The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (37 page)

R
inged by male snores and grunts, Morgan lay on his mat thinking. Why had Nadia come to the camp? He hadn’t seen her since she nursed his wounds months earlier, then during her performance last night she had touched Khalil and Bashra. Perhaps at that moment she just being kind—but then applying the same seductive moves on him? From what Morgan had observed, virtue without motive wasn’t consistent with Nadia’s nature. Later, his concern grew as he stood outside the cabin, watching the men come in to sleep. Bashra and Khalil didn’t return.

He was in danger
,
he concluded. Escaping the camp was imperative—but he still had to steal into Tawfik’s office. There had to be information inside that would help him.

Before the first light of dawn, he rose quietly and dressed. As he reached for his satchel, a trio of footsteps paused briefly outside the door before it flew open violently waking the other men. A bright flashlight blinded Morgan.

“Ali!” The command came from behind the beam. “Tawfik wants you! Move!”

One of the camp leaders brought his AK-47 barrel to Morgan’s neck, reinforcing the order then another picked up the satchel. Their gun barrels directed Morgan out the door toward the office. Once in the office, he was instructed to stand with his back against a wall. One man pressed a pistol muzzle in his temple. Several feet away, the other two pointed their rifles at Morgan’s chest.

Tawfik entered through the inner door of his house.

“I have learned more about you,” he said, zipping his fatigues. He dumped the contents of the satchel on his desk, picked up Morgan’s Koran, and looked at several random pages. “Jamil sent a message to me, delivered by Nadia. He was told about the men you killed aboard the ship after he left, and…that you got off before it made port.”

The Koran went back in the satchel. Tawfik placed the bag on a shelf.

“I cannot believe what you say you are because you did not tell me these things! I must know everything about my men. I trust them! They are principled!” His voice rose in anger. “To send you back to America for jihad—what you say you desire—is not possible!” His mustache never moved. “You have not submitted! Your pride betrays you—and me!”

If Tawfik felt deceived, he would believe Morgan had also misled others in the camp and that could put Tawfik’s authority at risk. Commanding men to opt for personal annihilation required unconditional control. Tawfik could never tolerate the presence of someone he didn’t fully trust.

He drew the saber from its sheath on the wall and pressed the flat side against Morgan’s neck.

“You saw what this did!” He turned the sword on edge pressing the blade edge into Morgan’s skin. “It cured an unrighteous man’s sins!”

Tawfik stepped back and laid it on the desk. After he caught his breath, he said, “But because of what you did for Nadia,”—it was clear Tawfik had a premeditated intention—“I won’t whack off your head.”

He paused to let Morgan behold his magnanimity then smiled wickedly, bringing his nose close to Morgan’s. “So I will give you what you do
not
want. Incineration here in Pakistan—without preparation, except to let the instant fire ready you for Hell!”

Tawfik went to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a butterfly coil of thick twine. He sat on the edge of his desk then held out the coil for the men.

“Bind him from behind,” commanded Tawfik.

The guard with the pistol pushed Morgan’s shoulder. He turned with his face to the wall. As the twine wrapped in a figure-of-eight weave around his wrists, Morgan kept wedging them slightly apart trying to maintain a millimeter or two of give in the knot. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Look at me!” Tawfik barked.

Morgan turned around, his eyelids almost closed.

“Damn you! Look at
me
!” Tawfik shouted.

With a downcast gaze that barely met Tawfik’s glare, Morgan released an actor’s tear.

Tawfik saw it and slapped Morgan’s face hard. As more tears came, he slapped him again.

“A man cries blood! Women cry water!” he said with a cold laugh. “As I thought, the poppies have made you weak.”

Morgan’s sniffed hard and audibly gulped the snot from his nose.

“As you will see,” Tawfik said, “Khalil and Bashra
are
prepared. Today—their wounds
will
smell sweet! Blessing their families with honor…Models for others to follow!” Tawfik came close again. “But you,” his finger pressed between Morgan’s ribs, “You, as the infidel Americans say…are just going along for the ride.”

He pushed his glasses back up then held up a large bag of heroin. “When the sun is high today, you will beg to throw the switch yourself!”

Turning away, as he opened the door to the house he laughed and said, “When I see your charred bones on the TV…I will rejoice!”

The men pushed Morgan to the meeting area where the entire camp had already gathered around Khalil and Bashra. Their heads were shaved clean and their beards were gone. They wore embroidered green headbands, white shirts and pants. The men chanted their names.

Morgan saw a jagged piece of glass on the ground and he inched forward until a butt stock slammed in his gut. Collapsing to the ground, he writhed on his back while the men standing nearby spit on him. As Morgan tried to catch his breath his fingers searched and found the glass. Before the guards forced him to his feet it disappeared between his wrists.

They took Morgan to a van with tinted windows, pushed him in and lashed his legs to the metal struts supporting the middle back seat.

Morgan strained his neck to look in the back of the van and saw a lumpy rug. He had no doubt what was hidden beneath. Slowly the piece of glass began to work its way from between his wrists to his fingers.

Khalil sat to the left of Morgan, Bashra to his right. Both wore unbuttoned oversized shirts covering vests. They mocked him.

“What’s it like to die for nothing, Barif?” asked Khalil.

The front door opened. The pit-faced driver brandished his Makarov, touched it to Morgan’s forehead then with a smile added a quick look down its sights toward the other men. He winked and holstered it. If necessary, everyone’s participation would be involuntary.

Nadia climbed in the front seat, turned, and gave each of them a callous smile. Holding her eyes on Morgan, she showed him a vial of heroin.

She saw him yawn, then gave an unsympathetic head cock as he advertised a pleading look. She raised her bag so he could watch her drop it inside. By delivering him to his destiny, her Pashtun duty had been fulfilled. She turned and faced front. She would not look his way again.

The motor coughed, and the van began to roll through the gate and down the road. The driver turned on the fan and rolled up his window. They were soon soaked in sweat, but Morgan could see that the driver wasn’t just clammy from the warm blowing air. His face expressed worry-laced intent as the van shifted one way then back while passing another rock pile.

His intense concern meant only one thing: Mines.

The stuffiness condensed the humidity, making Morgan’s skin slick. As the glass edge gnawed the fibers of the twine, he soon felt some release. His surreptitious work continued until they could slip freely out of the knot, then he stopped.

The van staggered along the road. Behind his seat, amid the serenade of rattles and creaks, Morgan heard metal cylinders banging against each other. As they bounded along, Khalil and Bashra engaged in an occasional animated conversation trying to express their excitement, but mostly they sat in silence, staring out the windows.

After passing several hamlets, the driver stopped and Nadia got out. As she walked away, she showed the back of her hand once to bid them goodbye, turned onto a side path, and was gone.

The widening roads grew thicker with traffic and the signs grew specific. The van followed an arrow. They were going to Peshawar.

“Where?” asked Khalil.

“Qissa Khawani,” said the driver. “On Fridays the market is filled with immodest women and men holding hands.”

Morgan noticed both men were perspiring more heavily as reality approached.

“I need to piddle,” said Khalil.

Morgan knew even the most resolute martyr lost bladder control at the end—a telltale giveaway to anyone who noticed.

The van exited the roadway, stopping deep in an overgrown lane. The Makarov came in view before Khalil and Bashra were allowed to steal into the bushes.

“Ana kaman?” asked Morgan.
Me too?

The driver shook his head, until Morgan released a fart. The driver knew smelly flatulence inside closed windows might cause nausea, weakening the young martyrs resolve.

With the pistol pointed at Morgan’s head, the driver untied his legs and motioned him toward some trees. With his loosely bound hands behind his back, Morgan wiggled his waist while pulling his pants and underwear just below his hips, freeing his right hand from the knot at the same time. Morgan farted again, smiled at the driver and squatted.

The man turned his back.

Pulling up his pants, Morgan jumped noiselessly and buried the jagged glass deep in the man’s neck until blood gurgled in the windpipe. The body gaged, coughed, and fell to the ground.

Wiping his hands on the driver’s shirt, Morgan picked up the Makarov and dropped the magazine to count the bullets. He racked it back in place and confirmed a round was chambered.

In the distance, Morgan heard Khalil and Bashra talking so he patted down the driver’s pockets removing a small transmitter and a bulging wallet. Morgan opened it and quickly looked at the number of large bills.

“Blood money,” he chided the dead man. “Won’t get you to Disney World anymore”

Sliding both items in his pockets, Morgan clicked the pistol’s safety off, put his hands behind his back and walked to the van.

Khalil and Bashra smiled at Morgan until they noticed he approached them alone.

“Take those vests off and drop them,” he said.

“No,” said Bashra.

“Sorry,” Morgan replied. The Makarov came forward. The bullet ripped through Bashra’s pelvis knocking him to the ground. He screamed in pain.

When Morgan saw Khalil reaching for his detonator, he put a round through the man’s wrist. Khalil buckled over.

“Bad luck,” Morgan said. “Should have done as asked.”

Morgan walked to Khalil, lifted up his shirt, and yanked a wire off the battery then he walked over to Bashra. He’d be dead shortly. Morgan bent down and disconnected the same wire and motioned to Khalil. “Now, take your vest off and go get the gorilla.”

Trembling, Khalil loaded the driver in the front seat.

Morgan looked at Bashra. He’d let him exsanguinate for a few more minutes before moving him.

“Khalil,” Morgan said, “Open the back and pull off the rug.”

Pairs of propane cylinders were wrapped with duct tape and nestled in cardboard boxes filled with nails. Wired to a radio receiver and car battery, plastic explosives lined the inside walls.

“Nice.” Morgan grimaced when he saw it.

The planned horror would be sequenced. The vests would detonate at specific points on the street. As terrified shoppers fled, many would run in the direction of the parked van. An instant after the C-4 blew out the sidewalls, waves of nails and propane fireballs would kill anyone within fifty yards. In a crowded market, scores would die.

“Take that shit out,” Morgan ordered.

Khalil pretended to reach in but spun around and lunged. Morgan kicked his neck, rupturing his airway. When the gasping ceased, his body would join Bashra in the back seat.

Morgan tossed everything in the thicket except for a screwdriver and a small amount of C-4. He wired it to the receiver and battery and placed the charge under the passenger’s seat.

After starting the engine, he looked at the gas gauge.

“Too much.” Morgan got out to siphon several gallons to the ground.

With the bodies loaded, he draped the hand-knotted rug over the driver then looked at the two bodies in the back seat.

“Fear not, my friends.” He started the motor. “I’ll make your wishes come true today.”