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

He paused and took several deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen to his starving lungs as possible. He had made it.

An odd squeaking noise disrupted his brief celebration. He looked back at the gate. The metal arm was lifting as the truck sat waiting patiently, like a panther about to leap—less than one hundred yards away. Men stood in the bed of the pickup, searching for him in the darkness. A large spotlight flicked on, silhouetting the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back.

Qahtani dove over the side of the trail into a shallow valley. His heart pounding through his chest, he slithered along the ground as far as he could. For the first time since his self-directed mission had begun, he sensed failure. As he crawled along the ground he thought back over his brief, insignificant life. In his teens he had drifted from job to job, never proving worthy enough to stick anywhere. He had no education to speak of and had little practical talent in anything other than athletics.

His last job before embracing this new path in life was as an ambulance driver in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. By then, Qahtani had absorbed the radical sermons of his local mullah for so long that he’d finally approached him to ask how he could join in the fight against the infidels. His mullah sent him to Syria to study and train with like-minded Muslims. It was there that he’d become a true believer and realized that his calling was to join in the jihad against the West.

Now, as he hid from the searchlight mounted on the Northern Alliance truck in a rocky outcropping, that trip to Syria, and his subsequent stop in Iran, seemed like ages ago. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the truck engine rev and tires crunch off toward the valley. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath: I have survived . He prayed that his commanders would view his actions as courageous, rather than defiant.

Qahtani looked at the night sky with its tiny lights flickering brightly against the darkness. Perhaps, he thought, his life would be like that: a flickering light against the endless void of darkness.

Orlando International Airport

August 4, 2001

Melendez-Perez paced the halls, thinking through the situation, which was more delicate than it appeared. While his instincts screamed that something was wrong, he knew that denying entry to a legitimate Saudi national could have serious professional consequences.

But he also knew something else: His instincts were the only thing that had kept him alive in Vietnam. He trusted them implicitly.

Returning to the small room, Melendez-Perez began a different line of questioning, but Qahtani quickly lost control again. The Saudi was standing up, leaning forward, his hands on the table, leering, and shouting.

Melendez-Perez remained calm. “Sit down, please. I’m not finished. You have two thousand, eight hundred dollars in cash and a one-way ticket to Dubai will cost you two thousand, two hundred. How will you get money for both travel in the United States and your return?”

“Someone will bring me money.”

“Why would someone bring you some money?”

“Because he is a friend.”

“How long have you known this person?”

“Not too long.”

Melendez-Perez stood and left the room again.

• • •

“I am placing you under oath. It is a serious offense to lie to an immigration officer.”

Qahtani’s eyes narrowed at the translation of what Melendez-Perez had just told him, but he agreed. After the swearing in was read, translated, and recited, the questioning continued.

“Who is picking you up?”

“I won’t answer,” Qahtani said.

Shafik-Fouad, whose sole purpose thus far had been to interpret and relay Melendez-Perez’s words, spoke out of turn. “Something’s not right here.”

Melendez-Perez agreed and he saw a dark cloud of fear slide across Qahtani’s eyes. For the third time in ninety minutes, he left the room.

• • •

His feet as cold as ice cubes, Melendez-Perez walked to the operations center and checked NAILS, the National Automated Index Lookout System. It came up empty—Qahtani had no countries interested in his arrest. That would’ve been too easy , he thought to himself.

Melendez-Perez reentered the interview room with several documents and a small container. Qahtani stared at him intently as he wrote on several different forms. “What is your occupation?”

“Car salesman,” Qahtani said.

Melendez-Perez returned the Saudi’s icy stare as he removed an inkpad and began to take Qahtani’s fingerprints. He grasped his fingers one by one, placing them on the pad, rolling them back and forth, gathering ink, and then pressing them firmly into the hard, white stock paper.

Oddly, Melendez-Perez perceived a softening of Qahtani’s demeanor. Perhaps the Saudi believed this to be a good sign. Maybe he was under the impression that the fingerprints were the final part of the admittance process.

The paperwork complete, Melendez-Perez stood again. “You do not appear to be admissible into the United States. I am offering you an opportunity to withdraw your application. I will escort you to the gate for the next departing flight to Dubai, where you will pay for your return ticket.”

As the interpreter relayed Melendez-Perez’s message, Qahtani looked from the phone to Melendez-Perez’s face and shouted, “You cannot do this! Why do all of this paperwork? Why put me through this? You are harassing me! I will not pay!”

Melendez-Perez remained calm. “If you do not pay for your ticket, then we will detain you here in the United States until such time that you do.”

Qahtani, looking defeated, reluctantly agreed. “I will pay,” he muttered.

• • •

Standing at the entrance to the jetway, Qahtani turned back toward Melendez-Perez and spoke one final time—now using perfect English.

“I will be back.”

Dania Beach, Florida

August 5, 2001

Ziad Jarrah jabbed tirelessly at the heavy bag until his instructor slowed him down.

“No need to destroy the bag, Ziad. What do you want to work on today?”

But Jarrah wasn’t working on anything except venting his anger. He and a friend had made the long trip from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando International Airport yesterday, waiting for hours before finally giving up on their arriving passenger, who was apparently a no-show.

He continued to pummel the bag, ignoring his instructor and temporarily abandoning the perfection with which he had been playing his role as a moderate, westernized Muslim. Conflict stormed in Jarrah’s mind as sweat streamed down his face. His oval wire-rimmed glasses were cocked oddly on his nose as his fists let loose their fury.

His life was a study in contradiction. On the one hand, he was smart, educated, and fluent in English, German, and Arabic. He had a beautiful girlfriend in Germany, whom he called nearly every day. He was living a life that many people only dreamed of. On the other hand, it was this life that also made him the perfect person to wage jihad against the West. No one ever saw him as a threat because there was no reason for him to be one.

Though raised as a Christian in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Jarrah became friends with Muslims while at school in Germany. Under their tutelage, he had begun to believe in the extreme reaches of Islam.

For months he had been taking self-defense classes at this Florida gym. He had perfected sleeper holds, defensive maneuvers, and rapid-fire jabs. But, unbeknownst to most people, these weren’t the only things for which Jarrah had been training. The previous December he’d begun training in a flight simulator, pursuing his childhood dream of becoming a pilot.

West Milford, New Jersey

September 10, 2001