“I have talked to your son,” Khallida said, taking a cigarette from one of Abdullereda’s friends. “He is in Paris.”
“Paris! What on earth is he doing there?”
“He is one of our young lions and is set to take apart the Western world from within,” Khallida smiled, taking a long drag from his cigarette and blowing out a plume of blue smoke. “Although you are not yet reconciled I can see that he gained a great many positive lessons from his father; you have taught him to honor the jihad. That is commendable for both of you.”
“Is he happy and healthy?” Abdullereda asked.
“As happy as he could be without a father to look up to,” the Arab said sharply.
Hussein’s head hung low. He closed his eyes in shame.
Khallida continued in a softer tone. “I understand also that you have had a difficult time recently; but that you are looking for guidance. Is that so?”
“Yes, yes, I have been lost,” Abdullereda admitted. “But I would do anything to win back the respect of my son — anything.”
“Anything?” Khallida smiled, which was gruesome, and he segued shrewdly to his point, “I understand you are a pilot.”
CHAPTER 2: Hook, Line and Sinker
For the next few days Abdullereda spent a great deal of time with his new friends and Khallida. He found that he could pour his heart out to the Arab, who had heard so many stories like his that Khallida’s empathy was like a warm comforting blanket around the shoulders of a shipwrecked man.
He read Hussein’s need and offered the solution. “My friend, your life has been one of materialistic debauchery; it’s meant nothing to the people you love and it has done nothing to celebrate the glory of Allah. What has it been worth?”
“Nothing,” Hussein admitted. “My whole life has meant nothing.”
“We cannot let it end that way,” Khallida told him. “Look at me. I too have suffered, but Allah is not finished with me. I cannot go to paradise while he still has use for me. Therefore I persevere. I will continue the fight as long as Allah wills it. However, you are a fortunate man, very fortunate.”
“How so, I’m miserable, and I see no way to redeem myself in the eyes of my family, most especially my son,” Abdullereda complained. “It is too late for me!”
“It is never too late in the eyes of Allah, who can forgive all, but you must serve him,” Khallida told the wretch emphatically. “You know who I represent do you not? I do the holy work for al Zawahiri and Al Qaeda. We are always looking for men like you; men who have lost their way but seek the path of holy redemption.”
“I do seek that path,” Abdullereda admitted. “I cannot continue the way I am. It has been a nightmare; there is not enough alcohol, there are not enough women to fill the void in my heart. Yet I have done such terrible things.”
“Terrible sins require a great holy act to reconcile them; that is why I say you are such a fortunate man,” Khallida told Hussein, placing his good hand on the airline pilot’s shoulder. “I have just such an act that will set you above even the martyrs of Nine-Eleven!”
Abdullereda looked up and his eyes glistened. “A martyrdom operation; yes, my son would respect that. What desire have I for the material things in this world anyway?”
“This is not just any martyrdom operation; it is a stake in the heart of Zion!” Khallida said fervently. “You now have a chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of your son, your family and to Allah. You have a chance to go down as one of the founding martyrs of the Caliphate, a name remembered through all history. Will you seize that chance?”
“I will; I must!” Abdullereda said forcefully.
“Excellent, then we may move forward on the operation?”
“Absolutely, I am eager to be of service,” he replied.
One of Khallida’s men laid an aeronautical chart on the table. It was of Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean. A small red circle had been drawn around Kuala Lumpur, Hussein’s home base. Another red circle was drawn around Beijing, China. “This is your normal route is it not?” Khallida asked. “You can fly this whenever you wish?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good, now, what other airports are within range with the fuel you carry, can you tell me?”
“Certainly,” Hussein said, taking the proffered pen. He drew an arc headed west and then south, stopping abeam Australia in the great southern ocean. “This is the range of the A380 with the fuel load we carry to Beijing. As you can see we can go anywhere within the circle, from Pakistan, the Chagos Archipelago in the Indian Ocean and south to Indonesia — anywhere.”
“You’re certain the aircraft can do that,” Khallida asked, shaking his scarred head. To emphasize his point he gestured with his burned right hand. “We need the aircraft to be seen turning west and then south. The assumed crash site must be in the deep south around Australia to throw the capitalists off the track.”
“Trust me the A380 can do it without thinking about it,” Abdullereda said fervently, nervously, as if applying for a job interview. In effect, he was. “The Westerners may be decadent but they build good airplanes. The A380 is a beautiful aircraft.”
“Are you certain you can do it?” Khallida said sternly, touching the man’s chest with his permanently frozen finger.
Abdullereda shuddered involuntarily. “Of course,” he gasped, glancing over at the Al Qaeda guerillas Khallida brought with him. “I’ve been doing this for twenty years.”
“That is not what I meant,” he said, the normal half of his face grimacing but the burned half staying flat and expressionless, which made Abdullereda even more uncomfortable. “I do not question whether you can fly the airplane. Abdullereda, you must understand that phase one of the operation involves hijacking this aircraft for our uses. That means you will pilot the aircraft and fly the profile; however, we cannot afford to take a chance that your Malaysian crew or the passengers will interfere.”
“What could they do? I will be locked on the flight deck. The passengers and flight attendants can do nothing but go where I take them.”
“Unfortunately, experience taught us otherwise. The harsh lessons of Nine-Eleven were clear: the passengers of Flight 93 interfering with the mission to destroy the American capital; and a single pilot, the CIA’s Crusader, killing our entire team and saving the American White House. Yes we have learned from those hard lessons. Allah does not accept arrogance or complacency. The passengers and crew must die.”
“I am a pilot; I am unfortunately not a fighter,” Abdullereda admitted humbly.
“Not to worry,” Khallida said with a grotesque grin. He took out a cigarette and lit it, looking over to one of his men. “You will have help. This is Muhammad. He has recently come from Iraq; he even has his own video,” Khallida chuckled, leaning toward the pilot and adding, “Muhammad was not the lackey standing behind the executioner yelling Allahu Akbar! No, he has blood on his hands and plenty of it.” Khallida looked at the pilot as if gauging his courage, taking a drag from his cigarette, before saying, “We will have three brothers there to help you — one is Muhammad, and the other two are Iranians.”
“Iranians — Shia?” Abdullereda said with surprise.
“This is a new era of cooperation,” Khallida told him, although his tone held reservations. “A new Caliphate is coming; a new age is coming. This is the first step in that new age. The Iranians are supplying more than muscle in this operation. We must be meant to work with them for we cannot achieve our goal without their aid. We are supplying the aircraft and pilot; they are supplying the cargo.”