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Authors: Andrew Britton
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that anyone would ever find them. These tokens were for the team only, to let one another know they had each made the pickup and no one else. Zuhair left his marble simply to complete the ritual.
They’d given him the belt, not one of the overstuffed backpacks or shoulder bags. He had no preference, as long as it got the job done.
Inside the grocery bag was a nylon weight belt of the sort designed for scuba divers. He momentarily set it down and reached behind his back to unclip a safety pin that had cinched the waistband of his oversize chinos so they would fit him, letting the pants fall almost to his knees. Then he opened his baseball jersey, put on the belt, and adjusted it using a Velcro closure strap. The waistband would now close snugly over his middle—and the scuba belt’s explosive-filled pouches—without the safety pin.
After he’d rebuttoned the baseball jersey and carefully smoothed it over his chinos, Zuhair moved past the double beds to the desktop for his second piece of equipment. He slid the chair out, found the computer carry bag that had been left there for him, and unzipped its outer compartment. He transferred the wireless detonators it contained to his pocket. The C4 charges and battery inside the belt accounted for two-thirds of its 7-pound weight. The rest of the weight consisted of nails and shards of glass. When triggered, the explosive charge of the bomb and his two shrapnel packages would kill anyone within 10 or 15 feet of the blast.
He left the room and strode along Eutaw, the Baltimore Convention Center casting its expansive shadow to his right, beyond the parking lots, train tracks, and wide crosstown thoroughfare.
Now he stared up at the enclosed sky bridge that spanned the court, connecting the Hilton’s main building and business meeting facility and then leading on across Howard Street into the convention center. Peering through its glass-paneled sides, he could see long streams of people moving in both directions—the ball game and other events had filled the center and caused nearly every room in the hotel to be occupied.
Oh, Allah, our caravan seeks your assistance inflicting the maximum damage, he prayed. We are honored to sacrifice our lives in your path.
Zuhair lowered his gaze from the sky bridge, pressing the earbud of his Bluetooth headset more securely into place with a fingertip, watching a pair of attractive young women cross his path as they approached the hotel entrance. One of them made chance eye contact with him and pointed to the Red Sox emblem on her T-shirt. She smiled a gloating smile and moved on with her friend. He smiled back, feeling the confidence of one who walked freely among his enemies, wrapped in their very skin, unnoticed as he prepared to attack. Perhaps he would kill the woman and her friend.
Yes . That appealed to him.
Following the women, he made his way back into the hotel lobby. They sat, probably to wait for friends or plan what they were going to do for the rest of the day. Zuhair looked around the crowded space, at the support columns. He went there to wait for the call.
Allah, forgive his vanity, but he experienced something of what the Prophet himself must have felt when he sat in his cave, meditating, and the word of God was revealed to him. Zuhair could tell the women exactly what they were going to do today, just minutes from now.
They were going to die.
Julie Harper looked at the diamond-studded Cartier watch her husband had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary. She touched it, treasuring it, treasuring him, and saw that she had just fifteen minutes before the doors closed and the event officially began.
Julie was backstage, reviewing her welcoming remarks, when her cell phone rang in her clutch bag. The tone, assigned to her husband’s number, was a snippet of “My White Night” from The Music Man, the show they saw on their first date. It was a regional production, nothing spectacular, but they were sobbing and
They’d given him the belt, not one of the overstuffed backpacks or shoulder bags. He had no preference, as long as it got the job done.
Inside the grocery bag was a nylon weight belt of the sort designed for scuba divers. He momentarily set it down and reached behind his back to unclip a safety pin that had cinched the waistband of his oversize chinos so they would fit him, letting the pants fall almost to his knees. Then he opened his baseball jersey, put on the belt, and adjusted it using a Velcro closure strap. The waistband would now close snugly over his middle—and the scuba belt’s explosive-filled pouches—without the safety pin.
After he’d rebuttoned the baseball jersey and carefully smoothed it over his chinos, Zuhair moved past the double beds to the desktop for his second piece of equipment. He slid the chair out, found the computer carry bag that had been left there for him, and unzipped its outer compartment. He transferred the wireless detonators it contained to his pocket. The C4 charges and battery inside the belt accounted for two-thirds of its 7-pound weight. The rest of the weight consisted of nails and shards of glass. When triggered, the explosive charge of the bomb and his two shrapnel packages would kill anyone within 10 or 15 feet of the blast.
He left the room and strode along Eutaw, the Baltimore Convention Center casting its expansive shadow to his right, beyond the parking lots, train tracks, and wide crosstown thoroughfare.
Now he stared up at the enclosed sky bridge that spanned the court, connecting the Hilton’s main building and business meeting facility and then leading on across Howard Street into the convention center. Peering through its glass-paneled sides, he could see long streams of people moving in both directions—the ball game and other events had filled the center and caused nearly every room in the hotel to be occupied.
Oh, Allah, our caravan seeks your assistance inflicting the maximum damage, he prayed. We are honored to sacrifice our lives in your path.
Zuhair lowered his gaze from the sky bridge, pressing the earbud of his Bluetooth headset more securely into place with a fingertip, watching a pair of attractive young women cross his path as they approached the hotel entrance. One of them made chance eye contact with him and pointed to the Red Sox emblem on her T-shirt. She smiled a gloating smile and moved on with her friend. He smiled back, feeling the confidence of one who walked freely among his enemies, wrapped in their very skin, unnoticed as he prepared to attack. Perhaps he would kill the woman and her friend.
Yes . That appealed to him.
Following the women, he made his way back into the hotel lobby. They sat, probably to wait for friends or plan what they were going to do for the rest of the day. Zuhair looked around the crowded space, at the support columns. He went there to wait for the call.
Allah, forgive his vanity, but he experienced something of what the Prophet himself must have felt when he sat in his cave, meditating, and the word of God was revealed to him. Zuhair could tell the women exactly what they were going to do today, just minutes from now.
They were going to die.
Julie Harper looked at the diamond-studded Cartier watch her husband had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary. She touched it, treasuring it, treasuring him, and saw that she had just fifteen minutes before the doors closed and the event officially began.
Julie was backstage, reviewing her welcoming remarks, when her cell phone rang in her clutch bag. The tone, assigned to her husband’s number, was a snippet of “My White Night” from The Music Man, the show they saw on their first date. It was a regional production, nothing spectacular, but they were sobbing and
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