Legacy and Redemption (24 page)

Wolf clicked the remote twice more; one ended the photo display, the other turned on the lights. He shook his head slightly. “Good job by everyone involved, but we can’t rest on our laurels. I’m sure that we all have a lot of work to do.”

Keegan turned to Castillo as attaché cases were filled with the pictures and handouts given out during the meeting. Castillo was depositing his own papers in his briefcase and without looking up, addressed Keegan and Galvin. No sooner than had Castillo caught the men up than did the phone at the head of the table ring. Silence instantly overtook the room. Every breathing soul stopped dead in their tracks and stared at Wolf as he answered.

Keegan, as did everyone else in the room, tried as hard as possible to listen in on the conversation. Wolf kept the conversation short and hearing only once side didn’t yield any vital information. After he hung up the phone; “That was Warren Oliver with the Department of Homeland Security. The stolen vehicle was recovered abandoned in a wooded area less than one hundred yards from the Canadian border about a quarter of a mile west of Route 276. On the passenger seat of the vehicle, the police recovered a one way Amtrak ticket from Yonkers to Rouses Point.”

Wolf reluctantly pointed out what everyone had already resolved. “Ahmed Hatif has definitely made it across the Canadian border. He’s now out of our reach, and I would highly doubt he will ever show his face again on American soil. The CIA or INTERPOL is our best shot at apprehending or killing him.”

Sixty miles east of Kabul, Afghanistan

--------------------------------------------------

Riding around blindfolded in the back seat of the jeep had been rather uncomfortable. He was rather certain though, that they were still in Afghanistan—or perhaps Pakistan. He believed that although they had driven for over three hours, they were not as far from where he was picked up as the men driving wanted him to believe they were. If he had to guess, he figured it to be somewhere less than a hundred kilometers, or about an hour’s drive. He respected the men for their vigilance to protect the whereabouts of the location to which he was being taken.

As a camera man and journalist for Al-Jazeera, this was to be the fourth time that Bilal Abad would meet Sheykh Mohammad Hajjar face to face. Abad had the distinction—and honor—of being selected by Hajjar to film the great ones messages to the western world. At age twenty-eight, Abad was well respected throughout the Arab community for his work with Al-Jazeera.

Abad could sense that the ride was nearly over as he felt the jeeps ride becoming rougher. While he was unable to see, his other senses seemed heightened. He calculated that it was about a half hour ago when the jeep had left a smooth road for a noticeably unpaved one.

The jeep came to a sudden halt, and with that, Abad was escorted out of the jeep. On either side, a guide aided the way by hooking their arms though his. It wasn’t in any way in a threatening or callous manner. It was just a matter of protecting the clandestine location and Abad understood that. This was the same way which he had been treated the first three times he had met with the Sheykh. The first—and even the second time—it had been angst provoking, but not this time. Abad was now familiar with the protocol, and the fact that the Sheykh not only trusted him, but also seemed to like him, made Abad feel safe.

It was a cool afternoon; perhaps even cooler than it was when he had embarked on this journey from Jalalabad. After less than a five minute walk, it became cooler yet. Abad was directed to lower his head as he walked. Although still blindfolded, the sunlight seemed to fade away into darkness. Abad was certain that they were in a cave now. He could smell the dampness; almost taste it.

Abad was ordered to stop walking, his arms were released and he was stood straight up. The blindfold was removed and before him stood Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar. Abad looked at the man who greeted him with a gentile smile. Hajjar seemed to be showing his age more now than ever before. His long beard was more gray and unkempt that it had been less than a year ago when the two men were last face to face.

Hajjar wore a loose fitting, woolen
Perahan Tuban
—the traditional menswear in the area commonly worn by the Taliban. Hajjar extended his arms from underneath a matching dark brown shawl and moved in to hug Abad. Abad hugged him back then bowed his head, offering much deserved respect. Hajjar nodded back as he adjusted his
pakol.
Abad had felt awkward at having brushed into the traditional headgear worn by the Sheykh when the two hugged.

In their native tongue, “I trust you were made comfortable during your long journey.”

Abad had been far from comfortable as he was blindfolded and made to lay down in the back seat of an old army style jeep for such a long period of time. “Yes, my Sheykh. I was very comfortable. I was even more comforted to know that I would be seeing you again.”

“That is very kind of you to say, my brother.”

Abad could see warmness in the Sheykh’s eyes that few in the west would ever see. He knew the Sheykh cared about the people; unlike Americans and Europeans who cared about money and power before their people. Hajjar turned to one of his men. “Get him some water. I’m sure the journey was lengthy and tiresome.”

Abad accepted a cup filled with water from the soldier. It was quite welcomed as his mouth was dry and polluted with dessert sand. He drank. The water seemed to travel in slow motion, hydrating from his lips to his throat in a steady pace. He handed the cup back to the man and made a quick study of his surroundings. The tan, uneven walls of the cave were much the same as the other caves he had been in over the years in the region. A half dozen brown and tan striped area carpets were laid out along the floor, covering nearly half of the area of the cave. The roof was only about six inches taller than his five foot, nine inch height. There was a table and chair set up against a wall; a white bed sheet was hung behind the table where, unless Abad missed his guess, was where the interview would take place.

Abad also noted nearly a dozen followers of the Sheykh standing around the medium sized cave. One of the men held Abad’s camera, most were armed with military type assault rifles. Two of them stood at the entrance of the cave facing out; their guns at the ready. There were also two men in the cave that outwardly would appear to be Americans. They were not tied up or did not appear to be prisoners in any way, but if their looks were not indicative enough, the way they were dressed made the conclusion obvious.

Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar motioned toward the table in the corner. “We should begin.”

The Sheykh pushed the chair aside and sat on the table. He extended an arm to one of his men who knowingly handed him an assault rifle. Hajjar slipped his arm threw the sling and allowed the weapon to hang over his shoulder.

Abad was handed his camera and turned it on. A bright light lit up the cave. Abad adjusted the light so it would reflect off the ceiling and illuminate the cave. He pointed the camera at Hajjar.

Sheykh Hajjar grabbed the assault rifle; his left hand grabbed the fore-end just in front of the banana magazine and his other hand settled by the trigger. His index finger twitched ever so slightly before coming to a rest outside of the trigger guard. Abad began to film and Hajjar spoke. In English, “Two weeks ago today, we began our latest Jihad against the American people. We suffered a loss at the hands of the Americans. But he is not gone; he is with Allah reaping his rewards for a job well done. He will have more women and riches than he ever imagined for taking the fight back to America.”

Hajjar stood up and lifted the rifle’s sling over his shoulder; setting the weapon down on the table behind him. He ran a hand the entire length of his foot long beard before he continued. “The American people think that they have defeated us—that they have stopped us. They think that this was the entirety of our attack.” He smiled and his eyes darkened. “To these Americans, I say you are wrong. You are so very wrong. The attacks on your Thanksgiving holiday were only the beginning. There are many more attacks planned throughout the United States and her allies abroad.”

Abad continued to record as he contemplated about the Sheykh’s assertion. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Sheykh had made an idle to threat to scare the Americans if it were not true. Psychological warfare certainly had its place when one is so outnumbered by the enemy. Abad realized that there was probably only one man in the room who knew if the Sheykh was bluffing or telling the truth. That would be Hajjar, himself.

“I am calling for all Muslims throughout the world, and in particular, the west, to rise up against the United States and those who support the American ideals. I am demanding that the United States President withdraw all troops from Muslim countries immediately. Until they stop involving themselves in our wars, we will not stop attacking them on their own soil. We will no longer wait for them to come to us to slaughter our women and children.” Hajjar pounded a fist on the desk to amplify his point. “We will take the fight to America!”

Hajjar took a couple of deep breaths, clearly to let the threat sink in with the Americans. Abad panned in on Hajjar’s face. His eyes narrowed menacingly. “I
implore
all Muslims to take part in this Jihad; I ask any Americans with a conscious to join us. You will not be alone.”

Hajjar turned to the two Americans in the corner and waved them over. Abad focused the camera on the two men as they walked over to the Sheykh. One at a time, they embraced and then bowed before him. Abad took note of the uniforms, but was not sure what branch of the United States armed forces the men had been with. Yet, there was no doubt that they were American soldiers.

Hajjar placed an arm around one of the men and smiled before he went on. “These men are my brothers. They are American, yet they are still my brothers. They have seen the ills of the American way of life and have made great sacrifice to join with those of us in the right who see the truth. They have embraced our way of life; one where money and power does not come before the people; one where a government does not oppress people half the world away. The Americans would see the Muslim world suffer genocide if they could. We must not let that happen. I urge every other person throughout the world, I urge every American to see the truth. Unite with us and we can root out the infidels before they can come to our countries and kill our people.”

Hajjar once again hugged the American soldiers. “I would like to thank my brothers for their service to the Jihad and ask them to address the American people. The Americans should hear the truth from other Americans; not the lies their government spews.”

*

Sheykh Hajjar once again picked up the rifle put the sling back over his shoulder, this time he rested his finger on the trigger. The camera was focused on the American soldiers who were instrumental in the suicide bombings. Having stolen the C-4 was a huge achievement, but their true value was in the anti-American propaganda and even recruitment of other Americans. Hajjar couldn’t wait to see the worldwide reaction to the video once it was broadcast by Al-Jazeera in the next few days. Anytime Hajjar released a new message, the world took interest. He knew that this one was to be the most powerful memorandum to date. Coming on the heels of numerous suicide bombing attempts, and the defection of two American soldiers, the threat was undeniable.

The soldiers spoke one at a time. They spoke in English, and while Hajjar was fluent in the language, he hadn’t listened to a word that they spoke. It was nothing more than background noise to Hajjar. It really didn’t matter what they said—their actions spoke for themselves. They had murdered fellow American soldiers—infidels—in the name of Allah. They had stolen six hundred pounds of American explosives to be used against the Americans (only a fraction of which has been found). They were also very useful and forthcoming with any information and training they had received from their country.

Hajjar glanced back over as the second of the Americans was now speaking. Hajjar doubted that he would ever be able to pay them back for their service. Their reward—just like his own—would be in the afterlife with Allah. The second man finished speaking, and Hajjar observed Abad lower his camera. The light went off. Hajjar smiled broadly first at Bilal Abad and then at his new found Jihadists. The Americans smiled back.

Hajjar, without hesitation, leveled the assault rifle at the two men. The sound of automatic weapon fire echoed eerily through the cave. Bullets ricocheted and fragments of the wall littered the air. When the shooting had stopped, it was a miracle that only the two Americans lay dead; nobody else had as much been grazed by any shrapnel.

Hajjar had enjoyed seeing the way the two men’s bodies jerked and danced as the AK-47 rounds ambushed their bodies. The first man fell over the back of the table almost instantly; the other, almost seemed to be held in place, standing upright by the barrage of bullets. When he finally did spin to the ground, the white sheet was riddled with bullet holes and sprayed red with American blood. Had they not been American, Hajjar may have actually liked the men.

The only good American was a dead American, he reasoned. They had been useful, and may continue to be if their message—
whatever it was
—is well received and turns other Americans against the United States. Hajjar looked down at Bilal Abad who lay curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Hajjar extended a hand and helped Abad to his feet. “I would appreciate if you left out any details of the American soldier’s suicide out of your story.”

Abad’s voice was shaking; “Of course, my Sheykh.”

Hajjar turned to the same two men who had escorted Abad into the cave. “See that he gets back to Jalalabad safely. This message is too important not to be seen.”

“Yes, Sheykh.”

One of the men approached Abad with a hood. As he placed it over the newsman’s head, Hajjar could hear a commotion from outside. There was a great deal of yelling. This didn’t surprise Hajjar in the slightest. Not even his most trusted men were aware of his plans for killing the Americans. The sound of gunfire had clearly frightened them and they were likely rushing toward the cave to make sure that their leader was not injured.

Sheykh Muhammad Hajjar felt important; loved. But then he heard something else. It was a noise that he’d heard before, and coupled with the yelling, he now realized what it really was. Hajjar realized that he was the only one in the cave who knew. The others—even some of his more senior men—had the luxury of ignorance which he did not have. Hajjar’s heart began to race. He opened his mouth wide and tried to draw in as much oxygen as he could, but it was to no avail; his lungs seemed not to cooperate. The panic attack which he was experiencing went hand in hand with the burden of knowledge and experience. In a very small measure of relief, he knew that the anxiety would pass momentarily.