9/11 TWO Chapter 17. Droned

17. Droned

The Hamas section leader droned on. The dozen or so operatives sat on the floor, impatient to have their say. Shalah Muhammad was in a foul mood. He always was after meeting with Hamas, an organization run by a verbally aggressive people who never listened, who spoke to others as if delivering a lecture on every topic, whether something simple or pedestrian such as brushing one’s teeth, or something dreadful like sending a teenage suicide bomber into a coffee shop. Their bodies and their minds, were infected by what Shalah Muhammad called a psychosis of liberation theology that was transmitted from generation to generation of peoples who had known no other reality but one of repeated rape and plunder of their property and their loved ones. Certainly an understandable psychosis, but that didn’t make dealing with them any easier, especially with their top strategists and leaders. It narrowed their outlook. As he had always argued, they were no different than the PLO, except that they were much smarter.

But, as they demonstrated even after he got rid of Arafat for them, they were unable to examine all options as he could, to do it dispassionately, to anticipate the outcomes of terrorist attacks; to plan the long range strategies needed to establish an independent Palestinian state. No matter what they said, and they said a lot, they could not exist without the financial and ideological support of the West. Talk about false consciousness! This was it! The result was that they brought on themselves the ire of the Israelis that simply added to their consternation and suffering. They clung to old ways of doing things, and their enemies benefited by it. Their persistence with suicide bombing was a good example. The Israelis were on to them, had been for a few years now. Yet, in the face of repeated failure, they kept at it, wasting lives and money.

Several people were now talking at once. He looked at his watch and was relieved to see that it was time to leave. He grasped Sarah’s hand and nodded to the door. They quietly let themselves out, unnoticed by the speakers or their audience.

*

Sarah held Shalah Muhammad’s hand, stroking it lightly, as they sat in the back of the BMW. She could see that Shalah was fed up. She would calm him. They had just departed what was left of the town of Abed Rabbo in Gaza. Their Hamas contacts had insisted on meeting with them there, again, Shalah was sure, in order to make an obvious point: it was the town that was bombed out of existence by Israel’s ‘Operation Cast Lead’ in 2009. Hamas had driven Israel to distraction and the destruction of Abed Rabbo was the predictable result. So he was seething with anger.

Anger at what the Israelis had done to the men, women and children of Abed Rabbo, anger at the Hamas operatives and their insufferable psychoses, and now, anger at Sarah, whose stroking of his hand was really annoying him. She was like a leech, he thought to himself. A blood sucking leech. Shalah pulled his hand free from Sarah’s caresses to look at his watch again. It was getting late in the day. He leaned forward to tell the driver to go faster. He did not want to be late. Seeing the spectacle of the second bombing of Ground Zero would make up for the annoyances of the day.

Sarah remained silent. She had learned from her parents that this was the way to deal with the anger of others. Well, not exactly, since her dad remained silent regardless. And her mom, poor old mom, had learned to cope with the silence and so replicated it, if that was the right word. Sarah allowed herself to drift back to those times. She thought now that her mom had tried very hard to communicate with her, but she had not responded.

Why did I do that? She asked herself. There just seemed to be something missing inside her. Maybe she was born without something that made her want to get attached to her mom and dad. The very strange thing was that she felt ‘closer’ relatively speaking, to her dad than to her mom. People used to say that she was like him. And it was obvious that he had no feelings at all for anyone. Or if he did, he didn’t show them. It had been a long time. Maybe she should try contacting them, just to let them know she was all right. The idea had been floating around in her head for the past month or so. Actually, since she met up with Uncle Sergey. It was why she disobeyed him and tried to call Nicholas. She found herself biting at her lower lip. What would Shalah say if she said she wanted to go home? Or even just call home? If only he would return her affections. She loved him so. A feeling of grief or maybe loneliness, she was not sure what it was, welled up within, her eyes watering up. And just as a small tear was forming at the edge of her eye, the driver swore and stamped on the brakes.

“Checkpoint! Where in Allah did that come from? There has never been one on this road before.” They stopped some forty yards from the checkpoint. Two officers appeared, Uzis raised at the ready, one came cautiously forward.

“This is suspicious. They’re acting like they knew we were coming and that they know who is inside. Have to assume they may be looking for me,” said Shalah.

“And me?” asked Sarah.

“Of course not,” said Shalah, “why would they be looking for you? You’re a good American Jew.”

“You better get into the trunk,” warned the driver.

“How can I without them seeing me?”

“They think BMWs don’t have access to the trunk through the back seat, and they’re right. Except for this one. Pull the lever at the top of the seat back.”

“This is really humiliating. They will pay for this, whoever it was who fingered us,” growled Shalah. He quickly lowered the back half of the seat, roughly pushing Sarah out of the way, then crawled into the trunk. “Close it!” he called to Sarah.

Sarah closed the seat back and without difficulty spread herself out across the entire back seat. “OK. Go!” she called to the driver.

The driver approached the officer slowly, and lowered his window. He could see there would be no conversation. The officer had his Uzi at the ready, pointing at him and ready to fire at anyone else in the car.

Sarah lowered her window. “Is there a problem officer?” she asked in as broad an American accent as she could.

The officer moved to her window as she lowered it; he could see that she was the only occupant, and a large one at that. He asked for her ID and she gave him her American passport. He looked at it carefully and scanned it into his iPhone. There was no match. “OK, looks good,” he said and passed it back. “I just need to check the trunk. Could you flip it for me please driver?”

Sarah did all she could to hold back a gasp. She was terrified and hoped he could not see it in her face.

“This model does not flip from the cabin. It’s not locked, though. You can open it from the outside,” said the driver trying his best not to offend.

The officer moved to the rear of the car and lowered his Uzi to the side while with the other hand he felt for the pressure latch. The lid did not pop right open as do the Mercedes trunks, but remained just a few inches open. He began to lift it when Shalah Muhammad swiftly thrust it full open, knocking the officer momentarily off balance, giving Shalah time to grab him by his collar and pull him down to the trunk, banging his head on the way down, then in a well-practiced flash of his right hand, he slit the officer’s carotid artery with his box cutter.

“Go! Go!” he yelled and fell back into the trunk, trying to pull the lid closed behind him. But the driver took off with great speed, the BMW 328xi sport responding beautifully. The car hurtled forward, speeding past the remaining officer who managed to get off a few rounds of his Uzi, most of which missed, though some ricocheted loudly off the wildly flapping trunk lid. With Sarah’s help Shalah struggled into the back seat. But the car began to swerve crazily and only then did Shalah notice the blood streaming out of the driver’s ear as he fell forward either unconscious or dead. Shalah quickly reach over to steer the car.

“Kommie! Grab his leg, pull it off the accelerator!” he yelled.

Sarah struggled forward, her bulk making it very difficult to reach the driver’s leg. She managed to get a handful of his trousers and pull it up. The car slowed. She shoved the gear stick into ONE and it lurched drunkenly to a halt. Shalah climbed into the front seat and steered the car to the side of the road. There was no vehicle chasing them, but it would not be long before there was. He grabbed the driver’s cell phone and brought up its GPS. They were on the edge of Jerusalem, an area where there were few houses and light traffic, and quite a few pedestrians who were keeping well away from them.

“Are you OK?” he asked Sarah.

“Just. Not hit or anything.”

“We need to get away from here. It’s not that far to the safe house. I’ll call for a car.” Shalah was about to make the call with the driver’s cell phone when Sarah leaned over and snatched it from him.

“This phone. The IDF is tracking us with it. That’s how they knew we were approaching,” she said.

“You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

They got out of the car and hurried across the street and into an alleyway. Sarah hurled the phone as far away as she could. Shalah was already calling for a car and it arrived in no time, an old 1979 Peugeot diesel 504 in poor condition. Trouble was that it was such an exceptional car that people stared at it, which is not what Shalah and Sarah wanted right now.

“Did you have to bring this car?” Shalah asked.

“Only one we had. Sorry.”

They climbed in and Shalah issued directions. They would go by a circuitous route and get dropped off a few streets away from their destination. Later, the driver would bring their luggage, always shipped separately in case something like this happened.

*

At last they arrived at the safe house. Sarah had been looking forward to this visit for some weeks now. Maybe Shalah would let go just this once, and give himself to her. Despite their recent adventure, he was in good spirits, bounded up the steps to the house and thrust open the door. Halid the handler had left it unlocked and had pinned a note on the door bidding them welcome, saying he was attending the celebration of his son’s tenth birthday. He had done well. There was a big screen TV in the video area, just as Shalah had requested. He walked immediately to the kitchen and saw that the refrigerator was well stocked, then checked the bedroom to find that Halid had installed a bed, not much of a bed, but a bed just the same. He returned to the kitchen and called to Sarah to turn on the TV.

Then his eyes lit up when he saw the bottle of Johnny Walker blue label on the bench. The Handler had done well! He would try to find him a new job in Iraq. Pouring himself a double shot, he returned to the front room to watch the TV.

“Naughty, naughty! Allah is watching,” kidded Sarah as she sidled up behind him, put her arms around his waist, and planted little kisses on the back of his neck. He’s even handsome from behind, she thought. Shalah tossed down the shot and strained forward against her weight to grab the remote.

“It’s a special occasion,” he replied.

Sarah convinced herself that she heard a gentle purr in his voice.

“Allah will be elated when He sees what’s coming,” he said.

“Shouldn’t He already know what’s going to happen?” quipped Sarah.

Shalah ignored the remark.

The TV came to life with CNN World News. A newscaster prattled on, against the amateur video showing a missile hitting a huge rubbish dump, the news ticker at bottom identifying the place as New York’s Staten Island. Shalah Muhammad’s eyes widened and he roughly shook himself free from Sarah’s hug. The commentator, clearly with a smirk on his face as far as Muhammad was concerned, revealed the awful details:

“At approximately 7.00 AM. Sept. 10, a missile of some kind struck New York’s Staten Island. At this time, five people are reported killed, but the number could go higher. There are reports that it came from the direction of Northern New Jersey —”

“We hit them! There’ll be dancing in the streets again!” cried Sarah.

“Shut up! Listen!” growled Muhammad. “It’s a day too early! Idiots!”

The Newscaster continued:

“There are unconfirmed reports that traces of the bio weapon ricin have been found.”

Muhammad threw his arms up, furious. “No nuclear! Those assholes!

They dumped ricin in my missiles!” He turned to look at Sarah. His anger was beyond furious.

“What do you mean Shali?” asked Sarah solicitously.

“I mean that your Russian uncle has fucked us over. What did you pay them?”

“Ten million, and promise of five million after the target is hit with both missiles.”

Muhammad looked into her eyes, his carefully clipped beard bristling. Little twitches appeared in his cheeks. He smiled grimly, coldly. He reached forward with a hooked finger and pulled at the V of her shirt where her football sized breasts strained at the buttons. He was repulsed by her fatness yet at the same time found her disgustingly ripe. “They’re not getting the five million,” he said as he drew her towards him.

Sarah could hardly believe what was happening. She allowed him, no, helped him, draw her to him. She had at last found the way in! The key was anger! Make him angry and he wants her! She had dreamed that he would give himself to her. Dreamed of it so often she responded as if the dream were reality. She pecked his cheeks with kisses and quickly they became big sloppy kisses. And now, to her surprise, the dream came true: he voraciously returned the kisses, right on her lips, almost biting them, his tongue looking for more. He pulled her towards the bedroom, and they struggled as if in a one-legged race to get there. The bed stood high, a solitary mattress on a box spring, American style. They propelled themselves as one on to the bed. Ecstasy was near. Sarah ripped open her shirt and pants with tugs and tears, helped by the violent thrusts of Muhammad. Now she was naked and now Muhammad wanted to insert himself in her body as though he were diving into a huge open wound. He allowed her to open his pants and push them down. She was frantic. He was full of the most disgusting lust one could imagine. With great effort, he managed, by grabbing and pulling handfuls of fatty flesh to communicate to her that he wanted her turned over and finally, when this contortion was accomplished, he pushed her forward and had her bent over the edge of the bed. He thrust himself into her, and, feeling for his jacket, peeled it off and threw it across the bed. With his left hand, he clasped her chin from behind and pulled her head back and kissed the nape of her neck. He felt a noise rise up from deep inside of him, a barbaric cry of ecstasy, or a cry of anger, no matter which. Then in a flash, his right hand shot forward and, pulling her chin even higher, he slashed at her throat with his box cutter and swiftly leapt back. He did not want to get blood on his carefully tailored pants.

“She got what she wanted,” Muhammad muttered to himself with satisfaction, “she died in total fulfillment. What more could anyone want?”

Sarah’s limp body slid off the bed and onto the floor, parts of her flinching like jelly. Muhammad rearranged his trousers and walked to the other side of the bed to get his jacket. He coughed to clear his throat and spat on the body.

“White trash!” he snarled and walked to the bathroom to wash up and clean his box cutter.

*

Shalah Muhammad too was fulfilled. Even though the mission was a failure, a terrible failure in his eyes, he felt greatly satisfied with himself. The feeling of failure had been partly erased by his brief outpouring of rage, the spilling of Sarah’s blood, his deep satisfaction that she met her death in ecstasy. Surely that moment was her time in Heaven, he smiled to himself. And he had let himself go for just a few minutes and now he felt that a huge weight had been lifted from his body and his mind. He went back to the bedroom and looked at the scene with satisfaction. He rummaged through Sarah’s clothes for her cell phone and flipped it open to her contacts list. He would enjoy dispatching them all, especially her uncle. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself another shot of Johnny Walker. “Allahu Akbar!” he said as he raised his glass and tossed down the shot. He sat down in front of the TV and lit one of his special cigarillos.

The newscaster was still at it:

“This report just handed to me. There were apparently two missiles, one of which was not fired. All the terrorists were killed when a special counter terrorist team, orchestrated by Mayor Newberg of New York, raided their headquarters in a suburban house in northern New Jersey. We go now to one of the counter terrorism team that caught the terrorists red handed.”

MacIver appeared on the screen.

“So it was he,” muttered Muhammad to himself, “who would have thought?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said MacIver, responding to the interviewer, “the forensic scientist tries to prevent crime or terrorism from happening. Prevention is better than cure, as they say.”

“And it was this approach that led to the killing of these terrorists?” asked the interviewer.

“Not completely, but it certainly helped us find their operational HQ. We used cutting edge techniques originally developed by my student Manish Das for preventing car theft.”

“You killed the terrorists rather than captured them. One of them was pretty burned up I’m told. Is this part of the forensic science approach?”

“It was a team effort,” answered MacIver, annoyed.

“Some criminologists say you do science with a gun. Is that a fair observation?”

“It’s completely wrong.”

“But you do carry a gun, I hear?”

The newscast cut back to the commentator who announced, “We have to leave it there. And in other news —”

Shalah Muhammad switched off the TV, looked around the room as though he had forgotten something, and then stepped out of the safe house. He stood at the top of the steps and took a deep draw of his cigarillo, enjoying the crisp evening air.

*

Across the street and around the corner from the safe house, Halid the Handler sat on his moped. His smart phone was open and as soon as he saw Shalah Muhammad appear at the door of the safe house he began tapping out a quick text message. He pressed SEND, waited for confirmation that the text had been sent, then started his moped and sped away down the alley.

Shalah Muhammad looked at his watch. He had not sent for a car, preferring this time to take an evening stroll. He took a deep draw of his cigarillo and looked up at the deepening sky with considerable satisfaction. It was then that he heard a faint, familiar sound. The sound of a drone, and just as he realized what it was, the safe house exploded and Shalah Muhammad was first transformed into fire and brimstone, then all that was left of him on this earth was a very big hole in the ground.