DUSSELDORF
CNN’s high-angle camera showed the caravan of eight black-velvet-draped coffins rattling down the cobblestone street. He watched blood drip from each coffin, and was delighted to see more blood dripping from the casket of the American President. Delirious crowds threw rocks at the caskets that had been smeared with yellow Christian crosses and Stars of David. People wept with joy.
Wolf Blitzer said, “Let’s shift to Kabul, and then to Islamabad and Teheran where you’ll see even bigger crowds celebrating.”
In each city, the camera showed thousands of people rejoicing in the righteous deaths of the G8 Summit leaders. All eight of them…
Valek Stahl’s eyes shot open. He stared at the ceiling above his bed and smiled.
Today’s dream is tomorrow’s reality.
He got up, stretched, and began his morning workout. After thirty minutes of heavy weightlifting, one hundred pushups and fifty chin-ups, he ran four six-minute miles on his new NordicTrack treadmill, checking world news on the treadmill’s built-in Internet screen.
He showered, ate breakfast and turned on his laptop. He logged onto Le Soir, a Belgian French language newspaper, then De Standaard, a Flemish language paper, then the major international newswires and web browsers.
He was looking for any last-second modifications in the G8 Summit itinerary. There were none.
To confirm his findings, he phoned Wassif Aziz, a local police officer assigned to G8 security. Wassif, Stahl’s Summit insider, lost his wife, three children, and parents from bombs in Baghdad years ago. Wassif detested the G8 countries. Although Al Qaeda had actually detonated the bombs, Wassif blamed the presence of allied troops, mostly Americans, for forcing Al Qaeda to detonate the bombs.
And, as a Muslim male, Wassif was committed to his moral duty: to avenge the death of his family. He accepted his duty. He also accepted Stahl’s fifty thousand euros.
Wassif answered on the first ring.
“How’s the weather today?” Stahl said in French.
“No clouds.”
“If you see clouds, even small clouds, phone me or use our other venue.”
“Of course.”
Stahl hung up and realized it was time to go brief his team. He left his Dusseldorf apartment and stepped outside into a crisp breeze blowing off the Rhine River. He looked around and saw no one watching him.
Seven blocks later, he entered Die Sahara, a small middle-eastern restaurant. He smelled the rich aromas of garlic and basil and Chicken Shawarma. In the far corner, several wrinkle-faced old men with sunken eyes sipped fragrant Arabic coffee and argued politics.
Opposite the men, in a small alcove, sat a group of black-clad middle-aged women riveted to an Egyptian soap opera on television.
Stahl walked through to the kitchen where two women prepared lamb and rice dishes, while another poured chickpeas into a blender, making hummus. At a butcher-block, a tall, muscular, dark-haired young man chopped lamb shanks with a bloody cleaver.
Stahl spoke to him. “Yusef….”
Yusef turned and seeing Stahl, smiled, then rushed over and kissed him on both cheeks.
“It is time,” Stahl said. “Get your brothers.”
Yusef nodded, then hurried up the back stairs. Stahl watched him go, noticing once again how physically similar Yusef and he were. Like Stahl, Yusef stood about six-three and weighed about two hundred ten pounds. Yusef also had a German father and Arab mother. And his parents, like Stahl’s, were killed by Israeli raids in southern Lebanon. The only difference was that Yusef’s hair was black while Stahl’s was a brownish-blond.
Moments later, Yusef brought his two half-brothers, Ahmed and Iram, into the kitchen. The two younger brothers, shorter and darker, embraced Stahl warmly, clearly in awe of his reputation.
Yusef led them all to a basement storage room where they sat at an old wooden table. Iram locked the door and turned on a water faucet to prevent anyone from overhearing.
Stahl stared at them several seconds, letting the gravity of his visit sink in.
“Allah’s sacred mission is at hand,” Stahl said.
They leaned forward, anxious.
“And he has chosen us!”
Their dark, eager eyes widened.
“We shall retaliate against the godless infidels. We will avenge their evil occupation of our sacred Muslim lands… and the slaughter of thousands of our innocent men, women and children.”
“Allahu Akbar!” The brothers said.
Ahmed leaned forward. “Tell us Katill - how shall we achieve Allah’s glorious jihad?”
“We will avenge the murder of Osama Bin Laden and our other Al Qaeda leaders!”
Stahl paused, letting the suspense build.
“We shall assassinate their leaders!”
“Which leaders?”
“The G8 leaders at the Summit in Brussels.”
Their mouths fell open.
“But a Saudi minister is attending,” Yusef said.
“The man is a traitor to Islam!” Stahl said. “Has he not helped the great Satan – America?”
The brothers nodded.
“Has he not often refused to contribute funds to our sacred jihadist causes?”
They nodded again.
“Does he not deserve death?”
“Yes!” the brothers said with anger.
“Where shall we strike?” Ahmed asked.
Stahl spread a map out and pointed to a spot. “Here.”
Again, their eyes widened in shock.
For the next twenty minutes Stahl explained his plan. He showed them how in the highly unlikely scenario that one attack was stopped, the backup plan, the second sword, would smite their archenemies.
When he finished, they stared at him. He could feel their admiration, perhaps adoration.
“It’s brilliant,” Yusef said. “But how did you learn about the – ”
Stahl held up his hand. “Better if you don’t know.”
Yusef nodded. “But how will we escape? There will be thousands of police.”
“We will escape as police. I will bring your uniforms to your Brussels apartment. After our attack, we’ll drive to Montpellier, France. From there we’ll be flown to Iran.”
Stahl handed Yusef a thick envelope. “This will more than cover your expenses for the next two days.”
Yusef fanned the twenty thousand euros inside and smiled. “You are too kind, Valek. We thank you.”
Stahl nodded and stood. “Here are the keys to your Brussels apartment. I will meet you there.”
Stahl embraced them and left.
Outside, he walked back toward his apartment, knowing he could rely on the brothers. They were religious fanatics, who more than once had confessed their willingness to fight and die as martyrs for the cause.
As he walked down an alley, he heard scuffling behind him. Turning, he saw a building demolition site of partial walls and stacks of rubble.
Behind one wall, a large German construction worker with a tool belt slung over a large beer gut was kicking something on the ground. Stahl heard a gasp.
He walked closer and saw the worker was kicking a young, dark-skinned boy, maybe eleven. The boy was jackknifed in a defensive prenatal curl.
“Arabische Scheiße! Verlassen Sie Deutschland! Arab shit… get out of Germany!” the big German shouted, kicking the young boy’s face.
As the German prepared to kick the side of his head – Stahl moved with blinding speed, delivering a karate-kick to the back of the man’s neck, smashing vertebrae. The big man collapsed, writhing in pain and gasping for breath.
Stahl lifted the bloody, stunned boy to his feet and told him to never return to the site. When Stahl saw his shabby clothes, he took out his wallet, and handed three hundred Euros to the young boy. The kid stared at the enormous amount of money, then weeping, kissed Stahl’s hand and limped away, saying, “Alhamdulillah! Praise Allah!”
Stahl looked around and was satisfied that the rubble and walls had prevented anyone from seeing his attack.
“You bastard!” the fat German wheezed from the ground, his face contorted in pain. “I can’t move my legs!”
“You won’t need them.”
Stahl reached down and snapped the man’s neck like a stalk of celery. The racist pig would die from asphyxia within three minutes.
One less Arab hater, Stahl thought as he strolled away.
He’d learned about Arab haters early in life. His mother taught him. Even though she told him that Arab-hating Israelis had killed her parents, Stahl learned later that her parents had actually abandoned her when she was two.
She met Stahl’s father, a teenage deserter from Rommel’s Afrika Korps, in a Beirut brothel. She was looking for money. He was looking for sex. Soon, their mutual hatred of Israel and its supporters bound them together in ways love never could.
Young Valek simply accepted their hatred until one day when he was nine. On that day, their hatred became his. And it brought new meaning to his life. Hatred became his reason to live.
He’d been playing hide and seek with his young sister in the garden of their home in a southern Lebanese village. He’d walked up the hill in front of the house pretending to look for Bathshira, even though he knew she was hiding in the bushes near the house.
Then he heard something.
A deafening roar…
He looked up – something was streaking across the sky toward his house.
Bathshira, terrified, ran from the bushes toward him. One second later everything exploded in blinding white light. He was hurled backward, felt his body and head slam against the large boulders, felt warm blood trickle down his neck, felt his eyes close.
Seconds later, they opened and he sat up, disoriented.
Looking up, he saw two Israeli jets soaring south.
“Why?” he shouted at them.
He turned toward his house.
Gone!
Only parts of walls and stone remained. He ran toward the rubble, tripping over something.
A small bloody leg. His sister’s. Just her leg.
He found the rest of her several feet away, saturated in more blood. Her eyes stared vacantly into the blazing sun. He bent down and took her hand. He begged her to wake up, but she would not.
He placed his ear on her bloody chest, but heard no heartbeat. Screaming for his parents, he ran toward the house.
He squeezed between slabs of fallen walls and smoldering roof, looking for his mother.
Tears streamed from his eyes, strange cries roared from his throat. Then he saw her – pinned under massive chunks of concrete. The concrete had crushed her chest and head. Blood gushed from her mouth.
“Ummi, ehkee ya ummi… ” Speak, momma…
She would not speak. She would not blink her eyes. She would not breathe. Flies crawled into her mouth. He hated the flies. He tried to lift the concrete off her but couldn’t. He hated being small and weak. He saw her bloody amber prayer beads and pried them from her burned hand.
Who would take care of him?
Baba would! Where was Papa? He could wake momma. He ran toward the workshop rooms where his father had been. He was not there.
Papa escaped! He’d heard the planes and got away!
Stahl stepped over a slab of concrete and saw a bloody hand. On the wrist, his father’s watch.
“Vater!”
The hand jerked.
He’s alive!
Stahl bent down and tried to lift the heavy concrete, but couldn’t. He scrambled to the other side of the slab and saw his father’s eyes staring back at him. And blinking!
“Vater, vater!”
His father wheezed in German. “Versprechen emir etwas, Valek.” Promise me, something.
“Ja, vater!”
“Töten Sie die, die dies gemacht haben!”
“Yes, papa, yes I will kill those who did this.”
“Promise me, Valek.”
Valek nodded as blood spilled from his father’s mouth.
“Ich verspreche Sie, vater! I promise, papa. Please don’t close your eyes like momma, please don’t! I promise you, papa… just don’t close…”
His father’s eyes did not close… but they froze wide open… and then the light in them went away.