Alone in China

Prologue

Washington D.C.

4:15 a.m.

Hasan Al Nadr opened the aluminum suitcase one last time to ensure that the bomb inside it was still vibrating. Praise Allah, it was. Beads of sweat slid down Hasan's proud, frightened face. His hands—young and delicate—trembled. Hasan closed the suitcase and placed it gently inside a public garbage can, one of many scattered through East Potomac Park. Hasan surveyed the park: three miles west stood Capitol Hill; three miles east stood the Pentagon; two miles north stood the White House. Nihayat al'ayam qariba, Hasan thought, the end of days is near. 

Though it was 4:15 a.m., Hasan was not alone. In the distance, a homeless woman muttered to herself as she dozed beneath a Cherry Tree. Much closer to Hassan were two white men in charcoal suits. Hasan didn't know who they were, but he knew they were powerful. It was these men who brought Hasan to America, and who kept trouble away while he planted all three bombs—first in L.A., then in Manhattan, and finally here in Washington. In 12 hours, Hasan planned to detonate these bombs. In 12 hours, Hasan would realize his plans.

A voice spoke behind Hasan, startling the already nervous Iranian. 'Finished?'

Slowly, Hasan turned his head. Directly behind him was the sturdy frame of one of his hosts. The man had dense, black hair that receded somewhat above his temples, and a moustache, equally dense and black, that curved down to hug his upper lip. Though only six feet, the man towered over the much smaller Hassan.

Hasan stared blankly back at him.

'You don't understand any English?' the man asked loudly in disbelief. Hasan continued his empty gaze.

Fucking terrorist, thought the man. Hasan thought the same of him. Though Hasan did in fact understand English, he spoke only Arabic to the two men in charcoal suits. It was a matter of pride, and strategy.

The other suit approached Hasan, and asked in Arabic whether he had finished. Hasan replied that he had. 'He's finished,' the Arabic speaking suit repeated to his moustached counterpart.

'Good,' the moustached man replied, 'I'll call the Director.'

The moustached man pulled a sleek Blackberry from his pocket, dialed rapidly, and put the phone to his ear. Turning away from Hasan, he said into the phone, 'The third briefcase is planted.' He paused. 'Yes, Director, understood.' The moustached man then hung up the phone and turned to Hasan. 'Let's get you back to Beirut you piece of shit.'

Hasan stared back, with a familiar, blank gaze. Briefly, however, a thin smile spread across his face. Returning to Beirut was not part of Hasan's plan.