The Beijing conspiracy

CHAPTER 57

A mon al-Falid waited patiently among the mass of humanity that had charged off the aircraft and were now jostling for position behind the long yellow line that marked the arrivals barrier in the target city’s main international airport. al-Falid kept his face impassive as he took in every detail. No fewer than six jumbos had arrived within minutes of each other, just after the curfew had been lifted at 6 a.m., yet for some reason known only to the authorities, barely a third of the Customs and Immigration desks were manned. The queues stretched back up the ramp into the duty free area, where an overweight female Customs Officer was waddling back and forth, officiously directing people into various lanes as if she was herding cattle. From the looks of bewilderment on some of the faces of the weary passengers, she might just as well have been herding cats.

‘Non-citizens in that lane over there!’ she barked at a group of Muslim women.

People of ‘Middle Eastern appearance’. It was the same in this country too, al-Falid reflected, fingering the Egyptian passport he’d used to depart Islamabad.

‘What’s the purpose of your visit?’ the young woman in the booth demanded. al-Falid refrained from arguing that he’d clearly indicated that in the box marked ‘Purpose of Visit’.

‘I’m an academic on sabbatical,’ he said, smiling politely. ‘My specialties are the history of architecture in this region and in South Asia.’

The Customs Officer made a final check of the screen in front of her, stamped his passport and handed it back. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ she said curtly, her face devoid of any emotion. al-Falid smiled to himself. Clearly the crosschecks had not connected his American passport with his Egyptian one.

Jamal Rabbani was waiting for him as he cleared the final baggage check and came into the arrivals hall. Rabbani was short and muscly, with a round face and short black hair; his eyes were dark and alert. He was in his early twenties, highly intelligent but impressionable, and he’d been one of al-Falid’s most important recruits. The two had met over five years before during one of al-Falid’s recruiting visits. Taunted and bullied at a beachside high school that was not known for its acceptance of difference, the young Rabbani had descended into a state of deep depression by the time al-Falid had been introduced to him. Jamal’s devotion to the Islamic faith and his insistence on performing the midday dhuhr and the mid-afternoon asr, two of the five prayers or Salat, had been his downfall. The bullies of the school had only been further encouraged when teachers refused to allow Rabbani time out of class for prayer. al-Falid knew that Muslims were seen by many in this country as a threat to the country’s established values, and that schoolboys like Jamal were seen as foreigners, even though they had been born and raised here. al-Falid also knew that in this country, the presence of Muslims was often the subject of heated debate, especially on talkback radio where many of the presenters reflected the prejudice and intolerance of the majority of the community. It was an intolerance that had made al-Falid’s job of recruiting very much easier; the highly intelligent Rabbani was now his right-hand man. al-Falid had not only put Rabbani in charge of the boatshed cell, he had also given him the responsibility of coordinating all of the other cells involved in the first warning attack.

‘The warehouse is not far from here, Amon. On the way into the city,’ Jamal said with a smile, as he pushed the parking ticket into the machine. As the boom gate rose, Jamal eased the nondescript second-hand Mitsubishi Pajero out of the car park.

Being a Sunday, the traffic was light. The city, with its towering high-rise office blocks, was clearly visible a short distance away from the airport and al-Falid pursed his lips in anticipation. Today, the people might be strolling in the parks and relaxing on the beaches, he thought, but very soon, if Allah the Most Kind, the Most Merciful was willing, this city would be thrown into absolute chaos. al-Falid nodded with satisfaction as Jamal pulled up outside an inner city warehouse and got out to open a set of rusting wire gates that had a lopsided sign that read ‘Acheson’s Trucks’ wired to one of them. The old warehouse, in a rundown part of the industrial area close to the airport, was perfect. The secondary targets were only minutes away.

‘There’s no interest from the authorities?’ he asked.

Jamal smiled. ‘Apart from the mountain of paperwork that is required for running a small business in this country, none at all. I’ve warned all of our people that they’re not to do anything that might draw attention. There are one or two outspoken clerics in this country that have already drawn fire from the authorities, and I’ve ordered that no one goes to those mosques.’

‘They have them under surveillance?’

‘Yes, as well as a bookstore that has prompted the government here to review the laws on banning books, so I’ve put the bookstore out of bounds as well.’

‘And the trucks?’

‘I did exactly as you requested, Amon, and purchased fourteen trucks second-hand from four different dealers; 5-ton Hinos and Isuzus. They’re all in good condition. Seven of them have been modified so that each can take 2.5 tonnes of explosive. The floors have all been replaced with hardened steel and the interiors have been shaped into a cone. The other seven will be used for normal activities. We’ve already done several runs to the targets,’ Jamal said. ‘At the time you want us to detonate the trucks the traffic is still heavy, but flowing pretty well.’

‘Communications?’ al-Falid asked as Jamal unlocked the small metal door that was part of the main roller doors of the warehouse.

‘Text messages on mobile phones. In an emergency I’ve authorised my men to use open speech but by then it will be too late for the authorities to react,’ Jamal said with a slow smile. He flicked on the main light switch and the power hummed as the big arc lights above them warmed up. Seven large trucks were lined up in the front part of the warehouse with another seven behind them. A big workshop at the rear had been sealed off from view.

‘We finished modifying the last of the seven delivery trucks last week,’ Jamal said, opening the back of the one closest to the workshop. ‘This is the last truck to be filled and I’m expecting the final delivery of fertiliser tonight from our fertiliser company in the south. It’s not your ordinary agricultural fertiliser,’ Jamal explained. ‘In order to provide sufficient oxygen for the fuel oil, we need mining grade ammonium nitrate,’ he said. ‘94 per cent ammonium nitrate and 6 per cent no. 2 diesel. I’ve increased the ratio of diesel a little to make it more effective.’

‘You had no problem with the fuel oil?’

Jamal shook his head. ‘We use it in the trucks,’ Jamal said, unlocking the big workshop.

At the back of the workshop there was another area that was sealed off and locked. ‘This is the mixing area,’ Jamal explained, pointing to three 44-gallon drums that had been positioned under a bench to which three industrial paint stirrers were anchored.

‘What’s that?’ al-Falid asked, pointing to a long, thin aluminium cylinder on the floor of the workshop.

‘That’s our solution for getting explosives onto the floor of the harbour,’ Jamal replied. ‘We finished packing it yesterday but I’ll explain all of that when you visit the boatshed.’

‘And the paint?’ al-Falid asked, looking at several big cans of Dulux that had bright yellow spillage on the sides.

‘A little of that is stirred into each batch of ANFO – ammonium nitrate fuel oil – explosive,’ Jamal explained. ‘That way we can tell when the fertiliser and fuel oil are thoroughly mixed.’

‘You’re confident this will work, Jamal?’ al-Falid asked.

‘Timothy McVeigh used a variant of it to destroy the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City in 1995. I’ve studied his methods, Amon, and they were very effective. That explosion killed 168 people, injured more than 800 and damaged 324 buildings in a sixteen-block radius. The mining industry uses it all the time,’ Jamal added confidently. ‘They normally mix it on site. Essentially the ammonium nitrate reacts with a long-chain hydrocarbon. I can explain the chemistry on the whiteboard if you like.’ al-Falid shook his head. ‘As long as you’re confident, I trust you, Jamal,’ he answered with a smile.

‘We pray here in the workshop. That way we are hidden from the outside world,’ Jamal said, looking at his watch and handing al-Falid a beautifully woven prayer mat. He put his own on the workshop floor, facing towards a mark that had been scratched on the corrugated iron above the benches where the ANFO explosive was being mixed.

‘After prayers I’d like to use your computer, and when I return from down south I’m looking forward to seeing the boatshed and your arrangements for the harbour attack,’ al-Falid said, laying his prayer mat beside Jamal’s.

The cell al-Falid had formed in a city further to the south had been given a task that some thought impossible. Several groups had planned a similar attack in the past but all had failed. al-Falid knew that the target had immense value as a symbol of the Great Satan’s power, and he was confident that, given the right circumstances, where others had failed his cell would succeed. If they did, the attack would send shockwaves around the world.