Robert Tanenbaum - Bad Faith

“You are very welcome, a beautiful child,” he replied.

A native of Afghanistan, Ghilzai had been recruited by the Taliban as a teenager living in the tribal areas of Pakistan and then, when he complained that their focus on Afghanistan was too narrow, by al-Qaeda. Several other members of the team were also from abroad, places like Yemen and Somalia. They, too, had entered the land of the Great Satan at various times over the past several years to await orders that would carry them to martyrdom. The remaining members were Americans brought into the fold by the Chechen mujahideen Ajmaani, a beautiful and mysterious blond woman who’d become a legend even in al-Qaeda due to her savage attacks on the infidels.

Ghilzai sighed. He hoped at least one of the virgins who would be attending to him when he reached paradise would look like Ajmaani. A year or so prior to meeting her there’d been rumors that she’d been killed or captured by the Americans, but then she’d reappeared a month ago carrying coded instructions from a trusted al-Qaeda courier telling Ghilzai and the others to cooperate with her. He’d been impressed with her plan and her cold-blooded viciousness; she had no regard for the lives of Americans, whether they were adults or children.

It did not occur to him that she also had no regard for the lives of his team, or that of any Muslim tourist who might happen to be killed as well. He wouldn’t have cared either way. His only complaint was with her reliance on the American-born jihadists she assigned to the team, such as his fellow sightseer, Hasim Akhund. Although these men were enthusiastic about taking part in the attack, they liked to boast to each other-like men who had to talk in order to keep their courage up-and pose for photographs with their weapons. They all seemed to have some nebulous complaints about their treatment in the United States, such as not being able to get good jobs, which they blamed on racism and anti-Muslim prejudices; or that they didn’t have girlfriends; or that they were just what Americans called “losers” with nothing else to do.

They said all the right things and prayed fervently in the days leading up to that morning, but Ghilzai thought their reasons for volunteering for jihad were insignificant or petty, rather than to strike a blow for Allah and repressed Muslims all over the world. He didn’t trust them; he worried that their boasting would get beyond the group, and he worried they wouldn’t come through when it mattered. But he was not in charge, and he could only hope that the other foreign-born jihadists, who like him had fought the infidels overseas, would be enough if something went wrong.

So far, everything seemed to be going right. Ghilzai had seen Ajmaani that morning as he’d crossed State Street to Battery Park. As prearranged, she’d been haggling with one of the Somali sidewalk vendors who sold knockoff purses to tourists. When she spotted him, she held up two purses, the sign that he was to proceed with the plan. As he and Akhund walked toward Castle Clinton National Monument to buy tickets and get in line for the ferries, he placed a quick call from his cell phone. “Allahu akbar,” he said quietly, and then hung up.

Purchasing the tickets, the pair proceeded to the dock, where they discovered that they weren’t the first arrivals. A young couple was first in line, acting like newlyweds with shameful public displays of affection, kissing and hugging as though no one else was near. The man was lean and carried himself like an athlete, while the young woman was tan, pretty-though her nose was a bit prominent by Western standards, Ghilzai knew-and green-eyed. Other than giving friendly nods when Ghilzai and Akhund walked up to stand behind them, the couple paid them little attention. When they weren’t kissing, they laughed and joked without a care in the world, and it pleased Ghilzai, who had never had a woman’s love, to know that their day would end tragically.

Ghilzai pretended not to notice when Ajmaani got in the line just in front of a middle-aged couple. He quickly studied the pair, looking for signs of danger. The man was a fit, square-jawed type with close-cropped gray hair-the sort Ghilzai disdainfully thought of as a wealthy businessman who spent too much time at the gym and barber; his woman was tall, buxom, brunette, brown-eyed, and, the terrorist conceded, a match for Ajmaani in beauty. Although they were more discreet than the young couple standing next to him, they were obviously in love from the way they looked at each other and their hands occasionally met. But they didn’t seem particularly interested in Ajmaani, who caught his eye and gave him a slight nod.

At last, the guard at the entrance announced that the ferry would begin loading. Entering a large white tent, passengers were told to remove belts, shoes, coins, and anything else metallic, as well as all cameras and electronic devices, and place them in a basket to be viewed by security personnel. Then passengers had to pass through metal detectors, all part of the fallout from the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center.

Ghilzai and Akhund did as requested, knowing they had nothing to worry about-everything they needed was already on board the ferry, placed there by a member of their team who’d gained employment years before with the company that ran the ferries.

As the pair walked aboard the boat, they were greeted by an Asian-looking man who, according to a tag on his lapel, was named Tran and was a volunteer guide. “Do you have any questions about where to go for the best views?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” Akhund answered curtly.

Ghilzai noted with alarm that his partner was sweating profusely and looking around nervously. “No thank you,” he added politely, and then pointed toward the stairs leading to an observation deck. “Let’s go up there.”

After he’d separated Akhund from the volunteer and anyone else who might overhear, Ghilzai whispered through clenched teeth. “Relax. You are beginning to act suspiciously. The plan is going according to schedule; this will be a great day for Allah and all of us. Do not bring attention to us.”

Akhund swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just some nerves and excitement.”

“Do not let either interfere with your duty to Allah and your comrades,” Ghilzai warned him.

Up on the observation deck in the open air, Akhund seemed to settle down and Ghilzai actually enjoyed the ride out to Ellis Island, his third trip in four weeks. However, what pleased him wasn’t quite the same as what engaged the tourists around him, who pointed and laughed and took numerous photos of the Manhattan skyline, the Statue of Liberty, and themselves. What lifted his heart was looking at the empty space where he knew the WTC Twin Towers had once stood. It also pleased him to know that while the morning’s events wouldn’t cause as many deaths as that attack, they would be spectacular in their own right. After all, terrorism wasn’t so much about how many deaths resulted-though large numbers were good for publicity; it was the way in which the infidels died, suddenly and in a place they considered safe.

Arriving at Ellis Island, Ghilzai was surprised to see another ferry tied up at an adjoining dock. A number of men and women in ferry-company uniforms bustled about on board the other boat but no tourists were in sight. “I thought we were the first ferry this morning,” he said to the volunteer, Tran, as they were departing to view the American Family Immigration History Center.

“Engine trouble last night,” Tran explained. “They had to send another ferry to pick up the passengers. They should have it up and running again soon.”

As though on cue, the other ferry’s engines suddenly roared to life. “See,” Tran said with a smile. “Those guys are good.”