A Deceit to Die For (51 page)

The man surveyed the square. It did not look like a very strategic target. It
was small, only about fifty yards wide and one hundred and twenty-five yards long. None of the surrounding buildings were more than two stories tall. The landscaping was quite recent as well, part of the Istanbul municipalities’ push for more green space. The red oaks planted by the city were no more than fifteen feet tall. But the square had been chosen for a reason. There were more than a dozen banks represented around the square and all of them had adopted the infidel’s practice of charging interest.

Some were foreign; some were domestic, but all were oppressors, perverters of justice who had abandoned the path of righteousness. More importantly, this conglomeration of banks was located directly behind the massive HSBC building bombed by their sister organization IBDA-C in 2003 during a meeting between that devil George Bush and the English imp, Tony Blair. It was the perfect place to repeat the message. He knew every detail by heart. Planning for the operation had been going on for six months. Fourteen banks would be completely destroyed within the hour. Every major holding in Turkey had an interest in one of these banks. All of them would hear the message loud and clear.

He looked across at the bakery. People stood in line to grab some breakfast on their way to work. Others stopped at one of the carts pushed by street vendors selling
simit
. It was Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. None of them should have been eating. They too had abandoned faith and even the pretense of Islam. Like the attacks in 2003, no attempt was being made to spare Turks. The message had to be explicit. The infidel within was every bit as bad, if not worse, than the infidel without. This was not about xenophobia or bigotry. It was about faith, and this area had been chosen because of its peculiar lack of the same.

He looked down at his watch, still fifteen minutes to go. He closed his eyes and began repeating the names of God, hoping it would calm his nerves. It didn’t. Then, he heard the flutter of wings and opened his eyes to find pigeons flocking around him. An old lady approached the bench. In her hand, she held a large cup full of wheat. She was pouring small amounts into her hand and scattering it on the sidewalk as she approached. The pigeons continued to come and within thirty seconds there were hundreds hopping around, fluttering up and down, fighting for a kernel of grain.

Even this infuriated him. There were Muslim children in Palestine who went to bed hungry every night, and yet here was an old woman, who, judging from her clothes, was clearly well-to-do, feeding pigeons. He could not hold his tongue.

“Why, old woman, do you feed the birds of the air food fit for humans when so many of our brothers are starving?”

The lady’s face registered surprise at being addressed so directly and in such a hostile manner, but she looked straight ahead and said nothing. The wheat was cheap, no more than fifty cents, but it was food and if half of his country’s seventy-three million people were to send just one dollar a day to Palestine, they could feed the whole country. They could give the Palestinians the strength and dignity they needed to resist the accursed and murderous Jews.

He remembered the sermon from last night. The sheikh was a Sunni and no lover of Shiites, but he had begrudgingly acknowledged Shiite success in Lebanon. He had even held them up as an example to shame his congregation into action. The Shiites fed the people, provided basic services, brought electricity and schools, assured security and in two decades they would be the majority. They elevated women to the status of warrior-maker. Every son was another sword in the hand of the Righteous one. After the sermon, he had joined the night of
zikir,
where he spent hours with his brothers chanting the name of Allah until they attained a state of spiritual ecstasy. Afterwards, the sheikh praised their spiritual energy and fervor, saying it was what made Europe and the world theirs for the taking. It was destined to be so. Islam would rule the world and the Turks would rule Islam.

For decades, Muslims had immigrated to Europe in search of work, being exploited for cheap labor while they strengthened the hand of their oppressors. But, now just as many went as missionaries. They proclaimed the truth of Islam and invited the infidel to submit. Yet, the results were disheartening. For over three years, he had sent fifty dollars a month to help support a young missionary, his cousin, who was studying in Paris. Not one person had submitted to the way of Allah in three years. He turned back to the lady and asked again, “Why do you feed the birds instead of caring for the poor? Do you think that Allah will not feed the birds?”

The old woman continued looking straight ahead. Then, she smiled and replied.

“He
is
feeding the birds. I did not make the wheat.”

Her answer irritated him.

“Allah gave them wings. Let them fly to the fields and eat the wheat that has fallen from the combine,” he retorted.

“And God gave you a heart to love, but you have let it shrivel and die,” she said, as she threw another handful of wheat amongst the swarming pigeons.

“Only Allah is eternal. Everything else is mortal,” he rejoined.

“Which, of course, is why you don’t believe in eternal life? Because only God will live forever?”

He could feel his blood pressure rising.

“Of course, I do. I believe in eternal bliss for the faithful and eternal damnation for the infidel,” he said with conviction.

“You are right, my son, God is immortal and He is love. Do you hope to see paradise without it?”
 
He looked down at his watch. It was 8:57. The time had arrived. He stood up, grabbed his backpack off the bench and then turned to the old woman and said,

“I wish that today we might both stand before Him.”

“I am an old woman and would welcome the opportunity, but you are a young man with a heart full of hate. Today would not be a good day for you. You have your whole life in front of you. Live it well.”

He turned and walked away, muttering under his breath, “I intend to end it well.”

He stomped off through the pigeons, causing them to scatter in every direction. As soon as he passed, they flocked back to the old woman. He saw that the first truck had pulled up and parked on the northwest corner of the square beside Garanti Bank. He had to hurry and make sure the others were in place. There was to be a truck on each end of the square and two in the middle. He could see the MNG courier delivery truck pulling up at the other end of the square. It drove twenty meters past the TEB Bank and parked. The driver of each truck would attach a wheel lock and leave. They were both right on time.

He quickened his pace and looked down the side street. Another courier truck was parked in front of HSBC. There was just one truck missing. The Turkish security forces, the lapdogs of Atatürk’s secular regime, had developed one of the world’s top anti-terrorism forces. They had decades of experience fighting an amazing variety of anti-government forces. They were good, too good. They had stopped hundreds of plots and infiltrated dozens of networks over the years, resulting in thousands of arrests. For this reason, all of the trucks had been prepared in isolation from the others in remote locations.

Istanbul traffic was unpredictable, but the fact that school had not yet started and that the fast had begun should mean traffic would be light. He looked down at his watch again. It was 9:01. He could wait another four minutes, but then his instructions were to move ahead regardless. He breathed a silent prayer. Three trucks would be enough, of course. He knew from their calculations that it might still kill everyone in the square, but he didn’t want a single glitch in his grand finale. He looked back at the other three trucks. The drivers were gone. He turned for one final look down the side street and smiled. The DHL truck was just now turning off the main highway. He breathed another prayer of thanksgiving and headed for the HSBC branch.

Their choice of a bank had not been random. The security cameras at this one had a live feed to an offsite server. They had a message to deliver, and it wasn’t just the obliteration of a city block. The offsite server ensured the message would be heard. He went back to the bench so that he could arm the device sitting down. The old woman was gone. He pulled a small box out of
 
his jacket and attached the battery. They had tested the wireless signal extensively. It had a range of over three hundred yards, more than twice what they needed. The LED light on the box lit up, flickered red and then went to green. He was a go. He felt under his left sleeve for the trigger. It was a small button connected to the box via wires taped to his arm. He put the button in the palm of his left hand and slid his right arm under the jacket to feel for the 9mm Zigana holstered under his left arm. He was ready.

The security guard at the door smiled as he opened the door

“Good morning.” The guard pointed to the X-ray machine, “Please place your bag on the belt.”

Those were the last words he ever said. The young man pulled the backpack off his left shoulder and held it in front of his torso just long enough to conceal his right arm retrieving the pistol. The backpack dropped to the floor and two 9mm rounds slammed into the security guard’s chest.

A personal banker stood up from his desk and two more hollow-point rounds sent him tripping backwards over his chair and crashing onto the floor. The bank manager came out of her office, hands in the air.

“Listen, whatever you want, we’ll cooperate. There is no need to kill anyone.”

She was scared, but consciously implementing her training.

“I want all of you lying prostrate on the floor. Now!”

He sent four more shots into the ceiling and made a mental note that he had seven left in that clip. Everyone started scrambling out from behind counters and desks to comply with his demand. He rushed over and grabbed the manager by the hair, yanking her head back and shoving the muzzle of the pistol under her chin.

“I know there are four bank officers upstairs,” he screamed. “I want them down here now, or this woman dies.”

Ten seconds later, he heard footsteps on the stairs and three men and one woman took their place beside their colleagues prostrate on the red carpet. He shoved the woman away and motioned with his gun for her to get on the floor.

“Keep your head on the ground. You raise it, I blow it off.”

He kept his gun at the ready as he backed towards the front door. He took the keys off the dead security guard’s belt and locked the front door. Then, he walked back towards the middle of the room and faced the security camera. He knew one of the employees would have probably already pushed an alarm button, which gave him less than ninety seconds to deliver his message.

CHAPTER
42

A
NKARA
  
“Captain, I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Selda through the cracked door. “There has been another bombing in Istanbul.”

“Damn it! And, I suppose my best source of information is CNNTürk again?

“No sir, NTV has a reporter on the scene. No one else has arrived yet.”

Murat grabbed the remote, changed channels and turned up the sound. The phone on the desk rang. Yusuf sighed. He was already wishing this day would end, and it had only just begun.

“Counter-Terrorism, Yusuf.”

“Captain, this is Bülent from Istanbul.”

“What do you have, Bülent?”

“A few minutes ago, fourteen banks in Levent were obliterated. HSBC was one of them.”

“The whole square?”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“The bastards!”

“To deliver their message, the terrorists used the live security feed at that bank, the only one that streamed data to an offsite location and the only one with audio.”

“Meticulous planning,” observed Yusuf.

“I just saw the tape. You need to see it right away.”