Ruben and Beau were bringing up the rear as they exited the glass elevator. “Psssttt, hey Beau,” whispered Ruben. “Which fork do I eat the salad with? The big one or the small one?”
From between clenched teeth came the reply, “Just because I didn’t kill ya this afternoon, doesn’t mean I won’t tonight.”
“Shit, look at this place. Now I know how a black man feels when he stumbles across a KKK cross burning party alone.”
“You’re not alone. I’m afraid we’re gonna fry together. But don’t worry Ruben, I promise to take you with me,” Beau snickered.
“With all that etiquette Marix has, you haven’t got a chance tonight. He’ll—,” Ruben stopped when Beau abruptly turned down a side hallway. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Ruben almost yelled, at the same time reaching for Beau as though he were a security blanket.
Beau stopped long enough to say, “Tell them I went to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then he disappeared around the corner of the short hall.
“Shit!”
“What did you say?” asked Sunday.
“Oh nothing.”
“Where’s Beau?” Krysti asked.
“Maybe he decided to leave,” Marix said, hoping.
“I don’t think he would,” Krysti replied.
“He said he’d be back in a minute. He had to… you know.” They all laughed at Ruben’s awkwardness.
The waiter took a few minutes before seating them, and not long afterward Beau reappeared. He sat at the end of the table with Ruben on his left and Krysti seated to his right. The table was a thick piece of glass covering a detailed wrought iron stand. Suspended over the table was a glass chandelier with three burning candles. In the center of the table was a hand-embroidered piece of yellow Japanese silk on top of which rested spices and bread, all laid out in fine-cut crystal. The inlaid silverware and linen were all in matching colors.
The waiter, wearing a black tux with tails and white gloves, passed around the menus. When he returned he asked if they would like to order drinks. Marix wore a cold calculating smile and asked for wine. When the waiter returned with the bottle, Marix motioned him toward Beau so he could do the honors. Ruben squirmed in his seat when he realized it was Marix’s intention to embarrass Beau.
The waiter brought the cork to Beau and Ruben froze in terror. He wondered if his friend knew what to do. All he could do was watch, but Ruben was shocked when Beau accepted. He sniffed the cork and nodded his head to the waiter. Then he turned to Marix and with a sly grin quoted the type of wine and the year. Marix was deprived of what he assumed would be a small victory over his rival.
The rest of the dinner was uneventful as they discussed the trip to South Texas on New Year’s Day and the Bowl games they would miss. From their table, they watched as sailboats and party boats made excursions from the docks out into the bay. When dinner was finished, they started for the Officers’ party. Ruben made sure he brought up the rear of the group and eventually pulled Beau aside.
“Hey, where the hell did you learn about wine?” Ruben asked. “You don’t know any more about wine tastin’ than I do.”
“To the contrary, my good man. A little etiquette would do you no harm,” Beau said. He held his nose haughtily in the air, but only for a second, then he started to chuckle but immediately covered his mouth to keep the others from hearing him.
Ruben frowned. “Come on, spill it.”
Finally, with a sly grin he said, “I didn’t go to the bathroom. I asked the waiter about the wine. How it would be served, what I was supposed to do. Then he showed me the three wines chosen the most often and how I could recognize them. And, as you see, I have become an expert.”
General Navarro called Sharafan and Zahir into his room to coordinate their plan of attack with his. He had an elegant suite at the new airport. Everyone who worked on the facility had been well taken care of. Over a two-year period, the construction crews were replaced with men sympathetic to their cause. A little money in the right hands had accomplished much, and most of the money had come from the United States.
Sharafan found it hard to believe no one had exposed the invasion. Most of the aircraft had been dismantled, moved in trucks to avoid suspicion, and then reassembled in the large hangars. So many jets in such a small area. Removing them from the hangars would be more difficult than the invasion.
Navarro offered brandy to the men. Sharafan declined but Zahir accepted. Again, they went over the plan of attack. All was in readiness.
Tahar Zahir seemed to fidget as his hands squeezed the thick arms of the plush velvet seat within which he sat. “I think I will take some more brandy, Sir,” he said addressing General Navarro. The general waved his arm and Zahir poured himself another drink.
Relaxed and with a half-smile on his face, Sharafan watched his friend’s nervous efforts. Sharafan had also been nervous in the beginning, but with the success of Red Eagle that had changed. So many things had happened just as bin Laden had predicted. Americans had been creatures of habit.
He still remembered returning after the attack on New York. It was like yesterday. He had made a hasty retreat from the airport. From there he’d found a hotel where he waited and watched the non-stop news broadcast replaying the attack on television.
Again and again the World Trade Center North Tower smoldered as United Airlines 175 crashed into the South Tower. Mohamed Atta had been the first to succeed followed by Shehhi. CNN and other news broadcasters devoted airtime exclusively to the disaster as teams of experts tried to give their personal analyses to the situation: how it could have happened and who might have done the evil deed. All stations continued to replay the collapse of both towers from every possible angle. Sharafan was surprised at the devastation.
Even the sacred Pentagon, a symbol of America’s might, had been violated with disastrous effects. Hanjour had succeeded. But cellular phones defeated the fourth plane when, through their phones, Americans on the jet learned of the events taking place and discovered what had happened to the others. The brave Americans had stormed the terrorists. All lives had been lost when the plane crashed in a remote part of Pennsylvania. The Capitol Building was spared and Jarrah had failed to realize his dream. The cancellation of all flights saved the White House.
In secret meetings Bush and his cabinet understood that the warnings they had overlooked were accurate and true. Only then did President Bush go into action. His response, though slow, had prevented American Airlines Flight 181 from becoming airborne when he grounded all aircraft. The White House had been spared, but the damage had been done. America would never be the same.
The United States screamed revenge on Afghanistan but the leaders of the attack were from every Middle Eastern county including Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Morocco, Somalia, India, and Pakistan. Some were even from the United States of America.
It took almost a month for Sharafan to return to Afghanistan where bin Laden waited for him with a warm welcome. All had great rejoicing and celebration. Allah had been good to them, for they had succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. Sharafan found the more the United States pushed and threatened to get bin Laden, the more united and determined the devout followers of Islam became. Palestinians became more brazen as suicide bombers attacked Israel, showing no mercy.
Sharafan learned the United States was looking for Alef Rasad. Bin Laden told him how a little more than a week after the bombings he had divested himself of all his stocks and the monies. They now had over three billion dollars to fight the United States, and that money was spread to places and names the United States could never locate.