Escape (41 page)

In the 90s, he'd merged his group with Abu Sayyaf, the militant Philippine Islamic organization loosely affiliated with Al Qaeda and Indonesia's Jemaah Islamiah. He'd become part of the upper command of the group where he was known by his nom de guerre, Tatay.

Mujahid thought of himself as a team player. He'd sent a message of congratulations to Osama bin Laden and the Taliban after the September 11, 2001, attack and celebrated the victory by blowing up a Manila discotheque frequented by American soldiers. Nearly 300 people had died while he sat in a car a block away and dialed the telephone number of the pager he'd used as a detonator.

He'd used a similar device to tear a hole in a ferry carrying nearly a thousand people between the islands of Mindanao and Samar. Two vans packed with plastic explosives and driven aboard the ferry had been sufficient to sink the vessel in the shark-infested waters. Afterward, he'd cruised slowly through the flaming debris, shooting survivors as they struggled in the water begging for help.

The greatest feat accomplished so far had been the Regent Hotel bombing. Even he had been surprised at how thoroughly the building could be destroyed from the inside, as opposed to a truck bomb on the outside.

Now his career was coming to an end. He'd lost many of his fellow Filipino mujahideen, but always he'd stayed a step ahead of the U.S. Special Forces and the Philippine army commandos who had tracked and killed them in the jungle. He attributed his longevity to two things: Allah's will, and the fact that he never allowed himself to be photographed and rarely met with anyone outside of his inner circle. Even around other mujahideen, his men were instructed not to defer to him, call him by name, or treat him any different from the way they would treat one another. That way, when the inevitable traitors reported to the Americans, they could not say for sure that Tatay had been among them.

However, Allah had decided it was time for him to enter the gates of Paradise, sending him a clear message by giving him the cancer that was eating its way through his guts. At first, he'd resisted the will of Allah by secretly checking into an Egyptian hospital, where he had undergone both surgery and chemotherapy. When that did not stop the gnawing pain, he accepted that his time on Earth was up. He wondered how best to end his life, what final gesture of jihad he could make that would be greater than anything he had done in the past.

Then a messenger of Allah came to him with a suggestion. He was still in the Egyptian hospital, growing strong enough to travel following the last bout with chemotherapy, when late one night he received a visit from a representative of a very special man, the one his benefactors called The Sheik.

Mujahid knew The Sheik only by reputation as a financier of terrorist groups, including Abu Sayyaf. But recently he'd seemed to be making his move to assume the power vacuum created by the absence of any real leadership from Al Qaeda. The bombing of a secret police barracks in Saudi Arabia and renewed vigor of the insurgency in Iraq were attributed to him, and many were heeding his calls for unity among the world's Islamic militant groups.

When The Sheik's representative appeared at the hospital, he handed Mujahid a letter from his master, as well as one from the old imam from Medina, who vouched for the messenger. After reading them, Mujahid asked, "What can I do for The Sheik in the time I have left?"

The man explained that The Sheik wanted Mujahid to help him strike a mortal blow to the United States. "It will be more devastating than the World Trade Center attack, which the Enemy of God absorbed as an elephant absorbs an arrow in its side," he said. "Yes, the elephant was hurt, but it became angry and trampled everything in its path. All it ended up accomplishing in the end was giving the Enemy of God an excuse to demonstrate its military strength in Afghanistan and Iraq while the hoped-for uprising did not come."

Mujahid knew only in general terms what might be accomplished by The Sheik's plan. Even of his own part, he knew very little. He did not know where the attack would take place or who else would be involved. The messenger had told him only that he would need to create a special bomb.

When he had asked for more information, The Sheik's man had refused to answer his questions. "You will learn everything else when you arrive in New York," he had said. "This way, if something goes wrong, Allah forbid, and you are captured, the plan will go on. What you have to know is that together we will not shoot an arrow into the beast, we will cut its hamstrings so that it stumbles and falls, allowing us to finish it off at our leisure, Allah be praised."

Although somewhat annoyed that the younger man would think that he would ever talk if captured
—not even if I
was
being consumed by the fires of hell
—Mujahid recognized the wisdom of the other man's words. It was enough that if the plan worked, his name would be remembered as one of the great Islamic warriors of modem times.

Over the past few months, maps and blueprints had been delivered to Mujahid with descriptions of the obstacles he would face. He had replied with a list of supplies. He left the selection and training of the jihadis who would accompany him to others. But three of his own men had volunteered to enter the gates of Paradise with him.

Traveling to America tried his patience and offended his sensibilities. The ship was filthy, its crew of Russian sailors a bunch of degenerates, as demonstrated by the so-called guard below who'd abandoned his post to fornicate like a dog in the shadows. He would inform the captain of the transgression before disembarking the ship the next morning.

As the man below lit another cigarette, Mujahid started to turn back to his cabin. Just then, the lights along the dock flickered and went out. Mujahid shouted a warning to his men, who swarmed on deck with assault rifles at the ready. After perhaps thirty seconds, the lights went back on.

Below them, the Russian guard was still at his post, although he now had his gun drawn and was peering up and down the dock while nervously puffing on his cigarette. Someone on one of the decks below yelled a question in Russian, and the guard answered and then holstered his gun.

"Did you see anything before the lights went out?" Mujahid asked his sentry.

"No, Tatay, just the man and the
pokpok."

"False alarm," Mujahid told the rest of his men. "Apparently, the Americans still haven't figured out electricity." The men laughed and headed back to their bunks.

Mujahid took another deep breath.
Ugh,
he thought as he left the rail for his cabin.
I can't wait to get off this ship in the morning.

When the cigarette was lit, one of Karchovski's men cut the power, while four others—former elite Russian commandos—sprinted across the dock in padded shoes and up the gangplank to cover the deck, with infrared scopes mounted on their rifles. Following more slowly were Jojola, Tran, Jaxon, and Ivgeny and his men; despite her protests, Lucy had been left behind until the ship could be secured.

Once all the men were aboard and the lights were back on, Jaxon's men headed for the ship's communications center and the crew's quarters. Meanwhile, Karchovski's commandos raced up the ladders to the deck outside the passenger cabins. The first man up shot the surprised guard. The others took up positions to cover the cabin doors.

Jojola, Tran, Jaxon, and Karchovski moved quickly to locate the ship's captain. Startled awake, the captain tried to roll his fat body over to grab a gun that lay on a nightstand next to the bed. He stopped short with Jojola's knife against his throat.

Karchovski snarled something in Russian to the ship's captain, who turned fearful, glaring with red-rimmed eyes at Jojola. The odor of urine filled the cabin.

Jojola looked at Karchovski. "You just scared the piss out of him. What did you say?"

"I said, 'Do not move, dumb shit,'" Karchovski laughed. "And that the man with the knife is an American Indian, and Indians, as we all know, are savages and expert with sharp blades."

"You've seen too many movies," Tran interjected. "He's lucky if he doesn't cut himself with that knife."

Karchovski addressed the captain, this time in English. "Stand up, asshole. We need your help to capture your passenger, Azahari Mujahid."

"I don't know who you are talking about," the captain said. "We are innocent cargo ship hauling electronic goods from China. Check the manifest."

Karchovski gave Jojola a look. The knife flashed upward followed by the captain looking down at his feet with his mouth open as though he couldn't quite grasp what his left ear was doing lying on the deck. Only then did he feel the pain and clamp his hand over the bleeding hole on the side of his head. He started to scream but stopped when Jojola moved toward him again with the knife.

"I warned you about Indians; they've been known to remove the hair from their still-living victims," Karchovski pointed out. "So far you have only lost one ear. I cannot say what he will do next. Now, I suggest you take me to Mujahid."

"I don't know their names," the captain cried, moving as far back from Jojola as he could get.

"He would be the leader of the pieces of shit you picked up in Manila. And in case you plan to betray us, just remember that your life is already forfeit for working for those scumbags the Tazamovs, so consider yourself on parole. If you'd like to extend your days, no tricks, or my friend will make sure that this night is your last."

"But his men are always on guard," the captain complained. "You will never get past them."

"We shall see. Now here is what I want you to do." Karchovski looked at one of his men, a former Red Army medic. "Let's patch his head as best we can. He can listen with his other ear."

A few minutes later, the captain knocked on the door of Azahari Mujahid's cabin, which was opened by one of his men. "What do you want?" the man at the door demanded.

"I need to talk to my passenger," the captain replied. "I need to leave early tomorrow. I want to know what time that will be possible."

"You've been paid," the man in the doorway sneered. "You will leave when we say you can." He stepped a little farther out of the room. "What happened to your head?"

"An accident," the captain replied. "I banged my head on a shelf."

The man turned back to the room. "He is saying his final prayers for the night and cannot be disturbed." He was about to close the door when the captain noticed that a small red dot had appeared on the man's forehead. There was no sound of a gunshot, just a buzzing as the bullet went past, and then the top of the man's head disappeared in a spray of blood and gore.

As the captain backed away, the men in the adjoining rooms rushed out to see what had caused the sudden end to the conversation. They died instantly, slain by Karchovski's men, who had been out of sight around the comers and now tossed a flash-bang grenade into Mujahid's room.

They found Mujahid lying in a fetal position on his prayer rug with small trickles of blood coming out of his ears. The medic rushed to his side.

"Is he hurt bad?" Karchovski asked.

The medic shook his head. "Only stunned. He'll be all right in a minute; maybe a little deaf."

Mujahid was hauled roughly to his feet. He glared at the men around him. "Azahari Mujahid," Jaxon said, stepping in front of the prisoner.

"I don't know that name. My name is Emil Santos. I am a citizen of the Philippines and..."

"Enough," Jaxon replied. "I don't have time to play games." He nodded to Karchovski's men. "Let's take him to meet his jailer."

The assault team reassembled with their prisoner in the warehouse that had been used as a bar. The prostitutes were long gone, though Karchovski's men had hung the bartender up by his heels from a rafter. "As a little warning for the Tazamovs."

Mujahid stood sullenly as Jaxon approached him for a second time. "I want to know why you're here," he asked.

"Ask whatever you want, you will get no answers from me," Mujahid replied.

"I would suggest you answer my questions, or..."

Mujahid smirked. "Or what? I will be killed? I welcome martyrdom. Or perhaps you will send me to Guantanamo, where I will be welcomed by my fellow holy warriors."

"No, where you're going would be much worse than Guantanamo," Jaxon replied.

"Worse? The federal penitentiary in Denver? Perhaps you could arrange a room next to Sheik Rahman. I would enjoy spending my remaining days in the company of such a great man."

"Well, no," Jaxon said. "I'm afraid you'll be spending your remaining days, however long they last, in the presence of a truly great man ... not that ugly piece of crap Rahman." He looked over his shoulder into the shadows of the back part of the warehouse. "David, are you here?"

As Mujahid turned to look, a tall, pale man in a robe stepped into the light. "So this is my executioner?" he asked and laughed.

"No," Grale replied. "Merely your host and inquisitor on behalf of God. But you will beg me to kill you long before death comes in my home beneath the city, away from the light of the sun, where your only roommates will be the rats and those things that crawl in the dark places."

"What nonsense is this?" Mujahid scoffed. "A stupid trick to frighten me as you would a child."

Grale turned to Jaxon. "I will relieve you now of your prisoner. I'm sure that I can learn what you need to know very quickly. Savage Indians ..." he added with a smile to Jojola and Karchovski, " ... are not the only experts with a knife."

Jaxon looked at the prisoner. "Last chance, but I really don't think you want to go where Mr. Grale and his friends are going to take you."

When Mujahid looked up and saw Grale's "friends" emerge from the shadows, he quailed. While some of the Mole People looked no worse than the average street person, others had been driven from even that community by their deformities—cancerous growths and skin diseases, missing limbs and eyes and noses. Some seemed half mad.

"Shayteen,"
Mujahid whispered in spite of himself.

Grale laughed. "Demons? No ... though perhaps these soldiers of God would appear to be devils to an evil man. A matter of perspective, I suppose. But as they and rats will be your only companions in the long days ahead, I would suggest that you treat them with respect. They tend to hold grudges."