Chapter Sixteen

 

 

Ottawa, Canada

August 12, 09:05 a.m.

 

Ahmed sensed something was seriously wrong when neither Salem nor anyone on his team answered their cellphones. They were all instructed to keep them charged and turned on at all times. And they were to pick up and respond without delay. But this morning there was no reply. It was as if all of them had suddenly just vanished.

He tried to calm his distressed mind, which had begun to create worst-case scenarios. Maybe the team had been detected by someone—a police officer or an agent—or suspected of being monitored, so they had turned off their phones. Or maybe one of the members had been captured and the others had removed the cellphone batteries and SIM cards and had tossed them away, as trained in the camps.

As much as he hated the idea, Ahmed called Yousef to inquire about Salem’s team. Yousef also had not been able to get in touch with anyone that entire morning. But he offered to come and pick up Ahmed so they could go and check the safe house for themselves and put an end to all speculation. Reluctantly, Ahmed agreed.

He had grown to dislike Yousef ever since he failed to deliver the blueprints at the agreed-upon time. True, it was not his fault, but he had vouched for his man in the engineering firm, praising him and suggesting they use him to obtain the valuable blueprint of the Canadian Tire Center indoor arena. In Ahmed’s viewpoint, Yousef was responsible for the failure of his man. They were both failures. And Ahmed hated failures.

He had distrusted Yousef since the beginning. Ahmed had no real reason; a gut feeling, his instinct, something in the pit of his stomach told him Yousef was not what he seemed. They were forced to work together, since Yousef was the man recommended by Al-Assam, along with the two bombmakers. But Ahmed wanted to make sure he could trust Yousef.

So Ahmed had begun to shadow Yousef. Bilal, Ahmed’s most trusted man, was to stay glued to Yousef at all times, keep track and report on all his activities. Bilal even slept in the same room with Yousef. But so far, there had been nothing suspicious about Yousef’s behavior. He was either extremely good in foiling Bilal’s spy attempts or there was no foul play. But Ahmed refused to believe the latter. He had always gone with his gut instinct and had never been wrong.

Yousef parked his gray Kia in the safe house’s driveway, then waved at Ahmed. He was standing near the main entrance pulling on his second cigarette. Ahmed took another long puff, then headed toward the car. “As salaam alaykum,” he said in a firm voice to Yousef and to Bilal in the front passenger seat.

“Alaykum as salaam,” Yousef and Bilal replied.

Yousef said, “How are you?”

“Fine. Have you heard from Salem or anyone else?”

“No. You?”

Ahmed shook his head. “No, nothing.”

Bilal opened the car’s door and jumped out.

Ahmed slid into the front passenger seat, while Bilal re-entered the car to sit behind him.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yousef said as he put the car in reverse. “Something bad must have happened to them.”

“We don’t know that,” Bilal said quickly. “And we shouldn’t have such depressing thoughts.”

“He’s right.” Ahmed rubbed his chin. He looked in the visor’s mirror and plucked the offending hair strand off his thin full beard. “Until we know more, we’re not to assume anything. Remember the training.”

Bilal gave Ahmed a strong nod, while Yousef said nothing. He stared straight ahead through the windshield as they drove out of the crescent. A tense silence reigned in the car for the next few minutes. Traffic on Albion Road was light and they made good time.

As they drew near Blossom Park—where Salem’s safe house was located—Ahmed noticed a police car parked near one of the main intersections leading into the area. “Don’t stop,” he instructed Yousef. “Otherwise we’ll draw their attention. Just act normal and drive through.”

Yousef’s face began to turn pale. “But . . . what if they ask me to stop? Check my driver’s license? Start asking questions?” He stuttered and his voice trembled.

Ahmed frowned. “Pull yourself together and answer truthfully. Your international driver’s license is valid. You’re here on a visitor’s visa. But they’re not going to stop us. That would be racial profiling. Canadians are so set to be politically correct, they wouldn’t dare to stop us.”

“Oh, I’m not sure—”

“Just drive and do what I say.” Ahmed’s voice had lost its calm and took on a sharp aggressive tone. “Avoid making eye contact. Pretend you don’t know English, and let me answer all their questions.”

Yousef nodded. He clenched the wheel with his shaky hands, then flicked the turning light. The Kia entered the intersection without speeding or slowing down. He kept his eyes glued to the street and passed by the police car without as much as a glance from the two officers sitting inside it.

Ahmed said, “Don’t check them in the rearview mirror. Just keep going. I told you that they wouldn’t bother us.”

“I . . . yes, I should have trusted you.”

“You should have, and you should start doing it from now on.”

“Of course, I will.” Yousef’s eyes were full of sorrow and regret.

They drove down a couple of streets, then turned to the left and continued for seven blocks. When they came to a divided street, a fire truck shot in front of them. It rounded the corner and headed in the other direction.

“Not a good sign,” Bilal said.

Ahmed shook his head and bit his lip.

“Do we . . . do we go on?” Yousef asked.

Ahmed looked through the gap between a couple of houses to his right. White smoke seemed to be lofting toward the sky. It came from the location of the safe house. His mind started to race and images of doom began to flash in front of his eyes. Did something go wrong with the bombs? Is everyone dead?

“Stop here.” Ahmed pointed across the street. “I will check the safe house on foot.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bilal offered.

“No, stay in the car,” Ahmed replied.

He stepped out of the car and hurried in the direction of the safe house. He put on his sunglasses and pulled his cap lower on his head. As he reached the entrance to the safe house’s crescent, Ahmed crossed to the other sidewalk.

From about a hundred yards away, he noticed the tall smoldering heap of rubble. The safe house was gone. What? How did . . . ?

He felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. Rage began to climb up to his throat and choke him. His mind began to fog up. Ahmed tightened his grip around the Glock pistol handle in his jacket pocket. He wanted to run toward the crescent teeming with people in all sorts of uniforms and shoot them, kill them all.

Ahmed sighed and took a few steps forward. If this is the end, Allah, let me be successful and take as many of them with me as I can. He pulled his Glock halfway out of his pocket.

Then his anguished mind registered a sliver of consciousness, a faint alarm bell warning him a rushed attack was a terrible idea. You’re outnumbered, outgunned. They’ll shoot you and kill you before you even get close enough to fire a single round. You will be a failure.

The last thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Ahmed shook his head and along with it all notions of a suicide attack. No, now is not the right time. They will not get away with this. These infidels will pay. I will make them pay.

He sighed and put his pistol away. Ahmed searched the scene for any clues of what exactly had taken place. A yellow police tape had cordoned off the area. A fire truck, an ambulance and two white vans were parked to one side, while four or five unmarked police sedans and SUVs and television vans were bumper-to-bumper on the other side. Traffic cones had been set up in the middle of the street and a man in a police uniform and a reflective safety vest was directing traffic throughout the crowded area.

Ahmed shook his head again. His eyes had not found anything from such a long distance and such a short timeframe of only a few moments. He could not just waltz in and ask someone without drawing suspicion. Regardless of whether this was an accident or a police assault on the safe house, the bitter truth was that Salem and his team were as good as gone. Ahmed and his men would now have to continue the arena bombing operation on their own.

He turned around and retraced his steps to the car in a slow gait. Ahmed used this quiet time to collect his thoughts and plot the team’s next moves. They had no bombmakers and were running out of time. But they had the blueprints, the target and half of the bombs, which they had transferred to the other safe house the night before. Yes, they could still proceed according to plan. But of course, they would have to do some much-needed modifications.

Yousef and Bilal gave him deeply inquisitive looks as soon as he turned the corner.

Ahmed shook his head and gestured for Yousef to turn the car around.

“The safe house has burned down,” Ahmed said as soon as he got into his seat. “No sign of Salem or anyone else.”

“But . . . How did that happen?” Bilal asked.

“I’m not sure. I could not get too close, for the place is crawling with police and other emergency crews. Perhaps there was an explosion. Nizar or his brother Radwan could have made a mistake with the bombs. You know how unstable the compounds are, and how much care one needs to take when handling the explosives.”

Yousef began to shake his head. “No. Nizar has made bombs for seven years. He never made a mistake. Never.”

Ahmed gave him a stern sideways glance. “Well, maybe it’s your fault.”

“What?” Yousef cocked his head toward Ahmed. “How is this my fault, especially since we don’t even know for sure what took place?”

“Well, the bombmakers came from Al-Assam, your boss, with his approval and your praise. Like the man in the engineering firm who couldn’t deliver the blueprints on time. Everything connected to you just turns to—”

Yousef cut him off. “If you have a problem with my boss, I think you should take it up with him. I can give you his personal cellphone number if you want, right now, for I remember it.”

Ahmed slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Stop the car and I’ll give you something you can also remember.”

Yousef hit the brakes. “Sure, let’s put an end to this.”

“No, no, stop,” Bilal said. “Brothers, we’re not the enemy. The infidels are back there.” He hunched his finger toward the safe house, which was now four blocks away. “We need to regroup, not to fight among ourselves.”

Ahmed did not like Bilal’s words, but he could not disagree with them. He was right, and Ahmed had lost his trademark cool. But he was not about to admit it or apologize to Yousef. Even if this was not Yousef’s fault, the truth remained: he had screwed up when it came to the blueprints.

Ahmed sighed. “Keep driving,” he said in a calmer voice, although he was still seething on the inside. He took a deep breath through his nose. “In spite of what happened or how it came to happen, we’ve lost half of our team. And our safety may also be compromised. We need to be extremely careful when we return to the safe house. Bilal, call Issam and Suhail. Tell them to start packing our gear. We’ll have to find a couple of new places. Maybe outside Ottawa, until things cool down.”

Yousef asked, “Are we delaying our attack?”

Ahmed hesitated for a moment. “No. We’re moving forward as planned. We’re hitting the arena on the agreed-upon date. The same opportunity to kill two birds with one stone may never again come our way. No change in plans.”

“Good,” Yousef said.

Bilal nodded as he pulled out his cellphone. “I think we can still avenge our fallen brothers. Allah will guide us. We have sufficient bombs and once we can find another bombmaker, we can prepare a few extras.”

Ahmed shifted in his seat and turned his head toward Bilal. “Yes, but I want to be absolutely sure our plan will work. I will talk to the sheik, and he will find us more support. We need at least four more gunmen and ten, maybe twenty more pounds of explosives.”

“And the sheikh can find all that for us in four days?” Yousef asked.

“Of course, he can. The sheikh can do everything he wants.” Ahmed dismissed Yousef’s doubts with a hand wave.

They came to an intersection, and Yousef came to a stop at the traffic sign.

“Turn left,” Ahmed said. “I don’t want to drive by the same police car twice in less than ten minutes. No need to make them suspicious.”

Yousef nodded and turned the steering wheel.

Ahmed heaved a deep sigh, then balled his right hand into a fist. He thumped it hard against his left palm and cursed the infidels. “We will make them pay. Our brother’s blood surely did not spill in vain. They and their Prime Minister will surely pay with their own lives.”