The Lion

Khalil looked out across the open pit to the damaged buildings that bordered the destroyed area. Then he looked into the sky where the two towers had risen, and he recalled the images he had seen of people jumping from the burning buildings, hundreds of meters to their deaths. The world had seen these images, and everywhere there were public expressions of sympathy, of shock and horror, and much anger. But privately-and sometimes publicly-as he had seen and heard, there were other emotions that were not so sympathetic to the Americans. In fact, there had been much happiness among some people, and not all of them were Muslims. In truth, the Americans were not as loved as they thought they were, or as they wished to be. And when they discovered this, they seemed to be the only ones who were surprised.

A middle-aged man standing near him said to his wife, "We ought to wipe out those bastards."

"Harold. Don't say that."

"Why not?"

The woman seemed to be aware that the man standing close to them might be a foreigner. Perhaps a Muslim. She nudged her husband, took his arm, and moved him away.

Khalil smiled.

He now noticed a small group of young men and women wearing T-shirts that showed the face of a bearded man on the front, and the words "What Would Jesus Do?"

Khalil thought that was a very good question, and although he had studied the Christian testaments, which were holy to all Muslims, as were the Hebrew testaments, he could not satisfactorily answer that question. Jesus had been a great prophet, but his message of love and forgiveness did not speak to Asad Khalil. He much preferred the stern words and actions of the Hebrew prophets, who better understood the true hearts of men. Jesus, he decided, deserved to die at the hands of the Romans, who knew the danger of a man who preached peace and love.

The small group of young men and women were now kneeling at the rail, praying silently, and Khalil had no doubt that they were praying not only for the dead, but also for their enemies and asking that God forgive them. And that was good, Khalil thought; it was the first step toward the victory of their enemies. The Romans themselves became Christians and did more praying than fighting, and they, too, got what they deserved.

The sun was in the western sky, and it shone down into the covered walkways and on the faces of the people who were part mourners and part curiosity seekers. Some of them, Khalil thought, did not comprehend what had befallen them, and some only dimly understood why this had happened. Most of them, he was certain, saw this event as a single incident, without context and without meaning. The Americans lived in the moment, without history and thus without prophecy. Their ignorance and their arrogance, and their love of comfort and their disobedience to God, were their greatest weaknesses. The moment in which they lived was passing and there was no future for them.

The sound of sirens brought him out of his thoughts. He glanced back at Church Street and saw two police cars with their flashing beacons moving rapidly in the direction of Murray Street. He assumed they were responding to a call regarding a dead taxi driver. Or perhaps not so dead. But even if Amir survived, he knew less than the police themselves knew by now.

Amir, however, knew how Khalil was dressed, and that he was now on the observation platform of the World Trade Center. So perhaps it was time to leave.

Khalil uttered a silent prayer for the fallen martyrs and ended with his favorite verse from an ancient Arab war song. "Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament, it carried none but the notches on the blade."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Asad Khalil sat alone on a bench in Battery Park, so named, he understood, because this southern tip of Manhattan Island once held forts and artillery batteries to protect the city. Now it was a pleasant park with views across the bay, and the enemy was inside the city.

He opened a bottle of water that he had bought from a street vendor and took a long drink, then used some of the water to wash specks of Amir's blood from his right hand.

He put the bottle in his bag for possible future use, then retrieved the cell phones of the two dead Federal agents. He turned on the phones and saw they still had service, which surprised him. It was possible, he thought, that the police or the FBI had not yet noticed that the phones were missing. The Americans, in true cowboy fashion, always worried first about the guns.

He accessed the text messages on Haytham's phone and saw one new message, from PARESI, CAPT., ATTF/NYPD.

This was the man, he knew, who was the superior of Corey. Khalil read the message and saw that it was a short command, calling the police detectives to duty, and instructing them to begin surveillance of the Muslim community WITH SPECIAL EMPHASIS ON THE LIBYAN COMMUNITY.

This was to be expected and it did not cause him any alarm. His potential contacts in America were not all Libyans; there were his Al Qaeda friends from other Islamic nations. His only Libyan contacts so far had been Farid in California, and Amir here in New York, and both of them were now in Paradise, far beyond American surveillance.

There were no other messages on Haytham's phone, and he shut it off.

He accessed the text messages on Mayfield's phone and saw a new text from Walsh. It read: TO ALL FBI AGENTS AND NYPD DETECTIVES: TWO LIBYAN INFORMANTS IN NY METRO HAVE COME FORWARD WITH INFO ON SUSPECT KHALIL IN CONUS. CHECK E-MAIL FOR DETAILS AND OPERATIONAL INSTRUCTION REGARDING APPREHENDING SUSPECT. WALSH, SAC, ATTF/NY.

He shut off Mayfield's phone and thought about this. If this was true, it presented some problems to him and to his mission. In fact, he would not know who to trust.

He realized, though, that if this message from Walsh had been sent to all agents and all detectives, then it should have appeared on Haytham's screen. But it had not. And Walsh did not know at the time he sent his message that he, Asad Khalil, would have Haytham's phone in his possession. So why was the message not on Haytham's phone? And why was it on Mayfield's phone? She was dead when the message was sent.

Therefore, he thought, this was a false message, sent only to Mayfield's cell phone, which Walsh must now suspect was in the hands of Asad Khalil. And this was why Mayfield's phone was still in service.

He sat back on the bench and stared out at the sunlit water. So perhaps they were being clever. But not clever enough.

Or… possibly it was a true message, but not actually sent to all detectives and agents despite the heading. Perhaps they did not trust Haytham. Or perhaps Haytham was not included for some other reason.

In truth, Khalil did not know all there was to know about the i

In any case, this message had all the tell-tale signs of disinformation, and that was how he would regard it, which would please Boris, who had spent days teaching him about this. Boris had said, "The British are masters of disinformation, the Americans have learned from them, the French think they invented it, and the Germans are not subtle enough to put out a good lie. As for the Italians, your former colonial masters, they believe their own disinformation and act on it." Boris had concluded his lecture with, "But the best disseminators of disinformation in the world are the KGB."

Khalil had not wanted to insult his trainer by challenging him, but he had nevertheless reminded Boris that the KGB no longer existed, and so perhaps the word "are" should be replaced with "were."

Boris had gotten used to Khalil's insults, subtle and otherwise, and only laughed at them between glasses of vodka. Malik had advised Khalil to be easier on the Russian, saying, "He is a lost soul from a lost empire-the godless and godforsaken human wreckage of a sunken ship who has washed up on our shores. Use him, Khalil, but pity him. He will never leave here alive."