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Authors: Stephen Leather
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call to the whole Muslim world.
The Saudi put down his fork, emptied his glass and paid his bill. His waitress was a cheerful girl with a bright smile, her dark brown hair held back from her face with a large blue plastic clip. The Saudi wished her a good day as he left the restaurant, and wondered whether she would be among the dead.
He strolled along the wooden boardwalk and watched the ferries ploughing through the water and behind them a flotilla of sailing boats, toys for the city’s rich. It was a hot day and he walked slowly, seeking out shade where he could. The heat meant that the martyrs couldn’t use vests packed with explosives so the bombs would be packed into rucksacks. There were plenty of backpackers around and no one was paying them any attention. He turned right in to George Street and walked up the sloping road through the weekend stalls of Rooks Market. Under tented canopies stallholders were selling things only tourists would want to buy: painted boomerangs, home-made fudge, soft toys, framed photographs of Sydney landmarks, bowls made from local wood.
It was another perfect target, thought the Saudi, with lots of wealthy tourists for the Western media to mourn. He paused by the Mercantile Hotel. The first bomb would go off there, detonated by a martyr sitting at one of the tables outside the Molly Malone bar. Nuts and bolts would be packed round the explosives to turn into deadly shrapnel that would rip through the stalls and the shoppers. Those who survived would run down the road towards the harbour. The second bomb would go off just a minute later, at the La Mela Café opposite the Old Sydney Holiday Inn, and catch them as they fled.
The Saudi looked at his watch. There was a concert at the Sydney Opera House later that night and he was looking forward to it. He always enjoyed Mozart. He had acquired his taste for classical music from his father, although the older man preferred Schubert and Brahms. The Saudi’s father had taken him to concerts and the opera since he was seven. He remembered two things in particular of his childhood: his father’s lectures on classical music, and his hatred of the West. The war to end all wars, his father had said, would be the battle between Islam and Christianity. And Islam would prevail. He had rubbed the back of his son’s neck and told him that, one day, he would have a part to play in it. The Saudi’s father had worked for the Saudi Royal Family, which had brought him his wealth and their British passports. He had insisted that a British education was the best in the world, even though it had meant that his son spent most of his childhood away from his family. The Saudi’s father had beamed with pride when he had left Eton with a clutch of A levels, and on the day he’d graduated from the London School of Economics he’d presented him with a gleaming red Ferrari.
The Saudi had been with his father on 11 September 2001 in the family’s compound in Riyadh, and they had watched the destruction of the World Trade Center on CNN. It was the start of the war, the Saudi’s father had said, and it was time for the son to play his part. Introductions were made, oaths were sworn, and the Saudi had started on his path to jihad .
The Saudi would have liked to have taken his father to the concert that night, but he was old now and rarely left Riyadh. Besides, he refused to wear anything but traditional Arab garb and he would have attracted too much attention.
He walked through the stalls, listening to the different languages being spoken by the tourists: Chinese, French, German, British, a veritable smorgasbord of victims. He stopped by a stall selling didgeridoos. A middle-aged white man wearing a black and white bandana tied round his head was showing an American family how to play the Aboriginal instrument. A little blonde girl was jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly. ‘Can we buy it, Daddy?’ she pleaded. ‘Can we?’
The Saudi took no
The Saudi put down his fork, emptied his glass and paid his bill. His waitress was a cheerful girl with a bright smile, her dark brown hair held back from her face with a large blue plastic clip. The Saudi wished her a good day as he left the restaurant, and wondered whether she would be among the dead.
He strolled along the wooden boardwalk and watched the ferries ploughing through the water and behind them a flotilla of sailing boats, toys for the city’s rich. It was a hot day and he walked slowly, seeking out shade where he could. The heat meant that the martyrs couldn’t use vests packed with explosives so the bombs would be packed into rucksacks. There were plenty of backpackers around and no one was paying them any attention. He turned right in to George Street and walked up the sloping road through the weekend stalls of Rooks Market. Under tented canopies stallholders were selling things only tourists would want to buy: painted boomerangs, home-made fudge, soft toys, framed photographs of Sydney landmarks, bowls made from local wood.
It was another perfect target, thought the Saudi, with lots of wealthy tourists for the Western media to mourn. He paused by the Mercantile Hotel. The first bomb would go off there, detonated by a martyr sitting at one of the tables outside the Molly Malone bar. Nuts and bolts would be packed round the explosives to turn into deadly shrapnel that would rip through the stalls and the shoppers. Those who survived would run down the road towards the harbour. The second bomb would go off just a minute later, at the La Mela Café opposite the Old Sydney Holiday Inn, and catch them as they fled.
The Saudi looked at his watch. There was a concert at the Sydney Opera House later that night and he was looking forward to it. He always enjoyed Mozart. He had acquired his taste for classical music from his father, although the older man preferred Schubert and Brahms. The Saudi’s father had taken him to concerts and the opera since he was seven. He remembered two things in particular of his childhood: his father’s lectures on classical music, and his hatred of the West. The war to end all wars, his father had said, would be the battle between Islam and Christianity. And Islam would prevail. He had rubbed the back of his son’s neck and told him that, one day, he would have a part to play in it. The Saudi’s father had worked for the Saudi Royal Family, which had brought him his wealth and their British passports. He had insisted that a British education was the best in the world, even though it had meant that his son spent most of his childhood away from his family. The Saudi’s father had beamed with pride when he had left Eton with a clutch of A levels, and on the day he’d graduated from the London School of Economics he’d presented him with a gleaming red Ferrari.
The Saudi had been with his father on 11 September 2001 in the family’s compound in Riyadh, and they had watched the destruction of the World Trade Center on CNN. It was the start of the war, the Saudi’s father had said, and it was time for the son to play his part. Introductions were made, oaths were sworn, and the Saudi had started on his path to jihad .
The Saudi would have liked to have taken his father to the concert that night, but he was old now and rarely left Riyadh. Besides, he refused to wear anything but traditional Arab garb and he would have attracted too much attention.
He walked through the stalls, listening to the different languages being spoken by the tourists: Chinese, French, German, British, a veritable smorgasbord of victims. He stopped by a stall selling didgeridoos. A middle-aged white man wearing a black and white bandana tied round his head was showing an American family how to play the Aboriginal instrument. A little blonde girl was jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly. ‘Can we buy it, Daddy?’ she pleaded. ‘Can we?’
The Saudi took no
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