Justice Denied (44 page)

Ghilzai and Akhund did as requested, knowing they had nothing to worry about—everything they needed was already onboard the ferry, placed there by a member of their team who'd gained employment years before with the company that ran the ferries.

As the pair walked aboard the boat, they were greeted by an Asian-looking man who, according to a tag on his lapel, was named “Vinh” and was a volunteer guide. “Do you have any questions about where to go for the best views?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” Akhund answered curtly.

Ghilzai noted with alarm that his partner was sweating profusely and looking around nervously. “No, thank you,” he added politely and then pointed toward the stairs leading to an observation deck. “Let's go up there.”

After he'd separated Akhund from the volunteer and anyone else who might overhear, Ghilzai whispered through clenched teeth. “Relax. You are beginning to act suspiciously. The plan is going according to schedule; this will be a great day for Allah and all of us. Do not bring attention to us.”

Akhund swallowed hard and nodded. “I'm okay,” he said. “Just some nerves and excitement.”

“Do not let either interfere with your duty to Allah and your comrades,” Ghilzai warned.

Up on the observation deck in the open air, Akhund seemed to settle down and Ghilzai actually enjoyed the ride out to Ellis Island, his third trip in four weeks. However, what pleased him wasn't quite the same as what engaged the tourists around him who pointed and laughed and took numerous photos of the Manhattan skyline, the Statue of Liberty, and themselves. What lifted his heart was looking at the empty space where he knew the WTC twin towers had once stood. It also pleased him to know that while the morning's events wouldn't cause as many deaths as that attack it would be spectacular in its own right. After all, terrorism wasn't so much about how many deaths resulted—though large numbers were good for publicity—it was the way in which the infidels died, suddenly and in a place they considered safe.

Arriving at Ellis Island, Ghilzai was surprised to see another ferry tied up at an adjoining dock. A number of men and women in ferry-company uniforms bustled about onboard the other boat but no tourists were in sight. “I thought we were the first ferry this morning,” he said to the volunteer, Vinh, as they were departing to view the American Family Immigration History Center.

“Engine trouble last night,” Vinh explained. “They had to send another ferry to pick up the passengers. They should have it up and running again soon.”

As though on cue, the other ferry's engines suddenly roared to life. “See,” Vinh said with a smile. “Those guys are good.”

Leaving the boat, Ghilzai and Akhund wandered through the buildings where from the early to middle twentieth century more than 25 million immigrants were processed and granted legal entrance to the United States. The two looked at the photographs of immigrants on the walls and read the inscriptions, feigning great interest in the hopes and dreams of the people looking back at them from long ago. But as soon as they dared without arousing suspicion, they got back in line to re-board the ferry for the trip to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty.

Waiting in line, Ghilzai noted that the young couple he'd been behind in line were nowhere to be seen. He knew from his previous trips that it was not unusual; there was no requirement to ride the same boat and sometimes tourists tended to linger on Ellis Island and take a later ferry to Liberty Island.
Their lucky day,
he thought regretfully,
a gift of their lives to them from Allah.

Nor did he see Ajmaani. But he also knew that was according to plan as she was going to wait until they'd commandeered the boat, just in case there was trouble and they needed backup from an unexpected source.

As the engines roared and the crew prepared to cast off, the terrorist took a deep breath and tapped his partner on the back. “It is time,” he said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the number he'd reached earlier that morning. “We're moving,” he said and hung up again.

Walking over to the railing, Ghilzai glanced around and, seeing that no one was paying attention to him, dropped the phone overboard as he'd been instructed by Ajmaani. “There is no need to call again if you carry out the rest of your mission,” she'd said the night before at their last meeting. “If you're caught before you can accomplish your task, I don't want the American agents to have the other phone number to locate your comrades.”

Being out of contact with the rest of the team troubled Ghilzai. He understood security measures and no one was ever quite sure about the capabilities of American counterterrorism agencies, but this seemed extreme. Still, Ajmaani had a reputation for dealing forcefully and fatally with anyone who questioned her instructions, and he wasn't going to risk it.

With the cell phone swirling down into the depths of New York Harbor, Ghilzai and Akhund sauntered in the direction of the pilot house as the ferry's engines revved and the boat lurched. The plan was to now take control of the vessel, which would then be met in the waters just off of Liberty Island by the rest of the team in a speedboat. The others would board, killing anyone who resisted, and then prepare to turn back any attempt to retake the boat while negotiating with the authorities. Of course, the negotiations were just a way to stall for time to make sure the American media had been alerted so that when the ferry—with the Statue of Liberty in the background—was blown up with all on board, the moment would be caught for posterity and the glory of Allah.

It had been more than ten years since the images of the collapsing WTC buildings had been etched into the minds and psyches of Americans and the West. How many times had those images been shown? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Every time there was a story about terrorism, there was a mention of Al Qaeda. Every anniversary and every news event on 9/11 received attention. He was convinced that the images of an exploding tourist ferry with that green lady infidel monstrosity of a statue behind it would get similar billing and reach audiences around the world for another ten years.
At least,
he thought to himself with a smile.

“The American media ought to pay us for giving them such great videos for their newscasts,” one of the other jihadists had joked at their last meeting.

If they knew, they probably would have,
Ghilzai thought.
Nothing is sacred to the media in this country, not even images of slaughter. They are our best propaganda tool, and it doesn't cost us anything more than our lives.

Ghilzai and Akhund reached the pilot house deck without even being challenged. They stopped beneath a net that held a dozen orange life preservers and reached up to remove three that had been marked with a black X. Instead of lightweight vests meant to save people in water, however, these were heavy—the first two, which they quickly put on, were filled with C4 explosives and ball bearings, all connected to a detonator. All they had to do was yank the cord hanging from the front of the vest and death and mayhem would result. Inside the third vest were two Glock 9mm handguns—not a lot of firepower, but enough to overcome an unarmed crew.

With the vests on and the guns in their hands, they ran for the pilot house where they encountered a thick-shouldered, bronze-colored man wearing a ferry employee shirt. “Hey, you're not supposed to be here,” the man complained.

Ghilzai pointed his gun at the employee's head. “Open the door,” he said nodding at the pilot house entrance.

The man held up his hands and cried out in terror. “Okay, okay, please don't shoot.” He fumbled at a set of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He found the key he was looking for and unlocked the door, then stepped to the side and cowered.

Ghilzai pushed past the man and jumped into the room. “Allahu akbar!” he exclaimed holding up his gun. “Nobody move or everyone dies!”

Akhund followed him shouting in a high-pitched voice, “Death to America!”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1994 by Robert K. Tanenbaum

cover design by Karen Horton

ISBN: 978-1-4532-1014-7

This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
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FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA