'I can't divulge that information, sir. Where are you calling from?'
'I am, in fact, calling from Mr. Haytham's cell phone.'
'You… what?'
'Please tell Mr. John Corey of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force that Asad Khalil will visit him next. I promise.'
Khalil shut off the cell phone and looked at Amir, who was making a pretense of concentrating on the road. Amir had heard every word, of course, and there could be little doubt in his mind about what had happened in the house.
Amir exited onto a southbound expressway. Khalil looked out the right side window and saw the skyline of Manhattan Island in the distance. He inquired of Amir, 'Where were they?'
'Sir? Oh…' He pointed in a southwesterly direction and said, 'There.'
Khalil gazed out the window. He now recalled from his last visit where he had seen the Towers while riding in this same vicinity in a taxi that had been driven by another compatriot-a man who had suffered the same fate as Amir would suffer.
Khalil regretted these deaths of his innocent countrymen, but it was necessary to silence anyone who saw his face and how he was dressed. That included the obese driver of the limousine and would have included the pilots of his aircraft if the opportunity had presented itself. And that certainly included Amir, who by now understood what was happening; and if he did not fully understand now, he would when he read or heard the news of the deaths in Douglaston. Also, Amir had heard Khalil use his own name on the cell phone call to the Haytham house. Khalil knew he needed to watch Amir carefully; the man may have guessed his fate, as Farid Mansur had, and he might attempt to flee-instead of accepting his fate as Mansur had.
Khalil said to Amir, 'You are performing a great service to our cause, Amir. You will be rewarded, and your family in Tripoli will profit greatly from your service to our country, and to our Great Leader, Colonel Khadafi, and to Islam.'
Amir stayed silent for a second too long, then nodded and said, 'Thank you, sir.'
Khalil recalled that Malik had always warned him about causing too many incidental deaths. 'A murdered man-or woman,' Malik cautioned, 'is like leaving your footprints on your journey. Kill who you must kill and who you have vowed to kill-but try to be merciful with the others, especially those of our faith.'
Khalil respected the advice of Malik, who was an old man who had seen much in his life, including the war fought by the Italians and the Germans against the British and Americans that had left the sands of Libya red with their blood. Malik had said to his young protege, 'Asad, there is nothing so beautiful in this world as seeing the Christians butcher one another while the sons and daughters of Islam cheer them on.'
Yes, Khalil thought, Malik has seen much and done much, and he has killed his share of infidels. But he was sometimes too cautious with the Americans and that was because of the bombing raid.
Asad Khalil's mind returned to that night of April 15, 1986, and he could see himself as a young man on the flat rooftop of the building in the old Italian colonial fortress of Al Azziziyah in Tripoli. He had been with a young woman… but he could not see her, or remember her… all he could remember was the blur of the aircraft coming toward him, the hellfire spitting from its tail, and the deafening roar of its engines… and then the world exploded. And the woman died.
Had the night ended there, it would still have been the worst night of his life. But later… later when he returned to his home after the bombing, he found rubble… and the bodies of his younger sisters, Adara, age nine, and Lina, age eleven. And his two brothers, Esam, a boy of five years, and Qadir, age fourteen and two years younger than himself. And then he had found his mother dying in her bedroom, blood running from her mouth and ears… and she had asked him about her children… then died in his arms. 'Mother!'
Amir was startled and hit the brakes. 'Sir?'
Khalil slumped back in the seat and began praying silently.
Amir glanced at him in the rearview mirror, then continued on.
Amir exited the expressway and drove toward the nearby Brooklyn Bridge.
Asad Khalil gazed out the window and noted a food shop whose sign was in Arabic. He also saw two women walking, wearing head scarves. He asked Amir, 'Is this a district of Muslims?'
Amir replied, 'There are a few here, sir, but many more south of here, in the district called Bay Ridge.' He added in a light tone, 'The Americans call it Beirut.' He forced a laugh.
Khalil asked, 'Where is Brighton Beach?'
'Farther south, sir. That is the Russian district.'
Khalil knew that. That was where Boris lived, and where Boris would die.
Amir drove onto the Brooklyn Bridge, and Khalil looked across the river to the towering buildings of Manhattan Island. Truly, he thought, this was a place of wealth and power, and it was easy for the jihadists to become discouraged when they gazed on this scene, or when they traveled through this nation. But he recalled the Roman ruins of Libya-all that remained of the greatest imperial power the world had ever seen. In the end, he thought, the greatest armies and navies were nothing when the people believed in nothing. The wealth of an empire corrupted the people and their government, and they were no match for a people who believed in something higher than their bellies, and who worshipped God, not gold.
Khalil could sense that the American empire was past the height of its power and glory, and like Rome, it had begun its long journey of sickness and death. Khalil did not expect to be at that funeral in his lifetime, but the children of Islam, born and unborn, would inherit the ruins of America and Europe, completing the conquest that had begun with the Prophet thirteen centuries ago.
Khalil looked toward where the Twin Towers had risen. That moment when they fell, he knew, had been the beginning of the end.
The taxi came off the bridge, and Khalil said to Amir, 'Take me first to 26 Federal Plaza.'
'Sir? That is the building of the FBI.'
'I know what it is. Go.'
Amir seemed to hesitate, then turned into a quiet street.
There were few vehicles and fewer pedestrians in this quarter of the city that Khalil had been told was the government district. Massive buildings rose into the sky and blocked the sun from the narrow streets.
Within a few minutes, Amir was on a wide boulevard. He slowed and pointed ahead to a building on the left that towered a hundred meters above the sidewalks. 'There.'
Khalil said, 'Park across the street.'
Amir stopped on Broadway, across the road from the main entrance to 26 Federal Plaza.
Khalil saw that the building was surrounded with open spaces, and the small street that passed to the south of the government complex was blocked by barriers. Also, a police vehicle was parked there.
Amir, anticipating a question, explained, 'Since the great victory of September eleven, that street, Duane Street, has been closed to vehicles.'
Khalil watched a man in a suit carrying a briefcase into Duane Street. He smiled and thought that perhaps Miss Mayfield's death had caused her colleagues to work on their Sabbath day.
It was Khalil's wish to penetrate the security of this building at a time when there were few people at work, and go to the upper floors where the Anti-Terrorist Task Force was located. And then he would kill whoever was in the offices.
Malik had called his plan insane and said to him, 'It is acceptable for you to martyr yourself in the cause of our people, but I don't think you will accomplish much, Asad, before you are killed. Or worse, captured.'
Khalil had replied, 'The greatest heroes of Islam were those who rode alone into the enemy camp at night and cut off the head of the chief in his own tent.'
'Yes,' Malik agreed, 'and if you had a horse and a sword and your enemies were armed with swords and sleeping in their tents, this would be a good thing, and I would approve. But I assure you, my daring friend, you will get no farther than the lobby of that building before you are killed or captured.'
Khalil had not argued with Malik, but again he thought that his mentor displayed too much caution. The Americans, in general, were arrogant, and their military and their security forces thought of themselves as invincible, which made them careless. And, he was certain, they had learned nothing on September 11, and nothing in the year and a half since then.
In any case, his Al Qaeda friends had told him they would pick the target, and for security reasons the target
