WTC gate the unofficial story E-Book

Claus Bork

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 294

Beschreibung

The Bush administration has just moved into office in The White House. United States is on the brink of economical collapse. Through an american agent from Homeland Security, with Arabic background, they plant an idea to the people behind Al-Qaeda. An idea that shall bring America back in its role as the worlds leading superpower. The novel follows the planning and execution of the terrorist attack against World Trade Center on september 11th 2001. The novel is fiction, based upon the real events that took place on september 11th 2001.

Leseprobe

Foreword

This is a fictional story inspired by the actual events that unfolded in New York and Washington on September the 11th, 2001.

Claus Bork

This is for all those who strive to make the world a better place to live in…

Grateful thanks to Lene Holm, Sophie and Henrik Nilsson, Lisbeth Bork, Inger Lise Franke and Henning Bøgh Holtov for their support in making this book a reality.

Previous publications by Claus Bork:

Danish:

Slangeøjet – 1985

Mesteren fra Glaus – 1985

Kong Atlon af Regnbuen – 1985

Sorte Sigurd – 1987

Landet bag Tågerne – 1988

Dragens Rige – 1989

Bølgernes Børn – 1987

Djin – 1988

Portene til Rana – 1989

DEER – 1990

Det eventyrlige Karaganda – 1992

Muffy’s Lov - 1998

WTC-gate - 2015

English:

Black Mac - 2015

Deutsch:

Der Schwarze Sigurd - 2015

Land hinter den Nebeln - 2015

Drachenreich - 2015

Die Kinder der Wellen - 2015

Djin - 2015

Die Tore nach Rana - 2015

DEER - 2015

Das abenteuerliche Karaganda - 2015

THE WHITE HOUSE

THE OVAL OFFICE

1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE NW

WASHINGTON

DC 20500

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DATE: JANUARY 22ND 2001

TIME: 15.56

GEORGE W. RUSH, PRESIDENT

RONALD DUMBSFELD, SECRETARY OF DEFENCE

RON BIDGE, SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY

ANDREW KART, WHITE HOUSE CHIEF OF STAFF

PAUL O'KEILL, SECRETARY OF THE TREASURE

They sat comfortably on the sofas around the low oval table. Excitement hung in the air, just like the kind of excitement small boys feel just before climbing over a garden fence to steal apples…

President George W. Rush, who just two days ago had taken up office as the 43rd President of the United States of America, sat in an armchair at the end of the table chewing gum, arms hanging nonchalantly down both sides of the chair. He nodded towards Andrew Kart and said, “Make sure that none of this is recorded Andrew. I need to talk to the boys in private, things that don’t concern the general public…”

Andrew nodded, gulped down the rest of his coffee in one go and stood up. “I will make sure of it Mr President. And once again, congratulations on the position.” He smiled to the rest of the group and left the oval office.

George W. Rush took over. “You have something to present,” he said, inviting Paul O'Keill to speak.

O'Keill cleared his throat, leant back against the back of the sofa and began: “It’s looking bad Mr President. I am sorry to have to start off your time here like this but it is a fact. We are on the brink of pure economic collapse.”

He was a mild-looking man with white hair and thick, strong glasses.

George W. Rush looked searchingly at the group of men. Everyone looked serious, realising that something had to happen. Something drastic…

“What do you suggest we do?” the President asked.

Paul O'Keill shook his head. “We’re about to be overtaken on the inside by a changing world and it will take far too long for us to adapt to these changes. We might as well try stopping an out-of-control supertanker. We have gone way past the point where we can consider adapting in time to make it before it all comes crashing down.” He looked around at the group through his thick lenses. Then he turned his palms upwards in a gesture loaded with meaning. “That’s it…”

“Okay,” George Rush responded. “You are lucky to have a large family. Go home to them and enjoy the evening together. We can start to turn things round first thing in the morning. We still have a few things we need to discuss here…”

Paul O'Keill got up. He took his thin leather folder that was leaning against the sofa just under the table edge, mumbled a farewell to the men around the table and left the room.

They sat in silence for a while. Only the hard core remained.

The President leant forward, pressed a button on the intercom and spoke: “Are you sure that all the recorders are switched off?”

“Yes Sir Mr President, everything is switched off.” Andrew Karts’ voice came through the speakers.

“Thank you Andrew,” George Rush said and let go of the little green button.

Looking at the men around the table he let his gaze rest on each of them for a moment before speaking

“What exactly do we need?” he asked, “any ideas?”

“We need another Pearl Harbour.” Ronald Dumbsfeld broke in. “Something that is so very extreme that no-one would ever dream that we set it up.”

Ron Bidge replied, “Everything can be fixed Mr President. We have everything you could possibly need at Homeland Security, and it is all at your disposal.”

George Rush was prodding his upper lip with his forefinger thoughtfully. “You are a good man Ron. That is why Ronald asked you to come here today. You need to be aware that we have big plans involving Homeland Security – and you.”

“Thank you Mr President…”

Ronald Dumbsfeld took over. “There are a lot of arrangements to be made and there will be a lot of people involved who will need to keep their mouths shut afterwards. We have to be very, very careful…”

All those present nodded.

“I have some loyal contacts in the FBI, CIA and at NSA.”

Dumbsfeld looked directly at Ron Bidge “But those are old organisations with their own traditions and codes of conduct. It would be too difficult to convince them to take part directly. So we are staking everything on Homeland Security.”

He jabbed a finger directly at Ron Bidge, “and you need to know that you will be well-rewarded. You will get your own organisation on a par with those I just mentioned.”

“That all sounds very promising.” Ron Bidge’s smile was catlike.

Dumbsfeld turned to George Rush.

“George, you will not be directly involved in all this. I will take it further with Ron and your people back home in Texas. I will run it for you and keep you informed…”

“But I would like to know what it is that we are starting Ronald…” the President said.

Ronald Dumbsfeld laid a calming hand on his arm. “Take it easy George. Just keep on doing what you are so good at: being the President”. He looked at Ron Bidge with a broad smile, “then the rest of us can get our hands dirty…”

All three laughed at this and the atmosphere lightened slightly.

The President nodded, then he turned towards the intercom and asked for Barney to be brought in. He turned back with a boyish smile on his face and said: “How about seeing the new trick I’ve taught Barney?”

Nodding, the two men tried to look enthusiastic.

The door opened and Barney, the President’s Scottish Terrier, entered. Taking a biscuit from the plate on the table, George Rush turned towards the dog. “Roll over!” he ordered.

The dog tumbled around on the floor in something that resembled rolling over. George turned to the two others, a big smile on his lips. “Did you see that?” he asked. “Isn’t that fun?” He laughed loudly.

“Very entertaining Mr President,” Ron Bidge answered Ronald Dumbsfeld made do with a nod. “Good George, that’s very good…”

PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK & NEW JERSEY

225 PARK AVENUE SOUTH

NEW YORK

NY 10003

UNITED STATES

DATE: JANUARY 24TH 2001

TIME: 16.30

LEWIS M. EISENBERG, CHAIRMAN,

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

MICHAEL DONOVAN,

NYC DEP. OF HOUSING PRESERVATION AND DEV.

Lewis M. Eisenberg was sitting at his large, polished mahogany desk scrutinising the documents in front of him.

He ignored the ringing telephone and every now and then he grunted as he read through the papers.

Sitting in an armchair in front of the desk, studying the toes of his shoes, Michael Donovan was clearly uncomfortable.

“Does this mean that I’ve got fortyeight hours to answer this?” Eisenberg threw his hands out.

Michael Donovan nodded. “Company policy,” he answered.

“We’re tired of our applications being endlessly dragged out. In your case it’s just a case of some form of declaration of intent to act.”

“Mmhm,” mumbled Lewis M. Eisenberg “The entire World Trade Centre has to be cleared of asbestos and all you want is a statement that I truly intend on doing so.”

He looked up from the papers, “do you have any idea of the costs involved in removing all asbestos in the entire World Trade centre?”

Michael Donovan chose to remain as passive as he could. He shook his head.

Eisenberg leaned over the desk and looked Donovan straight in the eye. He was angry and continued in a hard tone, “Now listen here Mr Donovan, I am going to tell you one thing. When we built the World Trade Centre towers the local authorities demanded that we used asbestos to insulate the whole pile of shit against fire. There is asbestos everywhere: in the ceilings, in the flooring – it was even sprayed on the steel girders that are bearing all the floors.” Eisenberg raised a warning finger, “they started to change the regulations even before we had finished building and banned the use of asbestos. And there we were with the largest office block in the world – out-dated because of all your wheeling and dealing.” He held his hand flat against his chest, “We haven’t done anything wrong!” he exclaimed. “We followed the rules that you set out for us, and now you come here demanding that we remove the lot?” His voice trembled with anger. “Do you have the faintest idea about what you are asking? We might as well just raze the place to the ground and start from scratch again. The cost would be the same as sanitising it.”

Michael Donovan shrank in the chair in front of him. “It’s not really my area,” he said softly, “but in that case you need to remember to send in a building application.”

Eisenberg looked hard at him over the top of his glasses. “Be careful,” he said. "I have powerful friends…"

The other man rose, thanked for the coffee and left Eisenberg’s lavish office.

CAFÉ LAZEEZ

NO. 15 BHITTAI ROAD F-7. ISLAMABAD 9TH AVENUE

ISLAMABAD

ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF PAKISTAN

DATE: FEBRUARY 03RD 2001

TIME: 12.36

BILAL KHEL, PAKISTANI, RELATED TO AL-QAEDA

KALEEM DURRANI, AGENT, HOMELAND SECURITY

Kaleem looked enquiringly at Bilal. “And you’re sure that noone saw you coming here?”

There was a nod from the other. “No-one we need to worry about,” he answered. “But why did you ask me to come?”

Kaleem cast a quick look round the room and thought for a moment before answering. “I have had an idea. I know how we can hit the Americans harder than they have ever been hit before.”

“Tell me more,” Bilal Khel whispered. He looked around but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

Kaleem stretched his hand out condescendingly. “Take it easy, no-one here knows us, this is the best place to hide – amongst millions of people at a café in Islamabad…”

There was a light sigh as the other man relaxed.

“Tell me about it,” Bilal said after a moment of silence. “But first tell me why you’re getting yourself mixed up in it? I’ve been asking around and nobody I know knows anything about you. What’s your interest in this?”

Kaleem leaned forward “Al-Qaeda has many cells. They don’t all know each other. Let’s just say that I know some people who like my ideas. Is that a good enough answer?”

Bilal nodded. “If your idea is good then you are serving a great cause Kaleem.”

Kaleem explained that he had been living in the USA and was fortunate to have found work as a cleaner at an intelligence agency where he had been able to listen to and study American habits and the American way of thinking. Here he had learnt that if you want to get at Americans then you have to think both big and extreme. He had seen how, despite their paranoia, Americans believe that they are undefeatable. This arrogance, he explained, is their worst enemy.

The other man listened patiently, his face deadpan.

“I got the idea for this from an American film and I believe that it can work”

Bilal studied him but remained silent.

“You could send a team over to the US where they could take their pilot’s license and then hijack some planes. They could then fly these into the World Trade Centre buildings.” Kaleem threw a punch up into the air. “Hit what they hold most holy – the finance centre of Manhattan. That will teach them to respect us…”

“The World Trade Centre – those two tall buildings where there was a bombing in the cellar a few years back?”

Kaleem nodded eagerly. “Yes. Those bombs in the car just weren’t wild enough and the buildings didn’t really suffer any major damage. They have been repaired and they will never let the same thing happen again. The cellar is now guarded as wasps guard their nest. But a plane, that could make a good weapon and just after take-off it is still loaded with fuel, it is a flying bomb. Try to imagine it happening…”

Open-mouthed, Bilal stared at him. “By Allah that’s a wild plan. But how to smuggle people in and get them their pilots licences?”

“That’s where I come in,” Kaleem answered. “I can go back, take up my old job again and help you with all the practical things from there.”

Bilal’s thoughts were flowing fast and furious. He was mumbling to himself as he went approvingly through the plan in his head. “Do you think this can really work?” he burst out.

“Of course” Kaleem responded. “This plan is way beyond anyone’s wildest dreams and no-one will ever imagine that we came up with it. The first they will know about it is when the planes crash into the buildings, and the whole of Manhattan is overshadowed by fireballs.”

Bilal nodded. “I’ll put this to my cell and see what they say to it. How can we reach you?”

Kaleem threw a calculating quick glance round the room and leant in over the table. “In the coming days I will go back to New York. You can reach me here.” He pushed a business card over the table, hidden under the flat of his palm. “You will contact me through an encrypted network, the address is here and I have written the password in pen.”

Bilal took the card and, without looking at it, placed it in his pocket. “I don’t understand any of that stuff with encryption and networks but the people I am going to give this to do. I will put it forward already this evening.” He nodded goodbye, stood up and left the café. He didn’t look back but disappeared in the crush of people and the noise of the traffic on Bhittai Road.

Kaleem remained seated until the other man was lost from sight. Then, taking his Nokia Communicator mobile out, wrote a text message with the words “the seed has been sown”.

He sent it and left the café.

PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK & NEW JERSEY

225 PARK AVENUE SOUTH

NEW YORK

NY 10003

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 04TH 2001

TIME: 08.50

LEWIS M. EISENBERG, CHAIRMAN,

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

JOHN ASHLEY, LEGAL ASSISTANT,

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

“Can you tell me why nothing more has happened about all this?” Lewis M. Eisenberg looked at his co-worker with a very dissatisfied air. “It was already decided back in 1998 that the WTC-complex had to go from being owned by us to being leased out to a private entrepreneur on a 99-year lease.”

He drummed irritably with one finger on his desk. “Now something really needs to fucking happen. I’m not messing with all this asbestos shit…”

John Ashley looked up from the papers on his desk. “We… we are almost ready with the terms and conditions of the tender, Mr Eisenberg,” he stammered, clearly affected by his boss’ ill-tempered tone. “But we have already sent the preliminary terms and conditions and the bidders are evaluating them.”

“So get them sent out, that way you’ll know who’s in the game. It shouldn’t be so fucking difficult. There can’t be many who have the capacity to raise the kind of capital needed to rent the WTC-complex for 99 years…”

Shaking his head Ashley rose halfway out of his chair.

Eisenberg laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down into the chair again. “Then get it done John. Get this shit out and let’s get it over with.”

“Yes, Mr Eisenberg.”

SOMEWHERE IN EAST AFGHANISTAN

DATE: FEBRUARY 05TH 2001

TIME: 17.45

AYMAN AL-ZAWAHIRI, JIHADI EMIR OF AL-QAEDA

BILAL KHEL, PAKISTANI, RELATED TO AL-QAEDA

The scent of sheep dung hung heavily, even when they were inside the hut. But it was still warm.

Dark, threatening clouds filled the sky. It was evening in the village in Afghanistan, only a few miles from the Pakistani border. The elder man sat in a large armchair facing the door. He was reading the news on his IBM ThinkPad. Ayman Al-Zawahiri, known as the Jihadi Emir of AL-Qaeda; one of the heavy-weights of the organisation housing the most orthodox and reactionary Muslims in the world.

He looked up from the screen as a woman entered the room almost without a sound. He regarded her critically, eyes seeking even the tiniest point to criticise. By now, however, she had learnt to know her place in the world under his control and he was unable to find anything about her appearance that he could point his finger at.

She was dressed in a long, loose flowing robe that hung down to the clay floor ensuring that her feet were hidden from view. She wore a niqab on her head that allowed him to see only her eyes. Everything else was covered with cloth. Nervously she moved closer, the teacups clinking momentarily on the tray held out in front of her.

He nodded and she set the tray with the teapot and three cups on the table.

Without uttering a word she withdrew, backing quickly out of the room shutting the door after her.

He sat regarding the clay walls with expressionless eyes. Then, letting his gaze fall down to the screen of his ThinkPad he looked at photos of rooms at the White House in Washington on the Internet.

He was a slightly plump older man. Medium height with full lips and a large curved nose. He had prominent eyes that looked at the world through thick, scratched, rimless glasses. The glasses were so heavy that over time they had carved a deep furrow in the weather-beaten skin on his hooked nose.

He showed up half an hour later.

Ayman heard Bilal’s voice from the adjacent room. The door opened carefully and Bilal looked in cautiously. Ayman reached out with his hands and asked him to come inside. Two of his own people followed close behind, nodding to Ayman to let him know that they had body-searched the young man. Ayman leaned back in his wide armchair and looked down at them. They sat on a rug around the low table sipping their tea.

He looked at Bilal, put his head on one side and said, “Tell me about your plan…”

Bilal’s hand shook so that he spilt tea in his lap and began apologising.

“Yeah yeah, get over it – tell me about your plan, by Allah…”

Bilal recounted the meeting with Kaleem two days ago. He was very uncertain at first but as he spoke he warmed to the theme and his own enthusiasm for the idea, as well as his pleasure at being the one to relate it, shone through. When he had finished they sat in the half-shadows and drank the now lukewarm tea.

The business card lay on the table. “Give me it!” ordered Ayman. One of the armed men rose and handed it to him. He could barely read it in the dim light. “And where is this Kaleem now?”

Bilal looked up. “He has gone back to the USA. He wants to try and get his old job back. He was a cleaner for something called Homeland Security. Then he can go round the offices and look at the paperwork on the desks while he cleans.” He laughed and threw a stolen glance at the men. They didn’t utter a sound.

“Hmmm…” Ayman mumbled. “It’s a good plan. It’s crazy and extreme and, last but not least, it will be completely unexpected – that’s what makes it good. No-one would dream that somebody would try anything this crazy.” He looked directly into Bilal’s eyes. “Can I trust you not to say a word to anyone else about this?”

Bilal nodded emphatically. “Of course I would never say a word to anyone. I swear on the honour of my father’s second wife.”

For a moment Ayman sat completely still, then he smiled.

“You can go now. My men will see you on your way…”

Once alone he sat back and thought…

They already had people in the USA. Some of them had already passed their pilot’s licence over there, even though only for small light aircraft. They had tried to prepare themselves without knowing precisely what they were preparing for.

But it might well be for this…it might well be…

DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

NEBRASKA AVENUE COMPLEX

OFFICE 3.02-4

WASHINGTON DC

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 10TH 2001

TIME: 13.21

KALEEM DURRANI, AGENT, HOMELAND SECURITY

He had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity.

He had been worrying about whether they had believed him and his story, or whether they had backed out, or if they would just go ahead with it without coming back to him. He hoped that they felt that they needed him.

Then he received a mail…

‘We would like to take you up on your offer, when can you deliver the goods?

We would also like to arrange a meeting with you so that we can discuss details.

With regards

Cereal and Agricultural Products, Islamabad.’

Kaleem smiled to himself.

He printed the email and knew that the technicians were already on the case, finding the sender’s IP address. They would make sure that it was authentic…

He took the paper from the printer, left the office and, locking the door after him, went down the corridor towards his boss’ office.

THE WHITE HOUSE

THE OVAL OFFICE

1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE NW

WASHINGTON

DC 20500

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 11TH 2001

TIME: 9.42

GEORGE W. RUSH, PRESIDENT

NICK CHAINY, VICE PRESIDENT

RONALD DUMBSFELD, SECRETARY OF DEFENCE

RON BIDGE, SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY

Ronald Dumbsfeld, Nick Chainy and Ron Bidge were sitting round the coffee table in the Oval Office sipping coffee while they waited.

“Tell me, where’s George?” Dumbsfeld asked, looking around.

Ron Bidge cleared his throat. “I believe that the President is in the garden practicing a trick with his dog,” he remarked expressionlessly.

Nick Chainy sank back into the sofa and sighed. “That dammed dog…”

Ronald Dumbsfeld looked him straight in the eye. “Look on the bright side Nick. At least it limits how long he is in our way…” His teeth spread out into a broad grin.

Chainy nodded and a shadow of a smile flitted across his mouth. Turning to his neighbour on the sofa he said, “You have something important to share with us…?”

Ron Bidge leaned forward towards the other two and nodded towards the camera on the wall. “I think that it would be better if we went to one of the meeting rooms upstairs,” he whispered, “one that isn’t tapped.”

They followed the direction of his glance and looked silently at the camera for a moment. Rising to their feet they all left the Oval Office.

The meeting room was somewhat smaller than the Oval Office. The sun was sharp in the cloud free sky that day so the blinds had been pulled down to keep it out.

Nick Chainy stood at the window looking out while the secretary brought in the coffee and sandwiches they had requested. “He is out in the snow playing with that dog”, he remarked drily.

“That’s fine,” Ronald Dumbsfeld replied, “That way we have time to agree on how much he needs to know about what is happening.”

Ron Bidge gave a summary of the mail that had come in to Homeland Security. “It looks like they have taken the bait,” he said with a slight tremble in his voice.

The room was still for a moment.

Nick Chainy sat back in an armchair, he hadn’t thought of saying anything. At least not while Ron Bidge was there.

Ronald Dumbsfeld put a hand on Ron Bidge’s arm saying, “You are in charge here Ron. We need a plan for everything, whatever happens – it is your people doing the planning. This is going to be spectacular beyond all imagination, so you have to make sure that everything is in place – even though it’s going to be the goddam goatherds that get the honour for it. Do you follow?”

Ron Bidge nodded. “I’m on top of things, we’ve already started.”

“Just one thing,” Dumbsfeld said. “As Secretary of Defence I know that a huge exercise involving the American and Canadian Air Forces is planned to take place on the 11th of September this year. This would be the perfect date for our operation if you see what I mean. No birds in the air…”

“That sounds like a good detail,” Bidge mumbled. “11th of September – that doesn’t leave a lot of time…”

Ronald Dumbsfeld looked at Bidge, an arrogant smile on his lips. “Are you trying to say that you aren’t up to the job Ron?”

Ron Bidge shook his head. “No, no, not at all. But there is a lot to do before we are ready. That’s all I meant.”

“So we’d better get going,” Dumbsfeld snarled.

The door opened and George Rush entered. “Why are you all sitting up here?” he asked.

Ron Bidge had risen to his feet when the President entered. The other two remained seated.

“We didn’t think that what we are going to discuss is suitable for the surveillance of the Oval Office,” Dumbsfeld said, “So we went up here.”

“You could’ve just asked Andrew to have it switched off…” Rush was interrupted by Dumbsfeld’s waving hands.

“He is your White House Chief of Staff,” he said, “not mine… I can’t ask him to switch off the surveillance cameras without him thinking it's odd. Only you can do that. You are the President…”

George Rush looked out of the window. “Yes,” he said, smiling contentedly, “I am the President…”

They explained to him that the agent sent out from Homeland Security had received a mail from his contact in Islamabad and that all systems were ‘GO’.

Rush had sat down and was chewing on a sandwich. “What’s the next step?” he asked through a mouthful of smoked salmon.

“We’ll keep you informed as we know more, George. Right now we just need to get the operation off the ground,” Ronald Dumbsfeld said.

“Okay,” Rush responded as he brushed the crumbs from his neatly pressed trouser leg.

LA BONNE VIE RANCH

1827 PFIESTER ROAD

FREDERICKSBURG 78624

TEXAS

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 13TH 2001

TIME: 15.42

RONALD DUMBSFELD, SECRETARY OF DEFENCE

RON BIDGE, SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY

MR. SMITH, OLIEMILLIARDÆR

MR. JONES, OLIEMILLIARDÆR

MR. HOLMES, REVISOR

It was cold outside, minus one.

The sun shone down from a cloud free sky. The big limousines were parked in a row outside the massive main building that had been built in a European inspired style. Two of the limousines belonged to the two Texas oil billionaires who lived in the area. The radiators of these two cars were each decorated with an enormous set of horns from Longhorn Cattle raised on their own ranches; A typical Texan trait that shows that you are one of “the guys from Texas”.

Ron Bidge had just laid out his first planning sketches for those present and he threw a glance out of one of the huge panoramic windows in the room. He could see the breath of one of the guards outside, hanging like a cloud in the clear air.

The guard crossed his arms over his chests to keep warm. They hadn’t expected it to be as cold as this in Texas and none of them had taken their jackets from the plane.

Bidge had placed a document on the table. “This is an agreement that everyone has to sign,” he said, “and that means everyone, no exceptions.”

Mr Smith took over. “Can we really get everyone to keep their mouths shut? I am just thinking about what would happen if just one of the many people involved talks out of turn or talks to the press to save their own hide?”

Ronald Dumbsfeld leaned forward and put his coffee cup down. “What do you think will happen?” he asked threateningly. He turned to Ron Bidge inviting him to speak.

Ron Bidge cleared his throat. “The punishment for talking out of place is not something that you can buy your way out of…” he said seriously. “This is no secret. But it has happened before, without knowing the details – once, a long time ago, in

Dallas, not far from here…”

Mr Jones, an overweight, sweaty man who incessantly dried his sweaty forehead on a handkerchief mumbled, “No one connected with the death of JFK lived long enough for anyone to listen to the…”

Mr Smith chuckled to himself. “No, we got that all sorted out amicably…”

They couldn’t help but smile.

“Once you are in,” Dumbsfeld said, “you’re in for good. There are no exit strategies!”

There followed a brief, loaded pause.

“What’s in it financially?” asked Mr Holmes, speaking for the first time. He raised his forefinger up in front of him. “I take it that I am here because you want to draw on my expertise as an accountant regarding the financing of all of this?”

“To answer your last point, I would say that you are here because you have an amazing talent for hiding whatever is going on financially. This is your special quality that we will be using. In answer to your first point I would say that this is down to these fine gentlemen from Texas and their considerable support…ehhm…and then there are also the Saudis…”

“Do the Saudis want to be a part of this?” Mr Jones asked, patting his face with his handkerchief.

“The Saudis and us need each other,” Dumbsfeld answered. “They are just as aware of that as we are. There’s nothing quite like a Pearl Harbour-thing to get business going.”

“Right, so there’s no reason to believe that money will be a hindrance to this project,” Mr Smith said.

“No,” Ronald Dumbsfeld replied, “no there sure isn’t…” He placed his hands on the table and looked at Ron Bidge. “And Mr Bidge here has come up with some very creative input that will mean that the financial burden will in the long run be significantly relieved. But that’s something that we’ll come back to later. For now we need to focus on getting off the starting blocks…”

They continued going over the plans. Homeland Security would be able to take care of all the technical aspects, but it would need financing, and it was here that the friends from Texas came into the picture.

They were standing in the great hall with their overcoats on. Outside the bodyguards were moving around impatiently in the freezing cold.

“So I guess this means that we shouldn’t plan on flying on the 11th of September,” Mr Smith concluded.

Ronald Dumbsfeld reached his hand out to say goodbye. “It sure wouldn’t be a good idea…” he answered.

PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK & NEW JERSEY

225 PARK AVENUE SOUTH

NEW YORK

NY 10003

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 15TH 2001

TIME: 13.30

LEWIS M. EISENBERG, CHAIRMAN

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

JOHN ASHLEY, LEGAL ASSISTANT,

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

Lewis M. Eisenberg sat in front of John Ashley’s desk, legs crossed and hands resting loosely in his lap.

“Let me hear it John,” he said tersely. He was feeling good today.

John Ashley, his smart but irritating legal co-worker, shuffled his papers and moved his calculator to one side.

“Yes, well Mr Eisenberg, we have had several bids. One from Vornado Realty Trust, an investment partnership between Brookfield Properties Corporation and Boston Properties. They are the ones with the highest bid…” He checked his papers before continuing. “600 million dollars more than offer number two to be precise.”

“Yes, and…?” Eisenberg nodded.

“The second, and the lowest, bid is from Silverstein Properties and The Westfield Group.” He looked up expectantly.

Lewis M. Eisenberg smiled at him. “You know what this here is going to mean for us don’t you?”

Ashley nodded. “Money in the till,” he answered, “but shouldn’t we, if we’re doing this by the book, inform the bidders about the on-going case concerning the cleaning up of the asbestos?”

Eisenberg sat totally still for a moment. He looked as though he was considering it, but then said, “That won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean Mr Eisenberg? If the bidders come back to us and can document that this case was raised prior to them putting their bid forward we’ll suffer enormous losses in court.”

Lewis M. Eisenberg had already got up and was on his way out. He turned for a moment and said, “That won’t be necessary John. You will never mention this again. Put out a press announcement that a decision has been taken and let’s get this finished with as quickly as possible.

What neither of them knew at this point was that following the preliminary negotiations Vornado Realty Trust expected that the lease period would be reduced from 99 to 39 years. When this could not be agreed on they withdrew from negotiations. This meant that in the end, Larry Silverstein, Manhattans biggest business landlord, ended up with a 99-year lease for the entire World Trade complex for the sum of 127 million dollars.

PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK & NEW JERSEY

225 PARK AVENUE SOUTH

NEW YORK

NY 10003

UNITED STATES

DATE: FEBRUARY 17TH 2001

TIME: 14.20

LEWIS M. EISENBERG, CHAIRMAN,

THE PORT AUTHORITY OF NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

RON BIDGE, SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY

MR. WHITE, HOMELAND SECURITY

It was the first meeting, a meeting of such importance that is was vital that they made exactly the right impression. Therefore Ron Bidge had chosen someone from his staff whose entire appearance had the effect of being both scary and competent. He chose to present him as Mr White.