September the 6th 2001
10:22 pm
Willy's Sports bar, Hollywood Florida
The bar was loud and raucous. People were crowded against people, bellowing, shouting, mixing body odor, slopping alcohol down pants and skirts. Two televisions, bright and glaring followed a football game on either side of the room and people inhaled more marijauna smoke than air. The atmosphere was warm and stifling. Neon signs blinked beer conglomerates and a blond woman whose best friend was obviously a plastic surgeon served drinks at the counter. Her skin was burnished, tight, and shining; her hair straight and hard. Her mouth was turned up into a perpetual smile and her fingernails were long and curved: daggers, painted and sharpened. She could've been 25 or 55. It didn't matter anymore. Age had been lost with every nip and tuck she had received.
Balancing precariously on three inch heels, she walked over to two middle eastern men who were drinking vodka and whiskey. One was absently watching the TV, the other had his head buried in his drink, rocking silently back and forth. The one glued to the television had sharp, angular features; cold and hard and chiseled from stone. His hair was short and dark, his eyes piercing and cruel. He had no lips to speak of.
“Ya need anything, hon?” the bar woman said lazily, propping her elbows against the counter, over sized breasts nearly spilling from her skin tight shirt.
The man turned, looked at her fake smile and smirked icily. “Not you, if that's what your asking. American women make me sick. Another drink please.” The insult took a while for her to digest. Unable to frown, the bar woman's penciled eyebrows finally furrowed and she snatched the man's glass from his hands without a word.
Mohammad Atta smirked again. What a whore, he thought, turning slowly back to the television, eyes staring nowhere on the screen, thoroughly lost in thought. Thoughts of tomorrow and the next day and the next. What would he be doing with the last days of his life? Already some of the members of the Project were stuck in seedy hotels, having sex with people like the bar woman, trying to gain as much pleasure as possible before their reckoning with death. They were fools. A reckoning with death meant a reckoning with Allah. What they were doing would condemn them to burn in fire and brimstone. Others were immersing themselves in the Qu'ran, praying on an hourly basis now. Others still were calling home, saying goodbye to their family members. To brothers and sisters, to wives and children. They were fools too, of course. Calling their family would only plant regret. And regret would make ineffective servants. Besides, why cause your wife and children unneeded pain and suffering. Let them live a few more days of peace, with the knowledge of a living son or father or husband.
Mohammad fingered the new glass of whiskey with a frown. And what was he doing with his last days? Sitting in a bar, imagining his last airplane flight in the pilot's seat of flight 11, watching people scream, and faint and die in his mind's eye. Hearing them yell, “I am not ready! My death has come too soon.” Watching those future passengers catch fire and crash into a building full of people who don't even have the time to shout, “I am not ready! My death has come too soon.”
He took a long pull from the shot glass, feeling the liquid burn and tingle down his throat. Well, he was ready. He knew that. For years his voice had been a beacon for Muslims around the world, slicing through clouds of confusion. Ever since Hamburg... His eyes grew distant as he remembered the Anti-semitic and Anti-American views discussed in that small German apartment. Ever since Hamburg he had been yearning for a chance to prove his loyalty to his cause, to his country, to Allah. And here, finally, was his chance. He was as prepared as he would ever be. He had attended Aviation school, he knew had to fly a Boeing 767, how to operate a bomb, and had read to Qu'ran 5...10...15 times. And yet something was wrong...
Atta glanced down at his glass. It was empty again. He didn't even remember draining the last swills. Slowly, he set the glass down and awaited another encounter with his top heavy bar maid. Mohammad didn't quite know what was bothering him. Maybe it was the suddenness of his mission. How long had he known in advance? A year or two. Maybe it was the confusion he would incite on the world. He knew very well what they going to do to America would affect the world. In commerce, in economy, in morale... But then again, that was the point. The world needed a little wake up call and four airplanes crashing into four buildings would do the job nicely. Atta shook his head. No, it wasn't any of those reasons. It was the people. The people he would spend the last 30 minutes of his life with. The people who would hate and fear him for what would feel like eternity. The people he had sworn the Jihad on since he was a child. They would be the casualties of war. He saw those people at night, in shadows and dreams. They weren't dead yet, but their consciousness dabbed at his mind like hand tickling faintly at his face. Seventy-six people were connected to him in a way that was rare. It was a Murder-Victim relationship. They would be close to him, closer than anyone he had known before. For he would touch their lives, handle them momentarily and then crumple each one up. He was already stained with Seventy- six smearings of blood and seventy-six cries of regret.
Atta shut his eyes tightly and shook his head. Thinking about things like this would only harm him. He turned his head and watched Al-Omari dozing into his vodka. Thin shoulders hunched and long, curly hair falling over his glass. It was obvious Al- Omari didn't drink much. But the poor man had been drowning himself in alcohol since they set foot in America. They all knew why. Al-Omari had left a wife and child back in Saudi Arabia. He was bright, clean, and a good man. Mohammad was at a loss as to why he would even fathom joining the Al-Queda. To leave a family, a wife, a child... Atta shook his head again. Al-Omari was mourning for them already. Would he have the stomach to kill a thousand people? Would he have the resolve to kill himself?
Mohammad looked down at his glass. It was still empty. He smiled slightly, a lipless smile, twitching at the edges of his mouth. What Al-Omari did or felt like was no concern of his. Excitement swelled in his chest like a balloon, in spite of himself. His chance to prove himself was drawing nearer. In five days those seventy-six smearings of blood would be his. Medals, decorations, the highest reward a soldier of the Jihad could receive. Yes, they would haunt him, now and in the after life. But his dreams were being realized, his life accomplished. Atta relished the thought.
His glass was full again. He hadn't even noticed the bar maid refill his cup, too lost in his own thoughts. Atta swilled the glass thoughtfully, shoulders hunched over the counter. What was he doing with his last days? Sitting in a bar, replaying the same video in his mind of the same seventy-six having their flesh and bones incinerated in a blast no one could survive. Watching them scream and shout, “I am not ready! My death has come too soon.” Mohammad Atta frowned, drained his glass, and hoped to Allah that when the time came he wouldn't be screaming and crying the same thing. The frown deepened as he shook Al-Omari's shoulder to wake him. Doubt was a powerful adversary.
