head. “Make the delivery first; then come here. I’ll wait for you.”
“I’m not doing this for my health, man.”
Achmed laughed disdainfully. “That’s exactly what all of us are doing. You will either be a part of the jihad or you will be one of its targets. The choice is yours.”