The Last Day

1. Little Nagasaki-1

CHAPTER 1

LITTLE NAGASAKI

MARCH 15, 2017: PARISDr. Khaled Fadel squirmed in his chair and glanced impatiently at his watch. The French president seemed to be droning on forever at the podium, but his gold Rolex revealed a truth reflecting only five minutes. At least he could marvel at the elegance of the main ballroom of the La Clef Louvre Hotel while waiting for the keynote speaker to finish. He realized that the conference was the reason for his presence, but the parade of speakers was boring him, and he still had his own business to take care of before tasting the night life in the City of Lights.

Dr. Fadel mockingly referred to the conference on fighting ISIS as a "Coalition of Repenters," who after providing support to ISIS in one form or another, were only now seeing that they had created a monster. Along with the Europeans and Americans, delegations from ten Gulf States were among the countries attending the summit.

Dr. Fadel was a member of the delegation from Qatar. He was not a government official or a member of the royal family, but the Qatari government wanted to include a prominent private businessman in their delegation, and Dr. Fadel fit that bill perfectly. His family’s oil business had made him fabulously wealthy, allowing him to sit back and reap the benefits of a luxurious, pampered lifestyle. His business card read Chief Operating Officer, Gulf State Energy, but there was a much darker side to this well-polished, educated man of privilege, with a PHD in international economics.

Dr. Fadel considered himself a holy warrior. In fact, he was the most dangerous kind of jihadist—a financier. Fadel was one of the many rich “angel investors” in the region providing seed money to the most violent militants that helped to launch ISIS and other jihadi groups. The Qatari government was famous for talking a good game regarding the war on terror, while turning their backs to the activities of these rich Arabs who did for terrorist groups what “angel investors” did for tech start-ups. Dr. Fadel and many others would provide early seed money until a group could get on its feet and become capable of raising money on its own through means like k********g, oil smuggling, and selling women into s*****y. Most of the Arab states had laws prohibiting such fundraising, but the Qataris never seemed to be too concerned with enforcing their laws.

The polite applause served notice that the French president had finally concluded his speech bringing closure to the conference. The attendees circulated in the grand ballroom shaking hands and congratulating themselves at being masters of the world. Dr. Fadel shook several hands before breaking free from the Qatari delegation and heading for the exit of the hotel.

The cab ride to Rue du Pont Neuf took fifteen minutes. Diners leisurely sipped wine and conversed under red umbrellas at sidewalk tables in front of the le Pont 9 Café. As he exited the cab Dr. Fadel noticed a waving arm from a man seated alone at one of the sidewalk tables. The umbrella provided protection from the sun, as he took the seat directly across from Waheed Mosaab. Over the past year Dr. Fadel had become bored with financing the jihad and decided to assume a more active operational role. This meeting with Mosaab was not about financing. They both sipped red wine and enjoyed the passing feminine scenery.

Mosaab finally broke off from the girl watching. “Why did you call me all the way to Paris, and why did we have to meet here? Why couldn’t we just go to the hotel and meet with all the other brothers?”

Dr. Fadel finished his wine, placed the empty glass on the table, and sat back in his chair, contemplating the man questioning him. In almost every respect they were different. Fadel was a privileged, polished, educated fifty-five-year-old, while Mosaab was an uneducated thirty year old raised on the streets of Doha. While Dr. Fadel reaped the benefits of an oil rich nation, Mosaab’s reality was much different. In Waheed Mosaab’s Qatar, the streets in the capital city of Doha were not paved with gold. To the contrary, they were covered with dust and rocks.

Dr. Fadel responded, “I’m sure you recall the invasion of Europe during WWII. Do you know why the Normandy invasion was successful?” Dr. Fadel did not really believe Mosaab knew anything about WWII and did not wait for an answer to his rhetorical question. “Deception was the key to success. The Allies knew the Germans believed the American general, Patton would lead the invasion of Europe, so the Allies made it appear to the Germans that Patton was going to spearhead the invasion at Caen. They brought Patton to England and put him in command of a completely phantom army, causing the Germans to prepare for his invasion at Caen.”

Mosaab still had no idea what the doctor was talking about as Fadel continued. “We will do the same thing to the Americans. We will tell them about a strike on America via a cargo ship. Meanwhile, we will strike at them from a completely different route.”

The seedy Hotel Du Parc was a stark contrast to the luxurious La Clef Louvre. Dr. Fadel and Mosaab were both breathing heavily when they emerged from the stairwell onto the dimly lit fourth floor. The walls were cracked and dirty with threadbare carpeting running the length of the hall. The dim illumination from a series of red bulbs made the setting very brothel-like. Halfway down the hall Dr. Fadel abruptly stopped and knocked lightly on the door of room 414.

There were eight Arab men inside the room and Mosaab knew none of them. Before addressing the gathered contingent, Dr. Fadel could not help but gaze disgustingly at the terrible décor, with every wall containing cracked plaster and ridiculous-looking enormous flowers on wallpaper.

Dr. Fadel snapped out of his trance and addressed a tall stocky, dangerous-looking man with a large, jagged scar on his right cheek. "Has the room been swept?"

"Done," was the one-word reply.

"Sit, brothers." Dr. Fadel waved his right hand in a sweeping manner to encourage the men to find seats on the three chairs and twin beds in the small room. "I'll make this fast because we are all busy men, and the less we are seen together, the better."

Dr. Fadel took a deep breath, nodded his head, and smiled. "God is truly great, brothers. Through his goodness we will soon have the power and ability to strike a devastating blow at the infidels. We will make the Americans forget about the World Trade Center with the magnitude of our attack."

A short, thin man with a long nose interjected from one of the beds. "How will we strike such a blow, Doctor?"

"With a nuclear bomb, brothers." There was silence in the room as Dr. Fadel continued. "Through God's graces we have acquired the ability to produce a small nuclear device the size of a suitcase. When the time is right a holy martyr will bring the bomb in a cargo ship to a port on America's east coast and detonate it."

Throughout the room rose the chant of "God is great."

Dr. Fadel raised both his hands. "You will all be contacted with specific instructions in the near future. Now, my brothers, I must take my leave of you and spend some time with some beautiful French ladies."

Laughter filled the room as Dr. Fadel and Mosaab made their exit. Once on the street Mosaab expressed his confusion. "Forgive me, Doctor, but I don’t understand. Everything you told me earlier about deception and the invasion of Normandy—I don't …"

Dr. Fadel stopped and turned to face Mosaab, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "The Americans will think that we are going to bring the nuke in on a ship. While they focus all their efforts on their east coast ports, we will bring the device across their southern border."

The look on Mosaab’s face indicated that he was no less confused. "But how will the Americans find out about the plan to bring the bomb in by ship?"

Dr. Fadel turned and began to walk again. "They'll know because we just told them."

Mosaab was momentarily stunned, and then broke into a trot to catch up. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Fadel kept walking at a brisk pace as he spoke. "I know there is a traitor in our group, and he will be dealt with in due time. I’m not certain who the snake is, so I had to bring all of our brothers here.”

Waheed was still confused, but now also concerned. “Surely, you don’t suspect me, Doctor.”

Dr. Fadel patted Mosaab’s shoulder. “Rest easy brother. I know you and your brother are loyal to me, and I only need you and Rashid to carry out the operation.”

Dr. Fadel took a deep breath and continued, “But for now, the traitor will serve our cause by telling the Americans of our plan and validating our deception."

Mosaab fell a few steps behind and stared straight ahead. He understood perfectly. "God truly is great."

The brisk pace of their walk soon brought them to the red-light district of Rue St Denis. The street was officially a garment district, but Dr. Fadel did not go there to shop for fabric. He stopped at the corner and marveled at the wide variety of women lining the street. The sun was just starting to go down, so he had plenty of time to finish with Mosaab before turning his attention exclusively to the women. “Waheed, my brother, you have been loyal to me for many years. Even before you joined the caliphate you were loyal to my family business. Now, I need your loyalty again to strike a death blow at the belly of the beast.”

Mosaab wasted no time in responding. “Just tell me what you need me to do Doctor.”

“Good.” Dr. Fadel placed his right hand on Mosaab’s left shoulder. “Let’s walk a little more, brother.”

The women on all sides tried to gain their attention, but Fadel and Mosaab strode by them without acknowledgement. “I have a physicist—a Saudi—putting the final touches on the bomb. He and his team assure me that the device is the size of a large suitcase but will produce a nuclear explosion.”

Mosaab listened silently as Dr. Fadel continued. “This Saudi, however, is not in Saudi Arabia, or Qatar, or anywhere in the Middle East. He is in Guatemala.” Fadel realized that he could not take for granted Mosaab’s knowledge of geography. “Guatemala is in South America.”

Mosaab was already overloaded with information to process, and he could only think of one question. “How can a bomb as small as a suitcase cause such a large explosion?”

Dr. Fadel was very proud of his endeavor, so he readily provided an explanation. “The bomb we have is called a Mark 3. It is a prototype of the obsolete bomb the Americans dropped on Nagasaki, only much smaller. Modern nuclear weapons utilize Insensitive High Explosives.” Dr. Fadel realized that Mosaab had no idea what he was talking about, but he enjoyed going over his own plan. “IHEs are much more difficult to detonate accidentally, making the bombs much safer, even in an aircraft crash. We, however, will use the obsolete nature of our bomb to our advantage. The final phase of the bomb development is creating the nuclear trigger, which, unfortunately, is beyond the capabilities of our team. But by using the obsolete Mark 3 prototype, a conventional explosion will cause our nuke to detonate.”

Dr. Fadel stopped and again faced Mosaab with his hand on his shoulder. Now, it was important for Mosaab to understand. “Our heroic martyr will carry both our nuclear bomb and a conventional explosive. God willing, when you trigger the conventional bomb, the explosion will detonate the nuclear bomb.”

Mosaab understood perfectly, but he was hung up on one word—you. “Doctor, you mean you want me to…”

Dr. Fadel cut Mosaab off with an annoyed tone. “Of course, I expect you to carry out your responsibilities, brother. Why else did I arrange for you and your brother to go to America? Why else did I finance your business? It was certainly not for you to live the American dream my brother.”