The 19th Hijacker Page 4

Your loving father, Farrah

  There was also a clipping from the Sarasota Times-Herald, dated the same day, about the execution of Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh.

  The last page seemed to come from some kind of aviation manual, printed in bold.

  The 757 flight deck is designed with a fully integrated flight management computer system (FMC). The FMC uses flight crew-entered flight plan data, airplane systems data, and data from the navigation database to calculate airplane present position and generate the pitch, roll, and thrust commands necessary to fly an optimum flight profile. Automatic flight functions manage the airplane’s lateral flight path (LNAV) and vertical flight path (VNAV) from immediately after takeoff to final approach and landing.

  The precision of global positioning satellite system (GPS) navigation is available as part of the FMC. Before each flight the flight crew enters the routing, including all way-points up to the destination into the FMC. These waypoints are defined by coordinates. Each waypoint is assigned an overfly altitude and speed. Upon engaging the autopilot the aircraft will fly to its destination along the green line in the Navigation Display. The active routing can always be changed during flight.

  Sami had underlined the last sentence. Clipped to this page was another, in his handwriting.

  My Check List: (Upon gaining control of B757)

  Check autopilot ON.

  On FMC change routing profile by creating new waypoint.

  Waypoint 1: US Capitol. enter as: N3853.3W7700.3.

  Assign elevation of Waypoint 1 to 60 meters.

  (Row of middle level windows.)

  On FMC use “direct to” function to navigate to Capitol.

  Check autopilot modes LNAV and VNAV are engaged.

  Double-check that “green line” on Navigation Display is pointed to desired destination.

  In the event of emergency:

  Turn off auto pilot, fly manually.

  In event of passenger resistance:

  Push control column forward as hard as I can. Passengers not strapped in will hit ceiling.

  WARNING: If control column is pushed forward for more than 15 seconds, dive will be so steep, may be impossible to regain control.

  And then the last page.

  To abort the mission and land safely

  Re-engage autopilot for autoland.

  Enter IAD as new destination airport (not just as waypoint).

  Select instrument approach in FMC capable of autoland.

  Position aircraft to fly approach.

  Near airport lower landing flaps (speed schedule).

  Set approach speed.

  After touchdown, disengage autopilot, brake, keep aircraft on runway.

  Why had he included that page? Karima wondered. Was he taunting her? She tried to imagine him in his motel on the last night, writing his love letter to her, gathering these random notes and his journal, and dropping this page in as an afterthought, stuffing the whole of it into the envelope and putting the stamps with the US Capitol on the right corner. Had he really thought of this as an act of love?

  Sami had known the kind of microcassette player Karima used to record her patient notes. On her couch she slotted in the first cassette, dated June 5, 2001, and pushed play.

  “I think it was in the residence hall that I first met Muhammad Atta,” Sami began. “He was wearing this tattered robe and flipflops. Pretty small guy, not much more than five feet. I think he had a full beard then. Not exactly a commanding figure. Not the leader type. But there was something unusual about him. It was his eyes. Piercing … you know, really intense.

  “We exchanged pleasantries. I lent him some toothpaste. When he invited me to the mosque, I said no thanks. But Hamburg was lonely without you, albi. I had no friends. My courses were hard. I was struggling to get by. I had to call upon Allah and on the goodwill of my professors—‘Won’t you help this poor, dim-witted Arab?’ I wanted to ask them. At night, I felt down. We talked a lot on the phone in those days. We were just two lovers, honest and raw, longing to be with one another. In those days I had nothing to hide. But I guess talking with you was not enough.

  “I take that back. Because I want to be honest with you. I’m embarrassed to tell you this now. But I did have something to hide. In my loneliness I began to mosey down to the Reeperbahn on a regular basis. On the street called Grosse Freiheit, I would run into Arab girls. At clubs like Café Reese and Thomas Reed I would just stay in a corner and watch the dirty dancing. And yes, I admit it: I did wander over to the other side of the Reeperbahn where the whores lounged in front of their picture windows. Just to look. I had my fantasies, but I never hired one. It would have cost me half the money my father was sending me every month, for one thing.

  “Sometimes I went instead to the harbor. I’d walk along the promenade at Landungsbrücken and watch the great container ships leaving for some exotic location. Always a little afraid that I might run into some skinheads. I usually ended up at a club called Pupasch. It was a great flirting place, but I wasn’t very good at flirting with strangers. They hand out free condoms there. I came away feeling empty and wondering what I was doing with my life and feeling guilty as if I was cheating on you. I wasn’t really cheating though, Karima, just thinking about it.

  “The next time I ran into Atta, he invited me to the mosque again. ‘Oh, well, okay,’ I said. Why not? I didn’t know anybody. I had nothing else to do. He said there was free food and a soccer game afterwards. The mosque called Al-Quds was run of the mill, even a little dumpy. The doors on Steindamm were unmarked, no sense of it being a religious place. Atta called it The Box. It was a box, all right, smelly and stuffy.

  “I remember that first visit really well. In the small library of the mosque, about eight guys were sitting there, whispering in Arabic. One was dark-skinned, a Sudanese. There was also a Syrian, a Turk, an Algerian, and a big guy from the Emirates. Very international, a mixed group. When I came in, they stopped talking. Atta introduced me and said, ‘This is Samir. His friends call him Sami. He’s from Lebanon, and he knows a lot about the suffering of Palestinians. He’s studying aeronautical engineering.’

  “That got their attention. Then he said, ‘Technically, he’s Sunni, but he admits that he’s not a very good Muslim. Isn’t that so, Sami?’

  “Of course, I didn’t really like being introduced that way to these guys, but it was true. One of them said something like, ‘God willing, we can show him the light.’

  “That was the night I met Omar. Atta called him the defender of the faith, and he’s the one who led the instruction. Omar is taller than Atta, broad shoulders, has a full beard. I liked him right away. He pretty much took charge.

  “‘Stand straight!’ he commanded, and everyone stood up. ‘May Allah have mercy on you.’

  “He spoke very fast. ‘Welcome, Brother Sami. My name is Omar. I come from Hadhramaut, the region of Yemen. Today we’re continuing our consideration of the Battle of Badr. Do you know about it?’

  “Of course I did. Who doesn’t know about Muhammad’s first decisive battle? This tiny Muslim army attacking the caravan of the superpower, the Quraish, as it came across the desert from Syria to Mecca. The overwhelming odds. The divine intervention. The battle that made Muhammad and Islam a force to be reckoned with. Even I knew this story, right?

  “The lesson was Surah 3:123–125, which I know a lot better now, believe me. First he read it in Arabic. And then, a German translation. ‘Allah helped you when you were a pathetic little force.’

  “The Syrian guy asked, ‘How big was the prophet’s army?’

  “‘Three hundred thirteen,’ Omar said. ‘Three hundred thirteen that brought down a superpower. They were outnumbered at least three to one.’ And then he finished reading. ‘Remember, faithful, is it not enough for you that Allah should help you with three thousand angels? If you remain firm and act properly, even if the enemy shall rush you in hot h
aste, your Lord will help you with five thousand angels, and you will make a terrific onslaught.’

  “People liked this story, and we talked about why it was important.

  “Someone said, ‘He was raiding the caravan of the wealthy and the powerful, and that’s like attacking the economic might of the superpower. The caravan was the symbol of Mecca’s wealth.’

  “Of course, Atta had to have his say, so he interrupted the discussion with a quote from a magazine—the Jihadist.

  “‘Listen to what the Sheikh has written. ‘Those who kill excellently are they who fight in the front row. They do not withdraw until they are killed. They will sit in the upper ranks of paradise.’”

  “I was a little confused. Were they talking about the Battle of Badr, or something else? Sheikh? What Sheikh? But Omar took over again before I could ask anything.

  “‘Allah said in his Glorious Book, Why fear the Infidels? Now Allah hath more right that you should fear Him, if you are believers. Fight them! So that Allah will punish them by your hands and disgrace them and give you victory over them and heal the breasts of a believing people.’ Everyone was quiet, and you could tell we were all feeling the power that Omar and Atta were channeling. Then Atta got up, and his eyes were even more intense.

  “Looking at each of us, he shouted, ‘Are you ready to fight for your belief?’ When he got to me, he screamed—seriously, he was screaming at me, yahabibti—‘How strong are you, anyway?’

  “Then the Turk tried to calm him down. ‘Take it easy, Mohamed, for God’s sake. They’ll hear you in the prayer room.’ Atta turned on him viciously. ‘You’re too weak for this! You’re too weak to follow the path. I know wimps like you. I’ve worked with many of them. You cease to exist for me. You are dismissed. Leave!’

  “People looked at one another uncomfortably. I wondered if I was supposed to leave too. So, the Turkish guy, he stood up and shouted at Atta, ‘You son of a donkey … May you burn in hell’ and stalked out of the room.

  “It was really embarrassing. I felt bad for the guy who was getting Atta’s broadside. And then the other guy, the Syrian … he snickered—you know, nervously—and Atta turned on him as well and shouted, ‘How can you laugh when people are dying in the intifada!’

  “And the guy was like, ‘What has Palestine got to do with it?’

  “And Atta goes, ‘Talk to Samir here. He will tell you. Tell him, Sami. Tell him why Palestine is everything. Tell them about Sabra and Chatila!’

  “I didn’t say anything. I was not about to get tangled up with these people. I was there for the food and the soccer. It was awful, yahabibti. But Atta didn’t care.

  “‘It’s obvious. It’s obvious,’ he said to the Syrian guy finally, seeing that I would be no help. ‘You are too small for this matter,’ and then he sat down.

  Karima switched off the machine. “I don’t have the strength to finish this segment,” she said to herself. “Perhaps I will in the morning.”

  3

  WHEN KARIMA AWOKE EARLY the next morning, she pulled Sami’s package from its hiding place again. Upon glancing at it, her first thought was, Kommissar Recht would kill to get his hands on this. Handing the material over might exonerate her of any involvement with the attacks. She would have to listen to all of the tapes to be sure. For now, she couldn’t hand them over. Not yet anyway. Not until they’d apprehended Omar. With him, the thought was a little different: Omar will kill to get hold of his sacred materials. With Omar and his cohorts still at large, her life was definitely in danger. She was not confident that Kommissar Recht could protect her.

  Still in her bathrobe, she sat down on her couch and took out the machine. “I have to finish this segment no matter what,” she said to herself. “I have to.”

  “One day on Mariienstrasse, I ran into Atta again.” Sami’s voice seemed calm, as if he was enjoying this part of his story. “He had a big, bespectacled guy with him, a guy I recognized as one of the men from The Box. When they noticed me, the fat guy waved a hasty goodbye and hustled down the street before I could say anything. Atta smiled—I thought he was a little embarrassed—but he greeted me warmly, and we walked along the cobblestone streets together toward the campus, talking about the usual subjects—exams, finances, pizza places. Finally, when we arrived at the town square, Atta turned to go to his building.

  “‘Mohamed,’ I said, ‘ … about that meeting at Al-Quds …’

  “‘I suppose I owe you an apology.’

  “‘Not at all,’ I said.

  “‘I got a little emotional. I’m sorry,’ Atta said. ‘Sometimes I get carried away.’

  “‘You didn’t invite me back.’

  “Atta gazed at me. ‘I sensed you weren’t really that interested in religion … or in politics.’

  “‘It’s true. Maybe it’s just my … weakness, as you might say.’

  “‘I don’t think you’re weak, Sami,’ Atta said.

  “When the light changed, Atta seemed impatient to get to class. He looked me up and down, as if he were making some sort of appraisal, and then turned to go.

  “‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Would you invite me next time?’

  “Atta turned back to me.

  “‘Look, Samir, I broke the rules by bringing you. I was criticized for it later. The others are on a higher level than you. Except for that idiot I kicked out that day, they have all studied and proven themselves capable. I could tell that you were bored.’

  “‘No, I found it interesting. I could study too,’ I said.

  “‘Anyone can study,’ he replied. ‘We’re not an academic group.’

  “‘What kind of group is it, then?’

  “He thought for a minute. ‘Honestly, Sami. I’m not sure this is right for you.’

  “‘Or I might not be right for it,’ I said.

  “‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘if you want to put it that way.’

  “‘Try me,’ I said.

  “‘Really, I have to go.’

  “‘No, I mean it; try me,’ I insisted.

  “‘I don’t know.’

  “‘Perhaps you think I’m too small,’ I joked, towering over him. The guy doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, but he smiled a little.

  “‘Okay, let’s do this,’ he said after a pause. ‘Let me see if Omar would give you a Koran lesson. One-on-one. He’s quite busy, you know, between his private tutorials and his job at the bank.’

  “‘He works at a bank?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘I could meet at his convenience,’ I said.

  “‘Okay, I’ll see if he can fit you in for a session. It will just be a trial session, no obligations. I can’t make any promises.’

  “‘No promises, no commitments.’

  “‘Perhaps at the very least, we can make you a better Muslim.’

  “I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Mohamed,’ I said in mock seriousness, ‘I think you need a good challenge.’ Atta recoiled from the touch.

  “I stood on the corner and watched the little man limp away. His gait was unsteady. He should see a doctor, I thought to myself.

  When Karima stood before him for their session later that day, Recht gazed at her for a long, judgmental moment before he spoke. Her eyes fell on the huge, unsightly mole that disfigured the left side of his face. Perhaps that’s why he’s not married, she thought. He should have it removed. It crossed her mind that he might be trying to decide whether to turn her over to the Americans for more vigorous interrogation.

  “Dr. Ilgun,” he said finally, “I would like to believe that you have been completely forthcoming in our conversations. I want to believe in your total innocence. I really do. But as you can well imagine, I’m not alone in this investigation. There are many people who are interested in what you have to say about Samir Haddad, especially the Americans. Many people read my reports. I have noted your nervousness in our last few sessions,
and this has raised questions.”

  “Do you expect me to be calm under the circumstances?” Karima snapped. “Think how you feel when you go the dentist.”

  He was not amused.

  She could picture cold-blooded investigators in America complaining to the German authorities about her. They wanted to believe she was an accomplice. At that moment she was all they had. She could imagine tense discussions about who should have access to her, and what interrogation methods to use. She wondered if not only the BKA and Omar’s men were watching her, but the CIA too.