As the Coast Guard response boat crossed back into territorial waters, the wheels of Lufthansa flight LH 464 from Frankfurt touched down on Orlando airport tarmac, exactly on time. Forty minutes later immigration officer Pat Hughes looked at his watch as he waved the next foreign visitor forward to his desk. Thirty minutes to go to the end of his shift, then home for a shower, order in a pizza and sit in his recliner chair with an icebox of cold beers beside him and watch the Monday night football game.
He looked up to see a man standing in front of him, holding out a German passport. He was a suave man, just short of middle age, dressed in a silk and wool biscuit-coloured lightweight suit, dark brown shirt and an expensive looking tie. His skin was olive coloured, his hair neatly cut and he wore a meticulously trimmed goatee beard.
Hughes took the passport and opened it to the personal details page.
‘Business or pleasure, Herr Muller?’ he asked as he swiped the document through the electronic scanner.
‘A bit of both, I have an interest in four restaurants in Florida. I’m going to do the rounds, make sure they are maximising their profits. Then some marlin fishing off the Keys.’
His English was good, but with the guttural accent of a north German.
‘And how long will you be here for?’
‘I have a return ticket in twelve days.’
‘Look into the camera,’ said Officer Hughes, adjusting a small camera on a stalk beside him. He captured the photo on his computer.
‘Fingerprints, please.’
While he took the fingerprints he noticed the suitcase Muller had with him. It was a black suitcase with two wide fluorescent yellow straps round it.
‘Bright straps,’ he commented.
‘They make it easier to see on the carousel.’
When he had finished the fingerprints, Hughes stamped the passport with a six-month visa.
‘Enjoy your stay, Herr Muller,’ he said and watched the man in a suit walk towards the interior of the airport.
About ten yards down the corridor, Franz Muller ceased to exist. Two days before he arrived, he had studied a plan of the airport and knew that there was a male restroom a few yards from the immigration exit. He made his way to a cubicle, closing and locking the door behind him. Resting the suitcase on the rim of the toilet bowl, he took a small mirror and razor and a tube of shaving gel from the side pocket. He rubbed the gel into his beard and shaved it off. Taking the straps from round the case, he unzipped it. Taking out a black linen jacket, he substituted it for his suit jacket. He removed his tie and put it in the suitcase, together with the fluorescent straps. Before he closed the case he pulled out a rolled Panama hat, unrolled it and put it on his head. Anyone watching the closed-circuit television which covered the corridor, looking for a bearded man in a suit would take no notice of a clean-shaven man in a linen jacket and Panama hat, pulling a plain black suitcase.
He waited just inside the entrance of the restrooms until a small crowd came along the corridor; he joined them and walked with them towards the line of car rental company desks. At the nearest one he produced a Tennessee driving licence and credit card. The card was in the name of a North Memphis engineering company. Two cards had been issued, the other was held by Paul Legati who bought a few items with it to keep the account open, always paying the monthly bills in full and on time.
‘I’m Andrew Thomas,’ he said, handing over the driving licence, ‘you have a car reserved for me.’ All trace of the German accent had gone.
The clerk put the licence on the rack at the top of his keyboard and typed the details into the computer.
‘Yes, sir. A Lincoln Town Car.’
‘Black?’
The clerk looked at the screen while the contract documents rolled from the printer.
‘No, we’ve got one in Light French Silk for you, Sir.’
‘It has to be black.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have the Town Car in black right now.’
‘I’m going to a business meeting. Black makes a better impression.’
The clerk typed more details into the computer.
‘I can upgrade you to a top of the line Cadillac in black.’
‘It has to be a black Town Car. If you can’t rent me one, I’ll go somewhere else.’
Hiding his exasperation, the clerk scrolled down the screen.
‘You’re in luck, sir. A black Town Car has just come back in. I’ll telephone the depot to rush clean it. By the time you get over there, it should be ready for you.’
As Thomas made his way towards the courtesy bus stand, another clerk came to the counter from the door behind it.
‘See that guy,’ said the clerk, nodding at the retreating back, ‘I offered him a top of the range Caddy but no, he has to have a black Town Car.’
‘No pleasing some people,’ said the other clerk.
‘You said it.’
Andrew Thomas drove out of Orlando, northward towards Georgia, but he took the longer, quieter route up Interstate 95, along the east coast of the state. After fifteen miles he pulled off the highway into a thickly wooded area. He wound the window down and drove until he couldn’t hear the sound of traffic. Stopping the car, he touched the button to open the boot lid. Standing at the boot, he unzipped the suitcase and slid his hands under the stacked clothing, searching for a felt bag. He opened the bag and took out a Georgia licence plate and a screwdriver. Bending down, he changed the Florida car hire licence plate for the Georgia one.
Sitting some miles north of him in Atlanta was an 87-year-old man called Hal Bewley; Paul Legati had found him. He owned a black Lincoln Town Car with the same Georgia licence plate. Although his eyesight and reactions would make him a menace if he ever got behind the wheel and his driving licence had been revoked five years ago, he pretended that he was still mobile and every three years bought a new car which he insured and paid the annual tag. He held on to the vague hope that one day he would be able to drive again. Each car stored in the garage gathering dust, until it was replaced by its successor. It cost him about $5000 a year in depreciation, but in his mind his vain dream was worth it.
As he drove back towards the Interstate, the man in the Town Car thought about what he had to do. He had been sent to Georgia by Al-Qaeda to watch the terrorist attack as it developed and, if all went well, to make sure that none of the terrorists were captured alive. Al-Qaeda didn’t want anyone to be interrogated by the American authorities.