A member of Schmidt’s team, the one they called Matthew, had earned an engineering degree from Stanford before he’d entered the military. His background was all the training they needed to complete this task, especially since everything had been planned out weeks in advance. All they had to do was follow simple step-by-step instructions, then get to the tunnel in Mecca, where the final phase would be completed.
But that would be the fun part. First they needed to finish their work here.
Matthew went into the control room and checked the gauges. As he did, the tanker trucks pulled through the front gate and drove to the rear of the facility, where they began pumping their flammable cargo into a system that was designed for water. The chemical itself, contained in cylindrical tanks that held eighty-five hundred gallons each, was a petroleum-based product comparable to jet fuel, although it had been modified in several crucial ways. To curtail the effects of static electricity, they added dinonylnaphthyl-sulfonic acid, hoping to eliminate sparking and premature combustion. Corrosion inhibitors, a common ingredient in military fuel, were introduced in small concentrations to prevent damage to the piping system and possible seepage underground. And antioxidants were added to minimize gumming.
Using the video monitors in the security office, Schmidt watched truck after truck empty their tanks into the system, double-checking all the numbers on a small sheet of paper. From his aviation experience, he knew that larger commercial jets, such as Boeing 767s, carried approximately twenty-one thousand gallons of fuel on takeoff. That meant five trucks equaled two planes, the amount that brought down the Twin Towers in a giant ball of flames.
And thanks to one of their contacts, they had more trucks than that.
Looking through a telephoto lens, the Arab smiled.
He was paid top dollar to document everything, and so far no one suspected a thing.
He had followed Fred Nasir to Taif Air Base, snapping dozens of pictures along the way. Candid shots that his boss would love. Nasir talking to the American soldiers. Nasir visiting Al-Gaim. Nasir driving into Mecca. And, finally, entering the tunnel near the mosque.
His job was so easy it felt like stealing.
That sentiment continued at the water facility. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect, worried that the isolation in the middle of the Meccan desert would pose a problem. But as it turned out, it was easier than expected. He covered himself with a tan blanket, matching the color of the surrounding terrain, and used a special lens that compensated for the darkness.
He snapped pictures of Schmidt and his crew.
All the fuel trucks as they rolled through the front gate.
Everything he needed.
More importantly, everything his boss required.
Shari Shasmeen was obedient for one entire day. For her, it was a personal record.
She knew she had promised Omar Abdul-Khaliq that she would stay away from the tunnel for the rest of the hajj, but the longer she sat in her hotel room, the more antsy she got. In her mind, her seclusion didn’t make any sense. Why did it matter that two million people were going to be filling the streets of the old city? Her work was underground, far from prying eyes. If anything, she felt safer being in the tunnel than walking around Mecca, always worried that she was going to do or say something that would reveal her identity as a nonpracticing Muslim.
On the other hand, she wasn’t looking forward to being back in the tunnel with the lead guard. He had creeped her out from the very beginning. Something about the way he looked at her. The way he touched her hand when he tried to take her keys.
It made her uneasy.
Of course, she had handled guys like him before. Mostly in bars, right after last call, when dozens of stray men roamed around looking for something to hump. She figured if she could handle them, she could handle him. Just to be safe, she carried a small vial of pepper spray that one of her colleagues had purchased at a Meccan bazaar and given to her in case more violence occurred. The irony was that she was more afraid of the guard than anyone he was supposed to be protecting the site from.
Her hotel was a few miles from the tunnel, way too far for her to walk by herself, since the mutaween were out in full force, looking for Muslims who were celebrating the hajj in an inappropriate fashion. Thankfully, the same colleague who bought her the pepper spray was willing to drive her to the site and stay with her while she worked. Shari took him up on the former but refused the latter, realizing that his car would be trapped there all day once the pilgrims descended on the mosque. Her decision was made easier when she realized that the new guards, the men she wanted to avoid, were nowhere to be found.
Normally, Shari would have been pissed. These guards were supposed to be there twenty-four hours a day, making sure everything was safe. Protecting her invaluable site.