As Dr. Shafik-Fouad interpreted, Melendez-Perez’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard these kinds of responses before. In Vietnam, assassins were often not told of their final destination or target. This ensured that they would have no intelligence to share if they were compromised. While this Saudi in front of him was a long way from a Vietcong mercenary, Melendez-Perez felt the resonance of a familiar chord.
He pressed ahead.
“Who is picking you up at the airport?”
“A friend.”
“What’s his name?”
“He is arriving at a later date.”
“Then how is he picking you up?”
“He arrives in three or four days.”
“Then who is picking you up?”
“I am traveling for six days.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“I forget the name.”
“If you don’t speak English and don’t have a hotel reservation, you will have difficulty getting around Orlando.”
“There is someone waiting for me upstairs.”
The rapid-fire questioning from Melendez-Perez, translated by Dr. Shafik-Fouad, had either confused Qahtani or trapped the Saudi in his own lies.
Not wanting to lose momentum, Melendez-Perez kept pushing.
“Who is waiting for you?”
“No one is waiting for me. I am to call him when I get to where I am going.”
“What is his phone number?”
“You do not need to know these things! This is personal and you do not need to contact him.”
Melendez-Perez stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Panjshir Province, Afghanistan
Three months earlier: May 18, 2001
His obstacle course time the previous week had indeed impressed his superiors and Qahtani had been granted his wish to be sent to the front lines. Now he was running again, sprinting at full throttle, his wavy black hair tousled by the hot May winds of Afghanistan. Today the mud pit and old tires had been replaced by Northern Alliance troops—and they were not far behind.
As he scrambled downhill, the mountains north of Bagram, Afghanistan, cast large, black shadows against the gray twilight. Darting along the rocky goat trail with his AK-47 rifle, shale and pebbles skidded beneath his boots, falling over the cliff onto the rocks far below. While his instructors had warned him not to venture beyond the front lines, Qahtani knew that, to stand out, he’d have to do something extraordinary. That meant disobeying orders, but the upside was that, if he succeeded, his superiors would recognize his devotion to Allah and his willingness to sacrifice his own life for the cause. Never once did he consider that his self-centered foray into enemy territory might have consequences for that cause if he were captured.
Athletic and powerful, Qahtani widened the distance between him and his pursuers, but the narrow path soon turned into an open stretch of trail that led to a road. He wondered if they would pursue him beyond the entrance to the fabled Panjshir Valley, the place where “the Lion of Panjshir,” Ahmad Shah Massoud, had destroyed the Soviet army thirteen years ago, in 1988.
Night had fallen and the darkness closed a tight fist around the looming mountain peaks. Qahtani leapt over a rock and was forced down into a narrow gorge with a well-maintained gravel road running through it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a Hilux pickup truck rounding the hairpin turn he had just avoided.
Almost immediately rapid machine-gun fire came from the truck, growing more intense, and more accurate, as Qahtani raced toward the gatehouse. How fast can I run fifty meters?
He darted past the cantilevered metal arm that blocked vehicle access and dove onto the bank of the adjacent river, water raging loud enough to drown the sound of the approaching truck.
The pickup was close behind him. Bullets sparked off the metal trusses of the fence surrounding the gorge as Qahtani risked the current and slipped across the river, up the opposite bank, and onto a trail that led into the mountains.
He paused and took several deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen to his starving lungs as possible. He had made it.
An odd squeaking noise disrupted his brief celebration. He looked back at the gate. The metal arm was lifting as the truck sat waiting patiently, like a panther about to leap—less than one hundred yards away. Men stood in the bed of the pickup, searching for him in the darkness. A large spotlight flicked on, silhouetting the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back.
Qahtani dove over the side of the trail into a shallow valley. His heart pounding through his chest, he slithered along the ground as far as he could. For the first time since his self-directed mission had begun, he sensed failure. As he crawled along the ground he thought back over his brief, insignificant life. In his teens he had drifted from job to job, never proving worthy enough to stick anywhere. He had no education to speak of and had little practical talent in anything other than athletics.
His last job before embracing this new path in life was as an ambulance driver in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. By then, Qahtani had absorbed the radical sermons of his local mullah for so long that he’d finally approached him to ask how he could join in the fight against the infidels. His mullah sent him to Syria to study and train with like-minded Muslims. It was there that he’d become a true believer and realized that his calling was to join in the jihad against the West.
Now, as he hid from the searchlight mounted on the Northern Alliance truck in a rocky outcropping, that trip to Syria, and his subsequent stop in Iran, seemed like ages ago. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the truck engine rev and tires crunch off toward the valley. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath: I have survived. He prayed that his commanders would view his actions as courageous, rather than defiant.
Qahtani looked at the night sky with its tiny lights flickering brightly against the darkness. Perhaps, he thought, his life would be like that: a flickering light against the endless void of darkness.
Orlando International Airport
August 4, 2001
Melendez-Perez paced the halls, thinking through the situation, which was more delicate than it appeared. While his instincts screamed that something was wrong, he knew that denying entry to a legitimate Saudi national could have serious professional consequences.
But he also knew something else: His instincts were the only thing that had kept him alive in Vietnam. He trusted them implicitly.
Returning to the small room, Melendez-Perez began a different line of questioning, but Qahtani quickly lost control again. The Saudi was standing up, leaning forward, his hands on the table, leering, and shouting.
Melendez-Perez remained calm. “Sit down, please. I’m not finished. You have two thousand, eight hundred dollars in cash and a one-way ticket to Dubai will cost you two thousand, two hundred. How will you get money for both travel in the United States and your return?”
“Someone will bring me money.”
“Why would someone bring you some money?”
“Because he is a friend.”
“How long have you known this person?”
“Not too long.”
Melendez-Perez stood and left the room again.
? ? ?
“I am placing you under oath. It is a serious offense to lie to an immigration officer.”
Qahtani’s eyes narrowed at the translation of what Melendez-Perez had just told him, but he agreed. After the swearing in was read, translated, and recited, the questioning continued.
“Who is picking you up?”
“I won’t answer,” Qahtani said.
Shafik-Fouad, whose sole purpose thus far had been to interpret and relay Melendez-Perez’s words, spoke out of turn. “Something’s not right here.”
Melendez-Perez agreed and he saw a dark cloud of fear slide across Qahtani’s eyes. For the third time in ninety minutes, he left the room.
? ? ?
His feet as cold as ice cubes, Melendez-Perez walked to the operations center and checked NAILS, the National Automated Index Lookout System. It came up empty—Qahtani had no countries interested in his arrest. That would’ve been too easy, he thought to himself.
Melendez-Perez reentered the interview room with several documents and a small container. Qahtani stared at him intently as he wrote on several different forms. “What is your occupation?”
“Car salesman,” Qahtani said.
Melendez-Perez returned the Saudi’s icy stare as he removed an inkpad and began to take Qahtani’s fingerprints. He grasped his fingers one by one, placing them on the pad, rolling them back and forth, gathering ink, and then pressing them firmly into the hard, white stock paper.
Oddly, Melendez-Perez perceived a softening of Qahtani’s demeanor. Perhaps the Saudi believed this to be a good sign. Maybe he was under the impression that the fingerprints were the final part of the admittance process.
The paperwork complete, Melendez-Perez stood again. “You do not appear to be admissible into the United States. I am offering you an opportunity to withdraw your application. I will escort you to the gate for the next departing flight to Dubai, where you will pay for your return ticket.”
As the interpreter relayed Melendez-Perez’s message, Qahtani looked from the phone to Melendez-Perez’s face and shouted, “You cannot do this! Why do all of this paperwork? Why put me through this? You are harassing me! I will not pay!”
Melendez-Perez remained calm. “If you do not pay for your ticket, then we will detain you here in the United States until such time that you do.”
Qahtani, looking defeated, reluctantly agreed. “I will pay,” he muttered.
? ? ?
Standing at the entrance to the jetway, Qahtani turned back toward Melendez-Perez and spoke one final time—now using perfect English.
“I will be back.”
Dania Beach, Florida
August 5, 2001
Ziad Jarrah jabbed tirelessly at the heavy bag until his instructor slowed him down.
“No need to destroy the bag, Ziad. What do you want to work on today?”
But Jarrah wasn’t working on anything except venting his anger. He and a friend had made the long trip from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando International Airport yesterday, waiting for hours before finally giving up on their arriving passenger, who was apparently a no-show.
He continued to pummel the bag, ignoring his instructor and temporarily abandoning the perfection with which he had been playing his role as a moderate, westernized Muslim. Conflict stormed in Jarrah’s mind as sweat streamed down his face. His oval wire-rimmed glasses were cocked oddly on his nose as his fists let loose their fury.
His life was a study in contradiction. On the one hand, he was smart, educated, and fluent in English, German, and Arabic. He had a beautiful girlfriend in Germany, whom he called nearly every day. He was living a life that many people only dreamed of. On the other hand, it was this life that also made him the perfect person to wage jihad against the West. No one ever saw him as a threat because there was no reason for him to be one.
Though raised as a Christian in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Jarrah became friends with Muslims while at school in Germany. Under their tutelage, he had begun to believe in the extreme reaches of Islam.
For months he had been taking self-defense classes at this Florida gym. He had perfected sleeper holds, defensive maneuvers, and rapid-fire jabs. But, unbeknownst to most people, these weren’t the only things for which Jarrah had been training. The previous December he’d begun training in a flight simulator, pursuing his childhood dream of becoming a pilot.
West Milford, New Jersey
September 10, 2001
Just south of the New York State border, in the Adirondack foothills of West Milford, New Jersey, Jeremy Glick slipped quietly into his backyard. As the predawn mist of an Indian summer morning began to clear, he closed his eyes and began running through the judo routine that had won him the college national championship eight years earlier. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and he visualized his beautiful wife, Lyzbeth, and his two-month-old daughter, Emerson—a name they’d chosen because of his fondness for the poet. Glick stepped forward as he practiced the Deashi Harai technique; his foot swept over and out and his muscles stretched taut on his six-foot-two, 220-pound frame.
Thirty minutes later, Glick stepped through the back door and into his home. It was dead quiet—no phones ringing, no babies screaming, no roar of commuter trains, honking of cabs, or growl of city buses—the kind of silence that only those who lead busy suburban lives can really appreciate.
Lyz and Emmy were still inside, the former undoubtedly trying to catch what little sleep she could after a long, restless night with their newborn. Jeremy had been up early packing for his flight to San Francisco. A couple of hours later, Lyz would be leaving to drive up to the Catskill Mountains with Emmy to visit her parents. Glick smiled. It took him a lot of years, but he finally understood what really mattered in life: family. And now he had one of his very own. He showered and dressed and quietly kissed Lyz and Emmy good-bye.
? ? ?
A few hours later—after first stopping to interview for a job that wouldn’t require so much travel—Jeremy Glick arrived at Newark International Airport and moved quickly through the security checkpoint. He walked to a monitor to confirm his gate number and saw the one word that every traveler dreads: CANCELED. It was flashing red right next to his flight number: United 93 to San Francisco.
Confused, Glick approached the ticket counter. “I’m sorry sir,” the agent said. “There’s been a fire in the airport where we are doing some construction and all of our flights have been delayed or canceled. If you provide me with your boarding pass and ID, I’d be happy to rebook you for tomorrow’s flight.”
Glick was by no means immune to the same anger and frustration that all travelers feel when their plans are disrupted, but judo had taught him discipline and control. Maximum impact with minimum effort. Anger was the opposite. It took a lot of effort, and it resulted in nothing. So, instead of letting frustration overcome him, Glick let his mind drift back to the positive: his family. It was too late to stop their trip to the Catskills, but at least he’d be in his own bed for another night.
Newark International Airport
September 11, 2001
7:03 A.M.
Jeremy Glick learned his lesson and checked the flight monitor before clearing security: DELAYED. At least that was an improvement from the previous day.
After going through security he headed to Gate 17 and called his in-law’s house, hoping to speak with his wife. Instead, his mother-in-law, Jo Anne Makely, answered. “Emmy had a rough night,” she told him. “I did what I could, but Lyz was up for most of it so she’s trying to get a couple hours of sleep in now.”
A pang of guilt stuck in his heart. He always helped with Emmy, especially on the challenging nights. “Tell Lyzzie I’m boarding the plane and I love her and I’ll call her when I get to San Francisco.”
7:42 A.M.
Ziad Jarrah boarded United Airlines Flight 93 and thought back on his now five-week-old argument with Mohammed Atta.
“We cannot do this without al Qahtani,” he had told Atta, their car idling outside Orlando International Airport. “All of the other teams have five. We will only have four.”
“We have waited for hours. Obviously he was turned away. There is no time for another. You must do this without him,” Atta said as he stepped on the accelerator.
Now, as Jarrah took his seat in the first row of the first-class cabin, he sat back and watched the others on his team board. Closing his eyes, he silently said his supplications and recalled the note he wrote to his girlfriend the previous night: “I did what I was supposed to do. You ought to be very proud, because it is an honor and you will see the result and everyone will be very happy.”
Still, the absence of Qahtani bothered him. Jarrah knew that he, and possibly one of the other men, could fly the aircraft. But with two people in the cockpit, that only left two to guard and defend the cockpit. They’d always planned and rehearsed with three.
Jarrah looked over his shoulder at the many empty seats behind him. That gave him some measure of comfort. Fewer passengers meant fewer opportunities to overpower his team.
A resolve came over him. It was time. He thought back to a video he’d made with Atta about eighteen months earlier. They’d both proclaimed their dedication to today’s task but he’d laughed through most of the taping as he’d tried to read his part of the script. Is this plan for real? he’d thought. It was so audacious, so . . . ridiculous. Could he really go through with it?
As the captain’s voice asked the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for takeoff, Jarrah realized that he would learn the answer to that question very soon.
Tarnak Farms Training Camp, Afghanistan
September 11, 2001
After his unexpected escort to the jetway in Orlando months earlier, Qahtani had returned to Dubai briefly, before flying to Kandahar to rejoin his comrades at the training camp near the airport.
Following three weeks of advanced infantry training, Qahtani was standing at the rope climb on the obstacle course when he heard a shout. He ran into the first room of the Habash Guesthouse and found dozens of cheering men huddled around a television set. On the screen was an image of the World Trade Center in New York City. One tower had a gaping hole in its side. Smoke and fire poured out as shards of glass and falling bodies rained down on the streets below.
As they watched, an airplane flew into the picture of the burning tower and struck the second tower, this time much lower than the first. The room erupted into another round of applause and celebration. Then, a new image: the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., up in flames. A third plane had struck.
Amid the cheering, Qahtani heard a voice.
“The next plane was yours, Qahtani. This is the most important symbol in Washington, D.C. Watch closely and you will be proud.” Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Al Qaeda’s operations officer—the man who planned and coordinated the logistics of the attacks—was smiling as he spoke.
“This was my plan.”
United Flight 93, 36,000 feet over Ohio
September 11, 2001
9:37 A.M.
Jeremy Glick watched the scene unfold before him as though he were watching a movie. The hijackers had stabbed the flight attendant, stormed the door of the cockpit, stabbed the pilots, and took control of the airplane. Meanwhile a man with a bomb strapped to his waist shouted at all of them to move away from the cockpit, toward the back of the plane.
Now seated in row twenty-seven, Glick picked up an air phone and called his wife in the Catskills. His father-in-law answered on the first ring.
“Jeremy, thank God. We’re so worried.”
Glick cut to the chase. “It’s bad news. Can you put Lyz on, please?”
A moment passed and Glick struggled to maintain his composure. When Lyz picked up he cut right to the chase.
“These three Iranian-looking guys took over the plane. They’ve got red bandanas, knives, and one says he has a bomb. I need to know, have other planes attacked the World Trade Center? That’s what some of the others are saying.”
“Yes, Jer. Planes have crashed into both,” Lyz said.
Glick was silent a moment, stifling a sob as he soaked in the full magnitude of what was happening.
“You need to be strong, Jer,” Lyz said.
“I know.” But at that moment Glick wasn’t thinking about himself. “I just need you to be happy,” he said. “I love you and Emmy so much.”
They spoke quietly for a few more minutes, professing their love for one another. Then Glick said, “Whatever decisions you make in your life, no matter what, I will support you.” It was the ultimate act of love: having the courage to see past his immediate danger and into his family’s future.
“We’re taking a vote to rush the hijackers,” he said. “Do you think the bomb is real?”
“No. I think they’re bluffing. I think you need to do it. You’re strong. You’re brave. I love you,” Lyz said.
A long pause.
“I think we’re going to do it. I’m going to put the phone down. I’m going to leave it here and come right back to it.”
Glick and the other men who voted to overtake the hijackers huddled and introduced themselves to each other: Todd Beamer, Mark Bingham, and Tom Burnett.
Glick was listening for skill sets as the men spoke. Bingham played rugby, Burnett was a quarterback in college, and Beamer played baseball. Good, four athletes, he thought.
Glick saw Beamer go back to his seat and pick up the air phone he’d left hanging. He spoke into the receiver for a moment and then turned to Glick and the other two men. “You guys ready? Let’s roll.”
Kandahar, Afghanistan
September 11, 2001