“They would have arrested us if they knew.”
Subject two didn’t appear convinced. She checked her phone, checked it again fifteen seconds later, and checked it again ten seconds after that. Clearly, she was expecting an imminent communication from the network. It came at 4:47 p.m.
“Alhamdulillah,” whispered subject two.
“What is it?”
Subject two crushed out her cigarette and switched off the television. On the Operations Floor of the National Counterterrorism Center, several dozen analysts and officers watched and waited. Also present was the leader of an elite French counterterrorism organization, the chief of the Jordanian GID, and the future chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. Only the Israeli could not watch what unfolded next. He sat in his assigned seat at the kidney-shaped desk, elbows resting on the pale blond wood, hands over his eyes, and listened.
“In the name of God, the most gracious, the most merciful . . .”
Natalie was making her suicide video.
58
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY QUIET day for Dominion Movers of Alexandria, Virginia—just one small job, a single woman who was trading her rented wreck on Capitol Hill for a cramped cottage in North Arlington, a steal at $700,000. The job had required only one truck and two employees. One of the men was a Jordanian national, the other was from Tunisia. Both were members of ISIS and had fought and trained in Syria. The woman, who worked as an aide to a prominent Republican senator, knew none of this, of course. She served the men coffee and cookies and on completion of the job tipped them well.
The two men left North Arlington at five thirty and started back to the company’s headquarters on Eisenhower Avenue in Alexandria. Owing to the heavy rush-hour traffic, they did not arrive until six fifteen, a few minutes later than they hoped. They parked the truck, a 2011 Freightliner model, outside the warehouse and entered the business office through a glass doorway. Fatimah, the young woman who answered the company’s phones, was absent and her desk was bare. She had flown to Frankfurt the previous evening and was now in Istanbul. By morning, she would be in the caliphate.
Another doorway led to the warehouse floor. There were two additional Freightliners, both painted with the Dominion logo, and three white Honda Pilots. Inside the Hondas was an arsenal of AR-15 assault rifles and .45-caliber Glock pistols, along with a backpack bomb and a suicide vest. Each Freightliner had been fitted with a thousand-pound ammonium nitrate/fuel oil bomb. The devices were exact replicas of the massive bomb that had devastated London’s Canary Wharf in February 1996. It was no coincidence. The man who built the Canary Wharf bomb, a former Irish Republican Army terrorist named Eamon Quinn, had sold his design to ISIS for $2 million.
The other members of the attack cell were already present. Two wore ordinary Western clothing, but the others, eleven in all, wore black tactical suits and white athletic shoes, a sartorial homage to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. For operational reasons, the Tunisian and the Jordanian remained in their blue Dominion coveralls. They had one last delivery to make.
At seven o’clock all fifteen men prayed together one last time. The other members of the attack cell departed shortly thereafter, leaving only the Tunisian and the Jordanian behind. At half past the hour, they climbed into the cabs of the Freightliners. The Tunisian had been selected to drive the lead truck. In many respects, it was the more important assignment, for if he failed, the second truck could not reach its target. He had named the truck Buraq, the heavenly steed that had carried the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Jerusalem during the Night Journey. The Tunisian would take a similar journey tonight, a journey that would end, inshallah, in paradise.
It began, however, on an unsightly industrial section of Eisenhower Avenue. He followed it to the connector and followed the connector to the Beltway. The traffic was heavy but moving just below the speed limit. The Tunisian eased into the right travel lane and then glanced into his side-view mirror. The second Freightliner was about a quarter mile behind, exactly where it was supposed to be. The Tunisian stared straight ahead and began to pray.
“In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful . . .”
Saladin observed the obligatory evening prayer as well, though with far less fervor than the men in the warehouse, for he had no intention of achieving martyrdom this night. Afterward, he dressed in a dark gray suit, a white shirt, and a solid navy-blue tie. His suitcase was packed. He wheeled it into the corridor and, using his cane for support, limped to the elevator. Downstairs, he collected a printed receipt at the front desk before going outside to the motor court. The car was waiting. He instructed the valet to place his suitcase in the trunk and then climbed behind the wheel.
Directly across the street from the Four Seasons, outside the entrance of a CVS drugstore, was a rented Buick Regal. Eli Lavon sat in the front passenger seat, Mikhail Abramov behind the wheel. They had passed that long day watching the front of the hotel, sometimes from the comfort of the car, sometimes from the pavement or a café, and, briefly, from inside the hotel itself. Of their target, the alleged Saudi national Omar al-Farouk, they had caught not a glimpse. A call to the hotel operator had confirmed, however, that Mr. al-Farouk, whoever he was, was indeed a guest of the establishment. He had instructed the switchboard to hold his calls. A walk past his door had revealed a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from his latch.
Mikhail, a man of action rather than observation, was drumming his fingers anxiously on the center console, but Lavon, a battle-scarred veteran of many such vigils, sat with the stillness of a stone Buddha. His brown eyes were fixed on the exit of the hotel, where a black BMW sedan was waiting to turn into M Street.
“There’s our boy,” he said.
“You sure that’s him?”
“Positive.”
The BMW rounded a traffic island of small trees and shrubs and sped off down M Street.
“That’s definitely him,” agreed Mikhail.
“I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“Where do you think he’s going?”
“Maybe you should follow him and find out.”
Saladin turned right onto Wisconsin Avenue and then made a quick left into Prospect Street. On the north side was Café Milano, one of Georgetown’s most popular restaurants. Directly opposite was one of Washington’s costliest parking lots. Saladin left the car with an attendant and entered the restaurant. The ma?tre d’ and two hostesses stood behind a pulpit-like counter in the foyer.
“Al-Farouk,” said Saladin. “I have a reservation for two.”
One of the hostesses checked the computer. “Eight o’clock?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes averted.
“You’re early.”
“I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all. Is the rest of your party here?”