Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

Walking to the holding room, he rehearsed the usual process in his mind: question the traveler; check his credentials; determine his eligibility to be admitted into the United States. Question, check, determine eligibility . Routine, but important. Never one to be complacent, Melendez-Perez put on his game face and ran through his checklist of tasks.

First task: secure an interpreter. He looked up the on-call Arabic translator and saw that it was Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He called, explained the situation, and put him on standby. The next step was to review the subject’s information. Melendez-Perez opened the file and scanned the important details.

Mohammed al Qahtani had departed Dubai for London, checking one bag, before arriving here in Miami on Virgin Atlantic Flight 15. Melendez-Perez knew that many Saudi nationals connected from Riyadh or Dubai through London in order to visit Disney World. Nothing unusual here , he thought, as he stepped into the small waiting room, quickly scanning the twelve faces to identify his subject.

“Mohammed al Qahtani,” he called, staring directly at the man who was the best match for the picture in the file.

Melendez-Perez watched as Qahtani lifted his dead eyes from gazing at the floor and locked his black irises onto him. The subject wore a black, long-sleeved shirt, black pants, black shoes, and a black belt with a silver buckle. He had a wild black mane, thin facial hair, broad shoulders, and a scowl that could probably melt ice.

“Please follow me,” Melendez-Perez said, indicating the way with his hand. He led Qahtani to a small room that resembled an interrogation cell, but he left the door open. The illusion of free will , he thought as he ushered the Saudi into the room.

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Three months earlier: May 11, 2001

Mohammed al Qahtani dug his foot into the sand like a bull about to charge a matador. His basic training instructor stood nearby with a stopwatch. Qahtani’s heart raced with anticipation.

“Thalatha, ithnan, wahed . . .” Three, two, one . . .

Qahtani sprinted toward the mud pit covered in barbed wire—navigating it with ease, spitting grit as he charged forward to the rope climb. His powerful shoulders and long arms helped him scale the wall in record time as he flipped over the backside and high-stepped through a series of old tires.

Qahtani knew that he was on a record pace, and, if he finished that way, he would likely be chosen to go the front lines to fight the Northern Alliance. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to demonstrate his personal courage and fervent dedication to Islam.

After that it would be up to his commanders to decide if he would be chosen for another mission—one that had been whispered about in tents and caves for a long time, but one that no one outside of senior leadership seemed to know much about. Qahtani didn’t care about the details. If it was important to the cause, he wanted in.

Inshallah . God Willing.

Orlando International Airport

August 4, 2001

Melendez-Perez leaned across the small gray table and put Dr. Shafik-Fouad on speakerphone. At the sound of the interpreter’s voice Qahtani smirked, as though a familiar accent implied he had an ally.

“On the phone is Dr. Shafik-Fouad. He is our interpreter. I am Officer Melendez-Perez of United States Immigration and I am empowered to ask questions of you so that we may determine whether you are able to be admitted to the United States.”

Melendez-Perez waited while Shafik-Fouad translated. Qahtani’s icy stare remained steady, as though he were a boxer attempting to intimidate his opponent.

“Why don’t you have a return ticket?” Melendez-Perez asked.

Qahtani stood and pointed his finger at the immigration agent.

“I have no idea where I am going next. How can I buy return ticket when I don’t know where I will be?”

As Dr. Shafik-Fouad interpreted, Melendez-Perez’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard these kinds of responses before. In Vietnam, assassins were often not told of their final destination or target. This ensured that they would have no intelligence to share if they were compromised. While this Saudi in front of him was a long way from a Vietcong mercenary, Melendez-Perez felt the resonance of a familiar chord.

He pressed ahead.

“Who is picking you up at the airport?”

“A friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“He is arriving at a later date.”

“Then how is he picking you up?”

“He arrives in three or four days.”

“Then who is picking you up?”

“I am traveling for six days.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A hotel.”

“Which one?”

“I forget the name.”

“If you don’t speak English and don’t have a hotel reservation, you will have difficulty getting around Orlando.”

“There is someone waiting for me upstairs.”

The rapid-fire questioning from Melendez-Perez, translated by Dr. Shafik-Fouad, had either confused Qahtani or trapped the Saudi in his own lies.

Not wanting to lose momentum, Melendez-Perez kept pushing.

“Who is waiting for you?”

“No one is waiting for me. I am to call him when I get to where I am going.”

“What is his phone number?”

“You do not need to know these things! This is personal and you do not need to contact him.”

Melendez-Perez stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Panjshir Province, Afghanistan

Three months earlier: May 18, 2001

His obstacle course time the previous week had indeed impressed his superiors and Qahtani had been granted his wish to be sent to the front lines. Now he was running again, sprinting at full throttle, his wavy black hair tousled by the hot May winds of Afghanistan. Today the mud pit and old tires had been replaced by Northern Alliance troops—and they were not far behind.

As he scrambled downhill, the mountains north of Bagram, Afghanistan, cast large, black shadows against the gray twilight. Darting along the rocky goat trail with his AK-47 rifle, shale and pebbles skidded beneath his boots, falling over the cliff onto the rocks far below. While his instructors had warned him not to venture beyond the front lines, Qahtani knew that, to stand out, he’d have to do something extraordinary. That meant disobeying orders, but the upside was that, if he succeeded, his superiors would recognize his devotion to Allah and his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the cause. Never once did he consider that his self-centered foray into enemy territory might have consequences for that cause if he were captured.

Athletic and powerful, Qahtani widened the distance between him and his pursuers, but the narrow path soon turned into an open stretch of trail that led to a road. He wondered if they would pursue him beyond the entrance to the fabled Panjshir Valley, the place where “the Lion of Panjshir,” Ahmad Shah Massoud, had destroyed the Soviet army thirteen years ago, in 1988.

Night had fallen and the darkness closed a tight fist around the looming mountain peaks. Qahtani leapt over a rock and was forced down into a narrow gorge with a well-maintained gravel road running through it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a Hilux pickup truck rounding the hairpin turn he had just avoided.

Almost immediately rapid machine-gun fire came from the truck, growing more intense, and more accurate, as Qahtani raced toward the gatehouse. How fast can I run fifty meters?

He darted past the cantilevered metal arm that blocked vehicle access and dove onto the bank of the adjacent river, water raging loud enough to drown the sound of the approaching truck.

The pickup was close behind him. Bullets sparked off the metal trusses of the fence surrounding the gorge as Qahtani risked the current and slipped across the river, up the opposite bank, and onto a trail that led into the mountains.