CHAPTER 67

AN INNER-CITY WAREHOUSE, SYDNEY

J amal had been at the warehouse since before dawn calculating the extra time he would need to allow for the stormy weather and reflecting on the first part of the attack that was to be launched with the trucks. One by one, his drivers arrived, all of them suicide bombers, all of them sombre and determined. The videos with their last messages to family and friends had all been completed. They had woken to their last day on earth. Soon they would all be reunited with Muhammad, peace be upon him, and they would receive the rewards of heaven that were promised to all those who martyred themselves for the Faith.

Jamal disappeared into the warehouse’s small bathroom to conduct the ablutions that were mandatory before a Muslim could get in touch with his creator. First he washed his face, then his arms to the elbows, then he wiped his head with his wet hands and finally, he washed his feet. When the other cell members had completed washing, they laid out their prayer mats on the floor of the workshop where they’d loaded the trucks with ammonium nitrate. Jamal began the dawn prayer. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is Great! Bismillah ir-rahman ir-rahim In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful… Ash-Hadu Allaa Elaaha Ellaa Allah, Wahdahu Laa Shareeka Lah – I bear witness that there is no other god beside God. He alone is God; He has no partner. Assalaamu Alaikum Peace be upon you.

Jamal stored his prayer mat beside a battered filing cabinet in the office at the back of the workshop. He spread the big map of the city streets over his grimy wooden desk and switched on the scanner that was tuned in to the channel the tow-truck operators used to monitor police responses to traffic accidents. As a back up, he switched on a local radio station that encouraged people to call in with information on the traffic. Unbelievers, he thought bitterly. Soon the information on the traffic would jam the airwaves but so far the roads seemed remarkably clear. One truck had been allocated to the first target and the other six would attack in pairs with the routes to each of the four targets being worked out to the last second. Nothing had been left to chance.

Just before 8 a.m., Jamal kissed each one of his seven drivers three times on the cheek.

‘Your place in heaven with the Prophet, peace be upon him, is assured,’ Jamal said, and he pointed toward the seven trucks lined up at the front of the warehouse. ‘It’s time for you to start your engines. May Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful go with you.’

Less than an hour later, Jamal parked his car at the boatshed to which the Destiny had returned after picking up the divers from Clarke Island. After final prayers, he and two other crewmen opened the old boatshed doors and one of them started the winch motor. Jamal took his position at the wheel as the Destiny slid down the greased rails into the water. He pressed the starter button and the big re-conditioned diesel throbbed into life, and he waited until his two crew members had rolled the doors on the boatshed shut. As he pushed the heavy chrome throttle levers forward, Jamal switched on the radios that operated on the Police and Harbour Control channel. Almost immediately, there was a transmission on Channel 13.

‘Harbour Control, this is the pilot aboard the Ocean Venturer; we are now rounding the sea buoy and inbound on the Western Channel with four tugs in attendance.’

‘Romeo Ocean Venturer, you are cleared to proceed to Gore Cove.’

Jamal nodded to himself in satisfaction. The trap was closing. The first truck was due to be detonated at 10.05 a.m., followed by the others in quick succession.

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