his hand. He was big, over six feet and broad shouldered. The second man was short, but heavier. They moved like street thugs. Peter crouched low in the darkness as they came up. The top stair landing had a small rug with a rubber matt under it, but Peter didn’t trust the footing. While the man crept slowly up the first steps, Peter curled his toes and pulled the rug behind him. The wood floors provided better traction for his bare feet. There were fifteen steps from the first to second floor. Peter had counted them from habit. As the first intruder crept past the forth step, the fat one followed slowly. Both gripped the handrail.
Peter hoped Rachael remained asleep. As the lead man stepped on the tenth step, his eyes were level with the landing. Peter was poised low with his feet set like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. He leapt when the man was mid-stride, landing his head and shoulders in the invader’s upper body, using his forearm to keep the weapon out of play. Off balance, the man jerked backward falling into the one behind. Peter’s body was protected by the bodies below him as they careened down the wooden stairs. When all three came to rest at the bottom, Peter grasped the right forearm of the taller man, who had a Bowie knife. He was able to dislodge it, slamming the man’s wrist on the wall, but unable to recover it. Instead, he rolled off the two bodies and into fighting position.
The tall man wasn’t injured badly, but the man below had taken the weight of two men as he crashed backward down the stairs. He was still. The bigger man pushed off his immobile companion and Peter kicked him under his chin before he gained his balance. The attacker fell back, limp on top of his accomplice.
He waited a few seconds, the checked vital signs of both men. Rachael turned on the lights. She had a terrified look on her face when Peter yelled. “Rachael, call the police! She looked stunned. “Rachael, look at me! Call nine-one-one immediately! Tell them that there are two intruders down. Medical help is required.”
She ran back into the room and used her cellphone, urging the police to hurry. She returned to the top of the stairs and saw the two bodies on the floor, but Peter was missing. She yelled, “Peter!”
“Rachael, it’s okay, I’m just in the kitchen checking the rest of the house.”
She felt relieved when he came back into view. He said, “I closed the window and re-locked the door. We’ll be okay until the police arrive. Go back into the room and get dressed. There will be a bunch of cops here soon.”
She did nothing as Peter checked the men again for vital signs. He wasn’t sure the bottom man had a pulse. The top man had a weak pulse, but might have a broken neck. Peter stepped over them and retrieved the knife from between the bodies. He expected them to have other weapons, but he’d let the police search.
His immediate thought was of Rachael, still standing immobile at the top of the stairs. He climbed to her and gently turned her around and led her back into the bedroom. She stammered, “Who, wha... what are they doing here?”
Peter sat her on the bed, “Honey. Rachael. Look at me. look at me! Get Dressed. The police will be here soon. We’ll figure this out when they get here.”
He had been crouching in front of her and stood slowly to go back down the stairs, but she wrapped her arms around his waist tightly. She was shaking. Peter stroked her hair and pulled her arms away gently, saying, “Sweetheart, I have to go downstairs and watch over those guys, and meet the police. I won’t let anyone hurt you, just stay sitting here.”
He kissed the top of her head, then turned and walked toward the stairs. Looking below as he descended, he was struck by how young the men were, in their late teens or early twenties. The one on the bottom was probably dead and the other might be paralyzed if he survived long enough for medical help. Stepping across them at the bottom of the stairs, he walked to the front window and saw several sets of red and blue strobe lights driving in his direction. There were no sirens needed this early in the morning.
Opening the front door, he signaled the officers. He was wearing utility pants and an OD tee-shirt. The police cars stopped a few doors away and several officers stepped out in unison with hands on their sidearms. Peter maintained his position, where he could see both men and usher the police inside.
Over the next few hours the intruders were taken away in an ambulance under guard. One was dead, but he would be transported to the Georgetown Medical complex for death certification. The second man was strapped to a backboard with a neck brace, still unconscious. The police had searched their pockets and found a metro map and specific instructions to Rachael’s apartment. They also found $500 on both of them.
Peter talked with the police lieutenant in charge of the scene, while Rachael stayed in the kitchen, having tea. It was daylight when the police and medical personnel departed, leaving them alone again.
“What’s going on Peter, I heard some of the talking, but...what happened tonight?” She asked.
Sitting down at the dinette with her, he took one hand and moved close when answering, “Rachael, it looks like these were street punks from Southeast DC. They had some cash and directions to your house. Sweetheart, these thugs were probably hired to kill you.” He knew this news would unnerve her, but she had to know the truth.
“Kill me, why?”
“You must have scared someone enough to want you dead. You need to think about anyone who could be your enemy.”
She looked at him with watery eyes, “Peter. I--I don’t have any enemies, I’m not like that. You know that.”
He cradled her head and decided to let the dialogue end.
Tokens
The evening before, Hasan Abd al-Majiid and his caravan rendezvoused at a shopping center in South Valley Stream, NY, near JFK Airport. From there, the vehicles followed Majiid to a nearby house. A local fundamentalist group living in New York had arranged everything. That night, he located an Internet café and received final instructions for the morning’s attack.
In the morning, three men drove two miles to Rockaway Community Park across Jamaica Bay from Kennedy Airport. The park was closed, but they cut the lock on the gate and drove through the woods to the water’s edge, facing the airport. The park police were not on duty. There were dozens of transatlantic flights landing at JFK between six and eight in the morning. Their instructions required timing. They were to shoot the missile at the first large airliner to fly overhead after 0700. They were positioned at the water’s edge behind native brush, counting down the minutes.
At seven, a man named Halim informed his companions to be patient. He had binoculars to help identify the aircraft, and to ensure no mid-east airliners were targeted. He scanned overhead then rotated toward the airport, and saw the mast of a ship in the bottom of his view. Lowering his glasses, he was shocked to see a Coast Guard cutter less than half a mile away steaming toward their location. He could also see that the forward gun mount was manned and heard orders being given.
Panic started to set in as he ordered the men back to the delivery van, but as they started to run, police with assault rifles surrounded them.
In Washington, Rachael called her office and left a message that she might not be coming in today, but by ten o’clock, Peter convinced her that she needed to get back to her routine and it was worse to stay at home. Sweetheart, you’ll go nuts staying here. I’ll drive you to work.
He planned to stay in the building all day, in case she needed to leave. She would not use the Metro again. En route across Key Bridge he turned the radio to WMAL 6:30AM news. Breaking news said terrorists were captured with a missile launcher in New York.
She exclaimed, Did you hear that? They go the guys!”
“Yeah. The trap worked!”
Both of them felt their pulses race. Rachael could not wait to get into the office for full details, and Peter would visit his contacts in the Operations Center.
Parking in the east lot meant a ten-minute walk before Rachael was at her office. There was a stack of pink message forms handed to her by the office assistant as she entered. Reading them, she
elected to return Hale Warner’s call first.
He answered, “Warner.”
“Hale, its Rachael.”
Before she could continue, he said, “Rachael! I heard about your attack, are you okay?”
“Yes, Hale, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Wow! The news has been unbelievable today, first with your attack, and then with the missile captured in New York.”
“Yeah, I’m terrified and elated at the same time!” She was trying to minimize the fear still wracking her.
“Rachael, we need to meet. I want to tell you some things about your inquiry yesterday, but I need to do it face to face. How about lunch?”
“Okay, where?”
“Someplace open with background noise, how about fast food in the Pentagon Atrium, my treat, at one o’clock?”
“Yes, fine. But you’re coming to me, so my treat. I’ll show you how to spend big!”
Hale would use the metro system, and they’d meet at the Atrium in about an hour. The atrium is located in the open center of the Pentagon and was only accessible to employees of the Department of Defense, certain government officials, and their guests. It was open to the air traffic noise from Reagan National Airport and I-395; coupled with the noise from all the people, it provided adequate background for a private discussion.
Before leaving her office she left a voicemail message on