asked, casually, “Any left over?”
Elbruk’s shaking hand went into his jacket pocket and extracted a dark sock. He emptied out four small gold ingots—each one double what a border guard would make in a year.
The man in the fedora extended his hand, and Elbruk placed them gently on the outstretched palm. The fingers closed around the ingots, and the man said, “You are to be commended. A soldier without honor would have told me he had to use all the ingots.” He handed one back to Elbruk and said, “For your trouble.”
Elburk nodded with humility, declining to point out he had another one hidden in his shoe. Then he studied the face under the fedora, and his mouth went dry.
“B-B-Basayev?” he stammered. “Shamil Basayev?”
The man in the fedora cracked a wry smile, then nodded, saying, “Keep it a secret between us, my friend.”
“D-D-Da, Commander. Of course, of course. B-But how…?”
Basayev held up a hand. “All in due time, my friend. But now, let us see what you have brought us.”
The henchmen dropped the tailgate and pulled out an elongated wooden crate from the bed of the vehicle. It took four of them to carry it to a table, where one of the groups applied the ministrations of a crowbar and popped the wooden lid. Gently, they lifted the heavy metallic object out, cleared the table, and set it back down.
It was a dull gray metallic color and looked like something akin to a fire hydrant, only several times larger.
“What is it?” asked Elbruk to no one in particular.
He was ignored as Basayev motioned to one of his henchman and said, “Markov.”
Mitrofan Markov, a bookish-looking man wearing framed glasses stepped forward to put a toolkit and a mechanic’s light on the table. He pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver and unscrewed the fasteners holding a side panel in place. He then took the light and peered in, fiddling with the wiring. Then he took a tape measure and calibrated the length, circumference, and diameter of the object. Then he looked up at Basayev and said, “Perfect.”
At this, Basayev smiled and said to Elbruk, as he lit up a second cigarette, “Tell me, my friend, do you remember when the airliners crashed into the World Trade Center on September eleventh?”
Elbruk was surprised at the question but responded with, “Of course.”
“Do you know how long Osama planned the attacks?”
Befuddled, Elburk shook his head.
“Over five years,” Basayev said with admiration. “Osama told me himself when I visited him a few months before his murder at the hands of the American infidels.”
Elbruk’s jaw dropped.
“A tragedy. He was such a visionary. But to the point, five years of his meticulous planning unfolded in a few glorious minutes. Who could forget that incredible day?”
“No one,” replied Elbruk softly.
“Exactly!” thundered an ebullient Basayev. “No one could forget! But what made it possible was patience and planning. Meticulous planning. You see this?” He pointed at the fire hydrant. “This little device will create more havoc for our oppressors than 9/11 ever did. And it all came from years of meticulous planning.”
Elbruk looked at the fire hydrant with genuine curiosity. “What is it? A bomb?”
Basayev chuckled. “Nothing so crude as a simple bomb, my friend. I could throw a hundred suicide bombers at the oppressors tomorrow, but with little effect. You shall see, as the British say, in the fullness of time. Now get some sleep. You will be taking me back to Georgia tomorrow.”
Elbruk stared at a company logo imprinted on the inset of the bottom rim. It read DORTMÜNDFABRIK—HAMBURG. He had never heard of the firm.
*
The Bowery
New York City
Jarrod Stryker awoke on a bench beside a bus stop, totally discombobulated about where he was and how he got there. Groggily he looked at his watch and the hands read 3:37. Since it was pitch black, he figured out it was am , not pm . He pushed himself up, and a searing
Elbruk’s shaking hand went into his jacket pocket and extracted a dark sock. He emptied out four small gold ingots—each one double what a border guard would make in a year.
The man in the fedora extended his hand, and Elbruk placed them gently on the outstretched palm. The fingers closed around the ingots, and the man said, “You are to be commended. A soldier without honor would have told me he had to use all the ingots.” He handed one back to Elbruk and said, “For your trouble.”
Elburk nodded with humility, declining to point out he had another one hidden in his shoe. Then he studied the face under the fedora, and his mouth went dry.
“B-B-Basayev?” he stammered. “Shamil Basayev?”
The man in the fedora cracked a wry smile, then nodded, saying, “Keep it a secret between us, my friend.”
“D-D-Da, Commander. Of course, of course. B-But how…?”
Basayev held up a hand. “All in due time, my friend. But now, let us see what you have brought us.”
The henchmen dropped the tailgate and pulled out an elongated wooden crate from the bed of the vehicle. It took four of them to carry it to a table, where one of the groups applied the ministrations of a crowbar and popped the wooden lid. Gently, they lifted the heavy metallic object out, cleared the table, and set it back down.
It was a dull gray metallic color and looked like something akin to a fire hydrant, only several times larger.
“What is it?” asked Elbruk to no one in particular.
He was ignored as Basayev motioned to one of his henchman and said, “Markov.”
Mitrofan Markov, a bookish-looking man wearing framed glasses stepped forward to put a toolkit and a mechanic’s light on the table. He pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver and unscrewed the fasteners holding a side panel in place. He then took the light and peered in, fiddling with the wiring. Then he took a tape measure and calibrated the length, circumference, and diameter of the object. Then he looked up at Basayev and said, “Perfect.”
At this, Basayev smiled and said to Elbruk, as he lit up a second cigarette, “Tell me, my friend, do you remember when the airliners crashed into the World Trade Center on September eleventh?”
Elbruk was surprised at the question but responded with, “Of course.”
“Do you know how long Osama planned the attacks?”
Befuddled, Elburk shook his head.
“Over five years,” Basayev said with admiration. “Osama told me himself when I visited him a few months before his murder at the hands of the American infidels.”
Elbruk’s jaw dropped.
“A tragedy. He was such a visionary. But to the point, five years of his meticulous planning unfolded in a few glorious minutes. Who could forget that incredible day?”
“No one,” replied Elbruk softly.
“Exactly!” thundered an ebullient Basayev. “No one could forget! But what made it possible was patience and planning. Meticulous planning. You see this?” He pointed at the fire hydrant. “This little device will create more havoc for our oppressors than 9/11 ever did. And it all came from years of meticulous planning.”
Elbruk looked at the fire hydrant with genuine curiosity. “What is it? A bomb?”
Basayev chuckled. “Nothing so crude as a simple bomb, my friend. I could throw a hundred suicide bombers at the oppressors tomorrow, but with little effect. You shall see, as the British say, in the fullness of time. Now get some sleep. You will be taking me back to Georgia tomorrow.”
Elbruk stared at a company logo imprinted on the inset of the bottom rim. It read DORTMÜNDFABRIK—HAMBURG. He had never heard of the firm.
*
The Bowery
New York City
Jarrod Stryker awoke on a bench beside a bus stop, totally discombobulated about where he was and how he got there. Groggily he looked at his watch and the hands read 3:37. Since it was pitch black, he figured out it was am , not pm . He pushed himself up, and a searing
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