Part 33 (2/2)
The gun in his left hand, his cane in the right, Saladin cautiously entered the cottage. Its furnis.h.i.+ngs were rustic and spa.r.s.e. In the kitchen he boiled a pot of water-it smelled as though it came unfiltered from the pond-and coaxed a cup of weak tea from an elderly bag of Twinings. Returning to the sitting room, he lowered himself onto the couch and gazed through the triangular picture window, toward the ridge of hills he had just crossed. After a few minutes a little Korean sedan appeared, trailing a cloud of dust. Saladin concealed the gun beneath an embroidered pillow that read G.o.d BLESS THIS HOUSE. Then he blew on his tea and waited.
Saladin had never met the operative in person, though he knew him to be a green-carded Egyptian citizen named Qa.s.sam el-Banna, five foot nine inches in height, 165 pounds, tightly curled hair, light brown eyes. The man who entered the cottage matched that description. He appeared nervous. With a nod, Saladin instructed him to sit. Then in Arabic he said, ”Peace be upon you, Brother Qa.s.sam.”
The young Egyptian was clearly flattered. Softly, he repeated the traditional Islamic greeting of peace, though without the name of the man he was addressing.
”Do you know who I am?” asked Saladin.
”No,” answered the Egyptian quickly. ”We've never met.”
”But surely you've heard of me.”
It was obvious the young Egyptian did not know how to answer the question, so he proceeded with caution. ”I received a message instructing me to come to this location for a meeting. I was not told who would be here or why he wanted to see me.”
”Were you followed?”
”No.”
”Are you sure?”
The young Egyptian vigorously nodded his head.
”And the moving company?” asked Saladin. ”I trust there are no problems?”
There was a brief pause. ”Moving company?”
Saladin gave him a rea.s.suring smile. It was surprisingly charming, the smile of a professional.
”Your caution is admirable, Qa.s.sam. But I can a.s.sure you it's not necessary.”
The Egyptian was silent.
”Do you know who I am?” Saladin asked again.
”Yes, I believe I do.”
”Then answer my question.”
”There are no problems at the moving company. Everything is in place.”
Again, Saladin smiled. ”I'll be the judge of that.”
He debriefed the young Egyptian with the patience of a skilled professional. Saladin's professionalism, however, was twofold. He was an intelligence officer turned master terrorist. He had honed his skills in the badlands of Anbar Province, where he had plotted countless car bombings and suicide attacks, all while sleeping in a different bed every night and evading the drones and the F-16s. Now he was about to lay siege to the American capital from the comfort of the Four Seasons Hotel. The irony, he thought, was exquisite. Saladin was prepared for this moment like no other terrorist in history. He was America's creation. He was America's nightmare.
No detail of the operation was too small to evade Saladin's scrutiny-the primary targets, the backup targets, the weapons, the vehicle-borne bombs, the suicide vests. The young Egyptian answered each question fully and without hesitation. Jalal Na.s.ser and Abu Ahmed al-Tikriti had been wise to choose him; he had a brain like a computer hard drive. The individual operatives knew portions of the plot, but Qa.s.sam el-Banna knew almost everything. If he happened to fall into the hands of the FBI while driving back to Arlington, it would be a disaster. For that reason alone, he would not be leaving the isolated cottage outside Hume alive.
”Have all the operatives been told their targets?” asked Saladin.
”Everyone but the Palestinian doctor.”
”When does she arrive?”
”Her flight is scheduled to land at four thirty, but it's running a few minutes ahead of schedule.”
”You checked?”
He nodded. He was good, thought Saladin, as good as Mohamed Atta. Too bad he would never achieve the same fame. Mohamed Atta was spoken of with reverence in jihadi circles, but only a handful of people in the movement would ever know the name Qa.s.sam el-Banna.
”I'm afraid,” said Saladin, ”there's been a slight change in the plan.”
”Regarding?”
”You.”
”What about me?”
”I want you to leave the country tonight and make your way to the caliphate.”
”But if I make a reservation at the last minute, the Americans-”
”Will suspect nothing,” Saladin said firmly. ”It's too dangerous for you to stay here, Brother Qa.s.sam. You know too much.”
The Egyptian made no reply.
”You've cleaned out your computers?” asked Saladin.
”Yes, of course.”
”And your wife knows nothing of your work?”
”Nothing.”
”Will she join you?”
”I doubt it.”
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