January 19, 2013. Midnight. Georgetown. Washington, D.C.
Hector Santiago worked silently at his large work bench. Earlier this week, he had prepared his own homemade batch of C4 plastic explosives. He had avoided the C4 produced by most commercial manufacturers because explosives manufacturers frequently added chemical markers, such as “DMDNB,” which could be easily picked up by the Secret Service in a security sweep. He needed to be absolutely sure that this C4 went undetected. Next to his work bench were several barrels of RDX in powder form, which had been smuggled out of an Alexandria, Virginia chemical plant. RDX, or “royal demolition explosive,” was the active explosive material in C4.
Last week, in a makeshift chemical lab in his dingy two-bedroom Georgetown apartment, Santiago prepared the C4. In a large basin, he added water to the powder RDX to form a white slurry. Then, in a separate bowl, he dissolved the polyisobutylene binder into a solvent. The binder made the explosive material much more resistant to force and heat, rendering the C4 more stable. By adding the binder, the C4 could handle rough treatment without exploding. Santiago knew that even a rifle shot at the clay material would not cause it to explode. Only a detonator or blasting cap could do the trick. Santiago combined the binder and RDX and whipped the mixture with an industrial sized cake mixer. Then he added the sebacate “plasticizer,” which gave the material its malleability and the texture of modeling clay. As Santaiago had learned in the camps in Afghanistan, the recipe was 91 parts RDX, 5.3 parts di(2-ethylhexyl) sebacate, 2.1 parts polyisobutylene, and 1.6 percent motor oil. Once the parts were mixed together adequately, the solvent and water had to be removed. Through a series of handmade mesh and cheesecloth filters, Santiago strained out the solvent. Finally, the material was left out to dry under heat lamps, which removed most of the water. Santiago collected the material on large aluminum sheets, and then cut the final product into a series of white clay moldable bricks.
In his training, Santiago learned that C4 had become the weapon of choice for terrorists. Due to its stability, it could be carried relatively easy. Its soft composition made it easier to smuggle through lax security posts. And its malleability allowed it to be transported in any number of shapes. For example, C4 could be molded to appear like plastic black wheels on a suitcase. In October 2000, terrorists used C4 to attack the U.S.S. Cole, killing 17 Navy personnel. In 1996, terrorists used C4 to blow up the military barracks in Saudi Arabia. A terrorist had even attempted to smuggle C4 on a commercial airliner in his shoe.
Laying on its side, in the middle of Santiago’s artist’s work bench, was a nine foot-tall plaster statue of St. Anthony of Padua. He was pictured in a plain brown hooded monk’s robe, with a rope around the waist. St. Anthony was holding a small haloed child in one hand and a copper-colored Bible in the other. Earlier this afternoon, Santiago had taken the bricks of homemade C4 and meticulously applied a layer of C4 explosives around the entire statue like a mud mask. With his fingers, he gently molded the material into the grooves and indentations on the statue. After the coating was complete, Santiago then placed another layer of plaster over the C4 layer, gently painting the white mix over every inch of the statue. Without the DMDNB chemical marker, it was extremely unlikely that the Secret Service would ever notice the C4 layer. That was the easy part. The difficult part was hiding the wire and the detonator. Because those items were very dense, they would get picked up in any X-Ray scan.
But Santiago had thought of that. He was The Builder, after all. The wire and detonator would go in the Bible. With a small rotating saw, he gently cut the Bible away from the statue. In its place he put a rectangular wooden box with a copper skin. Along the length of the Bible’s spine, Santiago placed a slender blasting cap about the size of a harmonica. He had specially carved the metal housing of the blasting cap so that it blended in perfectly with the Bible’s spine. To anyone waving a security wand over Bible, it would look merely like an ornate metal spine. The wire ran from the detonator through a small hole at the top of the Bible, into the Saint’s arm, and finally into the layer of C4. When he was finished, he took out a portable X-ray machine that he had stolen last year when he had worked at a local hospital as an X-ray technician. He passed the portable scanner over the Bible.
In his training several years ago as an X-ray technician, Santiago had learned all about X-ray machines and how to avoid detection. X-ray machines were made to detect the density of objects. Some objects have low atomic density, called “low Z.” Other objects had high atomic density or “high Z.” X-rays worked by passing photons through an object. If the object being scanned had high Z, the photons would be absorbed. Otherwise, the photons would be scattered. Through special software, the X-ray machine could recreate a black and white picture of what was within an object based upon its density. An object with a recognized shape, like a gun, could be readily identified. However, individuals attempting to trick security personnel succeeded when they made dangerous objects appear to be everyday, non-lethal objects with similar density. That was Santiago’s plan here. By disguising the detonator as parts of the Bible’s spine, he hoped to avoid detection. As he ran the portable scanner over the Bible, he looked at the picture on the screen. He was convinced that the blasting cap would go undetected.
He placed the new explosive copper Bible against the Saint’s hand and arm and secured them temporarily with small pieces of clay and plaster. Then he applied Crazy Glue, securing the Bible in place permanently. After the final layer of plaster was added, the statue was left to dry alongside the Builder’s other masterpieces: Jesus Christ and Joseph of Arimathea. The detonator on Jesus was hidden within a metal crown of thorns, which Santiago thought was most appropriate, given the amount of suffering he and the others planned to unleash on the arrogant infidels.
It was now midnight and St. Anthony was ready for painting. Santiago also loved the irony in hiding the C4 and detonator within St. Anthony of Padua, who the Catholics believed to be the patron saint of lost items. If you lost your keys or your wallet, this was the saint to whom you were supposed to pray. And now the saint could not even find a load of explosives buried inside his own body! These Americans with their ridiculous beliefs. Who would waste Allah’s time with prayers to find car keys? Santiago removed a color glossy 8x10 picture of the original statue which he had taken this morning. Out of a nearby desk, he took out an artist’s palette and squeezed out a dozen globs of different colored paint. He used a brush and mixed some of the paints together to obtain more realistic hues. Then, copying the colors in the photograph, he began to repaint the statue of St. Anthony of Padua so that it resembled the original. He had to work quickly to get the statue back in the Church by 5 a.m.
As he painted, Hector Santiago reflected on his long journey to this point. His real name was not Hector Santiago, of course. That was just the name given to him on his fake ID. A lifetime ago, he had been known as Shabaz Ma’ak Lom. His name “Shabaz” meant “hawk,” a name his father decided upon after first seeing his infant’s hazel eyes. He had two brothers, Suhaim (“arrow”) and Saif al Din (“sword of faith”). He lived in the Shaab residential district in northern Baghdad and his father sold produce in the local outdoor bazaar. His father kept his head down and stayed out of politics. The father told all of his children to do the same. If you were asked, you did not know anything, you did not see anything, you did not hear anything. By taking this approach, the family had largely avoided the crazy edicts of Saddam Hussein. They had a simple life and a happy life. Shabaz went to school in northern Baghdad and learned Arabic, math, and astrology. The family loved to eat their father’s fruit, and many a family meal was spent telling stories and devouring ripe melons and delicious figs.
When the President of the United States announced that he would be invading Iraq in March 2003, Shabaz’s family couldn’t believe it. They had seen saber-rattling before, and they assumed that if the United States attacked, they would be going into downtown Bagdhad, where Saddam was, not here in the Shaab district. So for Shabaz and his family, life went on.
On March 26, 2003, a few weeks after the invasion began, Shabaz’s entire family was working with their father at the produce stand. Shabaz had been sent on an errand by his father to pay another merchant for a delivery of grapes. He was about a half mile away from the fruit stand on his bicycle when he saw the two silver American warplanes with the red, white, and blue stars fly over his head at an altitude which was extremely low. “What are they doing?” He wondered to himself. “There are no Republican Guard troops here. This is a shopping area filled with women and children.” And then he saw the big cylindrical objects fall out of the bomb bay doors of the aircraft. In a moment of dread and disbelief, he looked towards the area where his family’s fruit stand was, and there was a gigantic explosion of orange flame, followed by a tumultuous cloud of pitch black smoke and soot. “No!” he shouted, dropping the bags of grapes and pedaling as fast as he could back to the bazaar. He could not get more than a few hundred feet before he was knocked off the bike by a panicked and hysterical mob. People were running everywhere in the smoke, screaming. When Shabaz finally fought through the crowd, there was a crater as big as a football field where the bazaar used to be. That was the last day he saw his father, mother, and two brothers. The subsequent news reports confirmed it: fourteen civilians dead and thirty wounded. There was not one military target here. And yet the Americans did not seem the slightest bit apologetic. Their Secretary of Defense brushed off the reports, calling it necessary “collateral damage.” These people were monsters and needed to be stopped. That was the day Shabaz answered the call for jihad.
Over the next five years, Shabaz trained in camps in Afghanistan. The leaders there were most impressed with his ability to build things, so he was immediately trained in the art of demolition and explosives. One day, he was informed by his spiritual leader that Osama Bin Laden, an engineer himself, was impressed with his work and had ordained a special task for him to complete. He was given the ceremonial name “Ammar” (“the Builder”). He was told that he was one of a handful of chosen ones, called the “Abisali,” or “Warriors of the Faith,” who would be given the honor of going to America and striking at the heart of the enemy. All would be explained once he arrived in America. There was a convert in America, he was told--someone very high in the government who believed in jihad and would provide instructions. This last Abisali would be the leader of the group and would act as the planner. He was appropriately named “Mudabbir” (“the Planner”).
In 2009, the group of foreign-born Abisali—one from Iran, three from Pakistan, and two from Iraq--—traveled on a freighter across the Atlantic Ocean to Mexico, where, with fake passports and identification cards, they posed as Mexicans. This was when Hector Santiago was created. They worked in Mexico for about a year, and then, in late 2010, hooked up with a gentleman who specialized in obtaining student visas. The Abisali entered the United States on student visas, but never showed up one day on campus. The men eventually assimilated themselves into the fabric of America, blending in and taking odd jobs in restaurants, hotels, and landscaping companies. Later, one of the Abisali would take aviation training and would get a job as a private pilot. Two other Abisali would get jobs as over-the-road truck drivers. Another found a job as an X-ray technician, and later as a maintenance man. It would not be until July 2012 when the Abisali would be summoned by Mudabbir to meet and prepare for the destruction of America.
The meeting had taken place in a Red Roof Inn in St. Louis. Each had received a hotel key, a letter with the typed word “Abisali,” and the address of the hotel. When they arrived at the small hotel, Mudabbir was nowhere to be found. About a half hour after the last member arrived, however, there was a phone call to the room, stating that room service had arrived. The bewildered men opened the door to their room and saw a room service tray with a gray dome used to keep food warm. Under the dome was a DVD. The men quickly took the room service tray in the room and watched the DVD on the DVD player.
The last Abisali never showed his face and had used typed words on the screen to narrate the plan. The DVD set forth the nature of the targets, the responsibilities for each man, the method of accomplishing each task, the materials needed, and the timeline. The date of the attack was set. At the conclusion of the DVD, the men were given instructions to crush the DVD into dust with a mallet and dump the pieces of refuse in the hotel dumpster.
The wheels were set in motion. Step 1, the Massacre in Cincinnati, was already completed successfully by the first of their group. Step 2 would be the Assassination on Inauguration Day by Haytham. Then it would be Ammar’s turn.
Mudabbir had given Ammar instructions to become a parishioner of St. Anthony of Padua last year. Ammar then snuck into the church at night and dirtied up the place, so that the existing maintenance man was fired. He quickly volunteered to act as the parish’s maintenance man for a salary so low that the priest could not afford to turn him down. His new job gave him keys to the Church at night and full run of the place. Ammar had not been told by Mudabbir why this particular church was so important, but all of the Abisali were told by the spiritual leader that it was not up to them to question the plan of Mudabbir. So each night, like a dutiful parishioner, Ammar, pretending to be Catholic, had cleaned the Church. But tonight was the night he would switch the three statues. He was sure none of the parishioners would notice the switch. Unlike the followers of Islam, these Americans would spend half their time asleep during the prayer services and the rest of their time checking Blackberrys or watches, wondering when mass would be over so they could go to the Redskins game. Ammar did not feel bad. These Americans were all the same. They were no different than George Bush. “They all deserve to die,” he thought, as he painted the last bit of yellow acrylic paint on the child’s halo.
The paint had to dry, so he turned on his heat lamps to low, and went to bed, setting his alarm for 4 a.m., when the paint would be dry.
Father Timothy Rourke was the pastor of St. Anthony of Padua in Georgetown. Father Timothy was a good man, and did a fairly decent job preaching on Sundays. This particular parish had a lot of rich Washington politicians, lawyers and lobbyists, so parish fund raising was not too difficult. Two Senators, the Secretary of the Treasury, a few members of the Secret Service, and even a Supreme Court Justice were all parishioners. Father Timothy also liked the energy and optimism of the young people. Situated on Prospect Street, the church was just down the road from Georgetown University. His one vice was the bottle. He ordered all the wine for the weekly Church ceremonies and picked the orders up personally from Dick’s Liquor. He always made sure to throw an extra bottle or two of Scotch in with the parish order, and no one had ever been the wiser.
This past month, Father Timothy had been hitting the sauce pretty hard. Christmas always did that to him. For most people, the Christmas season warmed the heart, but for Father Timothy, he mostly felt the pain of loneliness. His sister had passed last year, and none of the parishioners had invited him over for dinner. In the old days, he would get invited over all the time, but recently, everyone seemed so busy that they kind of forgot about the friendly parish priest. He had prayed to Jesus, of course, for strength, but in the end, he was a man and sinned like anyone else. During the past week, he had drained the three bottles of Scotch that were supposed to last him for another two weeks.
At 3 a.m., he woke up with night sweats. He had to have a drink. He went down into the rectory kitchen, where the wine for mass was kept. He found a bottle of cheap red jug wine and sat down at the small kitchen table. He took the wine over to the small family room and turned on the cable. There was nothing on except old re-runs of Seinfeld. That would have to do. He unscrewed the lid and poured the liquid down his throat. The wine was very poor quality and much too sweet, but it was good enough. After thirty minutes, he had completely drained the entire jug of wine, and he was smashed. He decided to go for a walk to clear his head. He took his ring of keys, put on his navy blue parka, ski gloves, and blue winter cap, and walked from the rectory across the parking lot. There was a basketball hoop which was missing its net on the parking lot. He searched the grass near the edge of the lot to see if there was a basketball but he could find none. Oh well. He staggered a bit, tipping into a chain link fence by the edge of the lot, and looked up at the stars. He felt bad about the drinking and decided to go to the Church and ask God for forgiveness again. Father Timothy opened the Church with his ring of keys, turned on the lights, and walked down the aisle between the pews. It was so beautiful in the Church when no one was here. There were no sounds, and one could focus on silent prayer. As he made his way to the front of the Church, he thought that something looked odd. What was it? Then he saw it. St. Anthony’s statue was missing! Had someone stolen it? As he looked around the Church, he noticed that the statue of Jesus and Joseph of Arimithea were also missing. Who would steal a statue? He decided he needed to report this to the police, but surely not now, at 4 a.m. in the morning. How would he explain his intoxication? He prayed for about ten minutes in silence, but then he found himself nodding off to sleep. He did not want any parishioner to find him passed out in the Church, so he decided to stagger his way back to the rectory. As he wandered back across the Church parking lot, he decided to say a prayer to St. Anthony of Padua to help him find the missing statues. After all, Father Anthony was the patron saint of lost items. Then he started giggling, thinking how ridiculous it was to pray to a saint to find himself!
He made it all the way back to the rectory, where he set his alarm and passed out on the couch. In his stupor, he never saw the gray van which pulled onto the parking lot with its lights off about forty-five minutes later.
Ammar pulled the van as close as he could to the side doors of the Church. With his janitor’s keys, he opened the side door and propped it open with a wooden wedge. Then, under cover of darkness, he took the large, newly painted statue of St. Anthony coated with C4 and carried it into the Church, where he set it back on its stand. He walked back the van, and took out Jesus. On the third trip, he took out St. Joseph of Arimathea. When all three statues were in place, he inspected each one closely. He could not see any trace of the detonators or wires. There was no extra paint anywhere. He went back to a point in the middle of the pews, and stared from different vantage points at the statues. He was confident that they looked exactly like the originals and that no one would notice. Ammar quickly went back out the side door, locking it as he left. Then he drove his van back to Georgetown. He spent the rest of the morning until his prayer time disposing of all the materials in his makeshift laboratory. After all of the refuse was deposited in a local dry cleaner’s dumpster, he washed down his entire apartment with bleach. He vacuumed the carpet and then removed the bag from the vacuum cleaner, placing it in the trash barrel outside his neighbor’s apartment. Then he took a hot shower, washing off the last remnants of plaster and acrylic paint. The Builder’s job was complete.
Father Timothy Rourke woke at 6 a.m. to prepare himself for 7 a.m. mass. His head was splitting. He took some Motrin with a glass of water from the rectory kitchen sink. He showered and donned his black trousers, shirt, and collar, glanced at his sermon notes, and trotted off across the parking lot. When he entered the Church, he was dumbfounded. The statues were there right where they had always been! He knew he was really drunk, but he had never hallucinated that badly before. Father Timothy crossed himself, and said a quick Hail Mary. He was certain that God was giving him a warning, and he vowed to stop drinking again.