Capitol murder

Chapter Twenty-seven

Very few people know the exact moment of their death. When Ali Bashar woke up Sunday morning, he knew precisely when he would give up the life of the body for a new life in paradise with Allah. Ali and the other members of his cell had spent the week before their martyrdom in seclusion and prayer. They had immersed themselves in spiritual contemplation free of the corrupting influence of television and music. Ali welcomed the silence as he purified himself for his holy mission.

The Sunday Night Football game paired the undefeated Washington Redskins with the New York Giants, their undefeated division rivals. It was being telecast nationally and was also being beamed to American troops in the Middle East. During the first quarter, when the game clock at FedEx Field clicked down from 7:01 to 7:00, Ali and the other members of his cell would detonate their trays in four widely spaced areas of the stadium. The stands would be packed and the devastation would be monumental. Ali’s only regret was that his body would be atomized by the explosion before he could see the massive destruction wrought moments later by the remote-controlled detonation of the four explosive-laden ambulances that would be strategically placed at several points below the stadium.

As soon as he was awake, Ali showered and dressed in clean clothes. Then he prayed and reflected on what he was about to accomplish and how joyful he would be when he met Allah. He had heard that some martyrs ingested drugs or alcohol to steel themselves, but he was repulsed by the idea of meeting Allah while drugged or intoxicated. Far from fearing death, Ali had never been happier. He could only imagine the terror he would create. The Americans cursed terrorists as if being one was a bad thing, but the Koran commanded a good Muslim to bring terror to the enemy. “Against them make ready your strength to the utmost of your power, including steeds of war, to strike terror into (the hearts of) the enemies, of Allah and your enemies…” With his last breath, Ali would bring horror and devastation to the enemies of Islam that would be remembered for a thousand years.

At three o’clock, Steve’s van arrived. The other members of the cell joined Ali outside. There was a refreshing chill in the air and the sun was shining. Ali took a deep breath and smiled. God had made his last day a good day.

Steve opened the rear door of the van and they piled in. There was total silence during the trip to FedEx Field. When Steve dropped everyone off in the employee parking lot, there was no pep talk. None was needed.

Steve had picked up the members of the cell early so they would be the first to arrive at the stadium. Ali willed himself to be calm as he approached the vendors’ room. Jose welcomed Ali with a smile, and Ali smiled back. Ali’s tray had been brought to the room the day before by Mr. Cooper, and Ali had no trouble finding it because it had a notch in the lid. By arriving first, he had made sure that no one else would take it. Other hawkers came in. He knew a few, but he did not initiate any conversations. When someone spoke to Ali, he was calm and sounded normal when he responded. Then Ann O’Hearn arrived, and his calm deserted him.

Before Ann’s arrival, the events of the day had the quality of a vivid dream, and Ali felt he was watching someone who looked like him go through the steps that would lead to his death and the death of thousands. The moment he saw Ann, Ali had a vision of her golden hair in flames, her eyes wide with horror, and her mouth filled with screams of pain. The barrier his mind had erected between his deed and reality was stripped away. Ali felt light-headed and his stomach rolled.

“Hi, Ali,” Ann said with a wide, welcoming smile.

“Hi, Ann,” he said. It took all of his will to force his smile. “How was your week?”

Ann rattled on about her classes and a movie she’d seen with a friend, but little of what she said registered. Then, mercifully, Ann was distracted by something one of the other vendors said, and he was able to escape.

G ame time approached and Ali stocked his tray. As he waited to go into the stands, the tension grew, and his cool demeanor began to evaporate. Then it was time to leave. In order to reach his post, Ali had to go in front of Jose’s concession stand. As he passed by Ann, he stopped. She didn’t have any customers at the moment. He knew he should pass her by and say nothing. He knew he should not compromise the mission. But some part of him cared enough for her to make him lean in and say, “I need to speak to you.”

Ann glanced quickly at Jose. He was occupied with a customer. She leaned toward Ali.

“Go home,” he whispered.

“What?” Ann answered, unsure she had heard Ali correctly.

“Say you are sick. Go home.”

Ann laughed. “I can’t go home, Ali. That’s crazy. We’re mobbed. And why should I? I’m not sick.”

Ali didn’t know what to say. There was no way he could explain. Then he was seized by guilt. He was endangering a plan that had taken years to develop. Worse, he was betraying Allah by showing compassion for an infidel, a woman. What was he thinking?

Ali shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m being foolish.”

Ali turned his back on Ann and left the concession stand. Behind him, Ann shook her head in confusion. Then she returned to the counter. Ali hefted the tray and walked into the stands.

A li stood on a set of concrete steps surrounded by a sea of screaming fans. The Giants had scored first, but the Redskins were marching toward the Giants’ end zone. Every few seconds, the stands erupted with cheers or moans, and the huge clock on the scoreboard ticked down.

8:01, 8:00, 7:59.

The sky had grown dark, and lights illuminated the field. Ali looked up and felt a breeze caress his face. He smiled as he imagined the sky opening and Allah reaching down for him from paradise, arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace. In less than a minute, he would be enfolded in that embrace, and the infidels’ cries of joy would turn to screams of fear and horror as shrapnel from the exploding tray ripped through them just before the stands crumbled and they fell into a pit of fire.

7:45, 7:44.

The Redskins broke the huddle. The quarterback dropped back. A Giants linebacker broke through and hurtled toward him. Just before he was hit, the quarterback hurled a desperation pass. The receiver was covered by two defenders. They all jumped for the ball, and the Redskin snagged it out of the air before crashing to the ground. The fans went wild. Ali slid aside the slim panels that hid the red buttons. All eyes were on the field, and no one noticed.

“Allah,” Ali prayed, “purify my soul so I am fit to see you, and bless my mission with high casualties among the Americans.”

7:30, 7:29.

Ali placed his fingers on the buttons and repeated his prayer. As he did, he noticed movement at the bottom of the stairs. Two large men were walking toward him. One was wearing a Redskins jersey, and the other wore a jacket emblazoned with the Redskins logo. They looked like typical fans, but they were not acting like typical fans. At the most exciting moment in the game, their eyes were not on the players. They were staring at him.

7:15, 7:14.

Ali made a half turn and saw a man and a woman walking down the steps. Their eyes were also on him. He glanced at the scoreboard.

7:10, 7:09.

One of the men below him had a gun and shouted, “FBI!”

Ali closed his eyes, shouted “ Allahu akbar ”-God is great-and pressed the buttons.

Nothing happened. “FBI! Don’t move!” Ali’s eyes snapped open, and he pressed the buttons again. The man and woman above him were shouting “FBI!” Ali tried the buttons separately, then together again. Then he was grabbed from behind. He turned, yanked his body away from his attacker, and his feet slipped out from under him. Everything happened in slow motion. The people in the rows at his side were standing and pressing away from him. The tray was flying through the air. Then his head connected with the edge of a concrete step and he slid downhill backward like a boy on a sled, dazed. Ali’s head cracked against a second step, and he found himself upside down staring at the scoreboard. It read 6:52.

Someone rolled him on his stomach. He felt handcuffs snap around his wrists as his mind filled with confusion. There had been no explosions. Death had not been visited on the infidels. Then a black hood was thrown over his head and he couldn’t see.

What had gone wrong? he wondered as he was lifted by several hands and hustled up the steps. Why was he alive? Why was he not with Allah? Why were the infidels alive?

His captors were running with him now. He heard the occasional shout of “FBI!” and guessed that he was on the concourse and being carried past gawking fans. Then he heard a door open. The agents stopped identifying themselves, and he was carried down a flight of stairs. The only thing he heard for a few minutes was heavy breathing. Then the agents stopped and he was laid on the ground. He wanted to speak, but he sensed that he was better off saying nothing. Moments later, the choice was made for him. Someone rolled up his sleeve, and Ali felt a needle slip into a vein. Moments after that, everything went dark.