The Last Day

1. Little Nagasaki-2

“I understand, Doctor,” Mosaab’s voice was drained of enthusiasm.

Dr. Fadel was not interested in any of Mosaab’s concerns, as it was time to enjoy the pleasures of the night on Rue St. Denis. “Go back to your hotel, Waleed. Return to America and your store. I’ll be in touch.”

Fadel embraced Mosaab but seemed to have an afterthought before completely releasing him. “By the way, brother, how is your store?”

Mosaab immediately regained some of his lost enthusiasm. “Business is great. We were just able to enlarge the store, so we now have a food counter to go along with the newspapers and magazines.”

“That’s great, Waheed. Just remember where your priorities lie.”

Mosaab’s voice resumed its somber tone. “I will, Doctor.”

AUGUST 1, 2017: QATARThe vibration and buzz of the phone had no effect on his deep, blissful sleep. The phone took a short break and tried again. This time it broke through the barrier as his hand pawed across the bed until it found the device. Before placing phone to ear Doctor Fadel took note of both the time and the caller. As much as he wanted to hear from Abadi, he groaned at noting the 3 a.m. time. "I don't hear from you for weeks, and when you decide to call, it is three a.m."

"Sorry, Doctor, but it is only six p.m. here. Sometimes I lose track of the time difference."

“Well, what do you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you that I am homesick, Doctor."

"Well then, the sooner you finish working on my car, the sooner you can come home."

"Your car is finished, Doctor."

Dr. Fadel paused a moment before responding "Repeat what you just said please."

"Your car is finished."

"It is running well?"

"It runs perfectly. You just need to send someone to pick it up."

"I'll get back to you when I know when it will be picked up."

"Make it soon, Doctor. I want to get back to Riyadh. Eighteen months in Guatemala is more than enough."

AUGUST 6, 2017: QATARDespite the roomy nature of the limo, Waheed Mosaab’s legs still ached. He could not help but feel bitter at the accommodations for the thirteen-hour flight from New York City to Qatar. Someone as rich as Dr. Fadel should have provided a first-class ticket, yet now, as with his March flight to Paris, basic coach accommodations were provided. Mosaab was still attempting to stretch his legs as he waited in the huge entrance hall of Dr. Fadel’s posh waterside villa in the West Bay section of Doha. A servant led Mosaab into Dr. Fadel’s private study, and he continued his leg stretching as he turned 360 degrees admiring the expensive-looking paintings and walls lined with books.

“Pleasant flight, brother?” Dr. Fadel entered the room.

Mosaab could have gone on for an hour about the flight, but instead responded meekly, “The flight was fine, Doctor.”

When both were seated on opposite sides of the huge oak desk, Fadel got right down to business. “God is truly great, brother. Our time is at hand.”

Mosaab remained silent. He suspected why Dr. Fadel had summoned him, and the doctor’s opening statement was reinforcing his suspicions.

“The bomb is ready.”

They stared silently at each other.

Finally, Mosaab gulped. “What must I do?”

Dr. Fadel responded incredulously, “You will pick up the bomb and carry out your mission, of course.”

Mosaab sighed, “How will I do this, Doctor?”

Dr. Fadel pointed to a fifty-inch monitor on the wall. A map of Guatemala appeared on the screen as Dr. Fadel began to detail the plan. Mosaab would board the container ship Al Bidda at the Al Rayyan Marine Terminal. Fadel had paid off the ship’s captain and obtained credentials reflecting that Mosaab was an oiler on the vessel. The ship was sailing to Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala’s largest port. With his seaman credentials, Mosaab would have no problem leaving the ship. He would travel to 46 Calle La Esso in Puerto San Jose, the city adjacent to Puerto Quetzal. 46 Calle La Esso was a small warehouse where he would find the Saudi scientist and the bomb. Mosaab would take possession of the bomb and begin the trek north.

Most of the Guatemalan-Mexican border was relatively easy to cross. The border was covered by either jungle in the north, or swamps and lowlands in the southwest, in addition to the highlands of Huehuetenango department in Guatemala, making this a particularly hard border to secure. Mosaab was given a piece of paper containing the names and phone numbers of coyotes, or smugglers, who would take him north. The first coyote would transport Mosaab and his package north on CA-2 highway into the Guatemalan highlands, and finally across the border into Mexico. Once in Mexico a Mexican coyote would bring Mosaab all the way through Mexico to the Tijuana / California border. The coyote would walk Mosaab across the border like any other wetback and put him in a waiting car heading north. The final hurdle would be clearing the border patrol checkpoint on Interstate 5 near San Clemente before being dropped off in Los Angeles. Once in LA, Mosaab would be on his own. He would then start the long trek cross country on a Greyhound bus.

There were a million things that could go wrong along the way, so Dr. Fadel also gave Mosaab fifty thousand dollars in U.C cash to pay the coyotes, cover expenses, and to provide pay offs for any exigencies that should arise.

“I am allowing one month for you to complete the entire trip.” Dr. Fadel received no response from Mosaab. “One month, is that sufficient brother?”

Mosaab came out of his trance, “Fine—a month will be fine.”

“Good. You already have the conventional bomb vest in New York, correct?”

“Yes, Doctor. The vest is ready.”

“Excellent. You will wear the vest and carry the bomb like a suitcase. You will board a subway train in Queens and ride it into Times Square. Once you get to Times Square you will detonate the vest, and God willing, our nuclear bomb will detonate.”

Mosaab simply nodded his head affirmatively with a blank stare on his face. Dr. Fadel came around the desk and embraced him. “You will be a hero of the jihad.”

Mosaab nodded his head in agreement. His thoughts, however, had drifted. He was still definitely a warrior in the jihad, but maybe he wasn’t quite as heroic as Dr. Fadel believed he was.

AUGUST 4, 2017: QATAR—AL RAYYAN MARINE TERMINALMosaab stood on the deck of the Al Bidda, enjoying the sunrise, and smoking a cigarette. The ship would be underway in an hour, marking the beginning of month-long journey culminating in his suicide mission. The calm waters of the port produced only the slightest roll as Mosaab puffed and contemplated his future—or lack thereof. He owed a lot to Dr. Fadel. As orphans living on the streets, he and his brother Rashid were anomalies as native Qataris living in poverty in the tiny rich country. It was Dr. Fadel who took them in and gave them jobs in his oil fields. It was also the doctor who sent them to America and financed their convenience store in the Queens section of New York City. And it was Dr. Fadel who taught them about the evil of the American infidels, and the responsibility of all true Muslims to make jihad.

Mosaab stood at a crossroad. He still believed in the jihad, but for as much as Dr. Fadel had radicalized him, his experience in New York City for the past four years had also worked to westernize him. He and his brother had worked hard to build the store into a successful business, and they took pride in their capitalistic accomplishment. As he stood on the deck of the cargo ship in the morning sunlight, martyrdom did not seem as appealing to him as it did four years earlier. Mosaab also realized that a man with the wealth and influence of Dr. Fadel had a long reach. He did not want to imagine how vicious his death would be if he chose to abandon the mission and return to New York City. It was a dilemma that Mosaab had contemplated continually over the past two years. The mission had to be completed, but he did not want to be the martyr. One last long puff before he flicked the cigarette over the side. He reached into his back pocket for his smartphone and dialed. “Rashid, I’ll be back in about a month. Have Marwan ready to go.”

AUGUST 17, 2017: PUERTO SAN JOSE, GUATEMALA46 Calle La Esso was a two-story building crammed between two motorcycle shops. In fact, except for number 46, every building on both sides of the block was a motorcycle shop. Number 46 was nondescript with no outward signs of life. At street level there was a dirty, pale green concrete wall interrupted only by a similar green roll up gate. Two large padlocks were present on the gate, which, judging from the dust buildup, appeared to have been closed for a long period of time. A very dark narrow alley on the south side of the building provided access to very flimsy-looking metal stairs that led to the second-floor balcony. The balcony was protected by a three-foot-high white metal railing. On the opposite side of the five-foot-wide balcony stood a filthy yellow concrete wall equally as unattractive as the green wall at street level. The only clue to possible life was the white wooden door.

With no visible bell or buzzer, Mosaab pounded the door three times with his right fist. He then stepped back to the railing and waited. The sound of the latch was followed by the creaking of the door opening approximately six inches. Mosaab saw nothing in the darkness of the door c***k. He called out, “Abadi?”

The door opened wide, revealing the smiling face of Dr. Karim Abadi. Mosaab entered to find that the entire second floor of the building consisted of one large room. He looked around and noted the lack of people and furnishings. “Where is everyone?”

“When we finished work I let my staff return to Riyadh. Hee, hee, hee.”

Mosaab wondered what Abadi found so funny, but he soon realized that the doctor laughed and giggled after just about every statement he made.

“There it is. Hee, hee, hee.” Abadi pointed towards a steel table in the southwest corner of the room. Sitting on top of the table was something that resembled a cross between a large backpack and a duffel bag. The military green bag was about thirty inches by twenty inches with straps to wear as a backpack. It was also rigged with small wheels and a handle to wheel like a luggage carrier.

Mosaab stared at the bag. “Is it ready?”

“Oh, it’s ready. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Is it heavy?”

“Exactly forty-one and a half pounds. Ho, ho, ho.”

Mosaab glared at Dr. Abadi. He was already very tired of his giggling routine. But what else should he have expected. Dr. Abadi was tall and thin, with a dirty white lab coat and wildly unkempt black hair. He looked every inch the mad scientist.

Mosaab focused his attention on the bag. “Is it stable?”

“Very stable. But I wouldn’t drop it if I were you. Hee, ho, ha hee.” Abadi nearly fell over in hilarity.

Mosaab tried to ignore the giggling i***t and continued voicing his concerns. “What about radiation?”

Dr. Abadi had composed himself enough to respond. “Not a problem, friend. The package has a lead lining, so radiation will not be an issue.”

Mosaab was surprised that no hilarity followed the statement, but he quickly realized that Abadi hadn’t come to his punch line. “But if you begin to glow in the dark, it will be safe to say the lining didn’t work.” Abadi began to crumble against the wall, unable to withstand the magnitude of his laughter.