Homeland Security Warning: Possession of this novel may result in enhanced interrogation.
By E.A. Blayre III- Also available as:
Chapter II
20 Years Earlier, September 11, 2001
corner of Vesey Street and Washington, New York City
Inside World Trade Center Building #7, 23rd Floor
The CIA agent hung up the phone.
General Barker noticed his sly smile and asked, “Who was that?”
“Ted.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if that cheating bitch boarded the plane.”
General Barker laughed, “Did you tell him we escorted Barbara to Flight 77, over an hour ago?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“Alright, time for serious business then.”
“One and Two are set, ready to go. This building is on standby. Planes go airborne in about an hour.”
“And the evidence?”
“Dropped shithead’s passport near the towers in a place where even the NYPD can find it. Our Mossad friends parked the car at Logan this morning with their luggage.”
“What did you put inside the bags?”
“Koran, videocassettes from a Boeing 767 Flight Simulator, training manuals and a couple martyr tapes. Mossad tossed in a suicide note naming each hijacker.”
“Everything’s in place then. Grab some popcorn and wait for the show to start.”
The CIA agent sat down checking his notes. General Barker hovered over the desk, reviewing various mock exercises planned for the day. The CIA agent’s cell phone rang.
A garbled, double-coded voice on the other end spoke, “Employees of Odigo just received e-mails warning people to stay away from the World Trade Center complex.”
He shook his head, “Yesterday, the stock trades and today this. We haven’t even lifted the curtain and we’re in trouble.”
The encrypted voice said, “Over-riding their computer notification system now. That’s the last message transmitted.”
The CIA agent hung up, “Not good, not good. Too many people involved. Too many competing interests. Too many variables.”
General Barker barely responded as he concentrated on numerous training missions developed by Pentagon Brass to insert phantom airliners, disable NORAD and confuse Air Traffic Controllers. He ordered fighter jets flown away from New York City and Washington D.C.
On a busy day at the Windows on the World restaurant, one-hundred-and-seven floors above ground in the North tower, the owner’s favorite waitress set the breakfast table for her daily patron.
The crimson-jacketed, stuffy concierge grabbed the server by her hand, “Stop setting this table, Larry’s not coming today.”
She jerked her arm away, “Are you sure? He hasn’t missed breakfast since he bought this place.”
“I know. To be honest I thought it was a prank. I nearly called his wife out on it.”
She started setting the place again, “He sits here every day.”
“Not today.”
“I don’t believe you. He’s coming and you’ll thank me for saving both our jobs.”
“I’m telling you, I just spoke to his wife.”
The dressed-up, white trash waitress swept beneath the table, dusted surfaces and wiped off each chair.
“I’m setting him a spot.”
“His wife called, he’s sick. He’s not coming.”
“I still do not believe you.”
The over-paid, over-tipped waitress snapped her gum and continued to neatly arrange place-mats, forks, spoons and knives. She set a pint of Orange Juice, which she freshly squeezed, on the centerpiece of the table and folded cloth napkins into swans. Larry always remarked that she reminded him of the beauty and grace of a swan. Sometimes, it was the lone thing that brightened her day. Larry went out-of-his-way to ask about her out-of-wedlock children. He even gave them gifts for their birthdays.
“Mr. Silverstein will be in, I know it.”
The uptight concierge shook his head, “You’re wasting your time.”
“Sorry, but I know him. Only the devil himself could keep him from being here.”
“Fine, but when you’re done wait on tables with actual customers.”
The snot-nosed concierge returned to his post, checked in diners and escorted guests to tables. An undocumented alien, filling chef jobs Americans do not want, snuck around from the rear kitchen, tapped the waitress on her shoulder and whispered, “I agree with you. Mister Silverstein will be here.”
“I know.”
The waitress winked and smiled as she finished preparing the table and readied for her favorite part of the day.
A live video feed from the nose camera of Flight #11 turned on, multiple High Definition television screens inside the President’s bulletproof limousine lit up with images of the American Airlines Boeing 767 whipping through noisy winds, drawing the box-like skyline of New York City, closer and closer.
The operation, known among bacchanalian circles as ‘The Big Wedding’, kicked off with a bang...
Employees of Urban Moving Systems parked the white van in Liberty park, New Jersey, a perfect back-drop of the World Trade Center. They removed their Saudi Arabian style robes and carefully unwound dark turbans into the passenger seat.
“Grab the Nikon.”
Jason Schwartz snagged his camera by the strap, looked through the viewfinder and framed an artful shot of the steel twins.
“Tower One is on the right, focus on it first.”
“We’re going in numerical order then?”
He laughed as he zoomed in to the colossal exoskeletal structures, glimmering brightly in a cloudless blue sky.
“My turn, start filming.”
One of the other employees jumped before the camera and danced like a cracker at a hip hop club. They all laughed.
“I’m next.”
Another UMS worker mocked his partner’s dance then flicked a Bic ® lighter several times close to the camera and in the foreground of the Twin Towers.
Jason waved them away from the viewfinder, “Enough fooling around, it’s just about time.”
He checked his gold Rolex wristwatch, a gift from his Mossad handlers, and synchronized the clock, 8:46:26 a.m...
American Airlines Flight #11 roared over an innocent city at breakneck speeds and sliced on an angle through the silver North Tower between the 94th and 98th floors. New York trembled as Tower One enveloped the plane like a pesky horsefly caught and cocooned in a spider’s glistening web.
iuniverse.com America Deceived
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