news regarding the OV-10s,’ Imam responded, optimistically. Anwar punched his brother playfully on the shoulder, shook hands then went to join his Garuda crew to prepare for their shuttle flight to Medan, in the oil and gas-rich province of North Sumatra.
An hour passed since Anwar had farewelled Imam. Airborne, he stared out across the haze that covered Sumatra, the product of forest burn-off and the failure of corrupt officials to oversee the implementation of regulatory controls designed to prevent such environmental disasters. He looked out the star-board window across the Malacca Straits, his view impeded by the drifting smoke as far as the eye could see. The Javanese pilot slipped into sombre mood reminded that he might never be selected to crew international flights – the competition so fierce. An impatient sigh passed his lips.
With his mind revisiting what the future might hold Anwar Suprapto remained deep in thought, oblivious to events unfolding across the South China Sea and the machinations of the one solitary figure whose treachery would impact so disastrously on the Suprapto twins’ lives.
Chapter Two
The Philippines – Manila
The Doña Josefa Apartments
Ramzi Yousef gazed introspectively through a drawn lace curtain from suite 603’s only window overlooking the well-lit path the Papal motorcade would take on 15th January – the day John Paul II would die. ‘You are coming and we are ready for you,’ he whispered, eyes narrowing as he envisaged the assassination scene and the carnage his team would wreak upon this predominantly Catholic nation.
Located in Manila’s Malate district not 200 metres from the Embassy of the Vatican City in the Philippines, the Doña Josefa Apartments were perfectly positioned for the al-Qaeda terrorist cel ’s covert activities. Ramzi Yousef, aka Najy Awaita Haddad and his associates could come and go virtually unnoticed as locals had become accustomed to Middle Easterners residing in the nightclub district, satisfying their fantasies, drinking and whoring far from puritanical, condemnatory eyes. The Baluchistani-born Pakistani, Yousef, had rented the apartment in December as the headquarters for the implementation of ‘Operation Bojinka’, bra-zenly walking the capital’s streets, thumbing his nose at the United States and the two-million-dollar bounty placed on his head for his role in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.
A diabolical explosives and bomb technician, Yousef had attended college in England where he studied electrical engineering. But it was in the al-Qaeda training camps that he had learned to prepare explosives. Yousef turned to fellow accomplices.
‘I want you to listen to the statement I have prepared for public dissemination once the first phase of Bojinka has been realized.’
Ahmed Saeed, aka Abdul Hakim Murad ceased what he was doing and glanced over at Wali Khan Amin Shah, the third conspirator in Yousef ’s terrorist cell, a stocky Afghani who was responsible for the financing of the operation. Shah had successfully established a network amongst bar girls whom he paid to launder funds from their indirect financier in Malaysia.
‘We’re all ears,’ Saeed grinned. He had also been complicit in the World Trade Centre bombing and was on the US intelligence community’s watch lists.
Yousef leaned over his Toshiba laptop and tapped the space bar bringing the screen to life. Although the manifesto’s words were already deeply ensconced in his mind Yousef elected to read from the computer, the confidence in his voice testament to his commitment to their cause. ‘Citizens of the United States and those who support that government will be our future targets for they are responsible for their government’s actions and the USA’s foreign policy’ he declared. ‘We will destroy all American nuclear targets and, should that government continue to support Israel, then we will continue to carry out operations inside and outside the United States to include…’ A knock brought the room to silence as a maid attempted to unlock the double-bolted door. Yousef raised a finger to his lips and slowly shook his head.
‘Mister Haddad, are you there?’ the Filipino maid inquired, still challenging the lock as she was not expecting any response. ‘May I change the linen today?’
Ahmed Saeed’s eyes panicked their way around the room. Bundles of soaked cotton lay scattered around the single-bed bachelor apartment, a pungent odour permeating the scene. Various sized plastic, chemical containers with German and Pakistani stamps of origin lay scattered everywhere, the loops of electrical wiring and dozens of Casio wristwatches all conspicuous signs of the tenants’ handicraft, obvious to even an ama-teur’s passing observation. He moved anxiously, throwing soiled sheets over the explosive material, cursing his ill fortune when he inadvertently knocked an opened bottle of Chivas Regal against the bedside lamp sending both crashing to the floor.
‘No!’ Yousef shouted, immediately regretting the forcefulness of his reply. ‘Leave the linen outside. I will change the bedding myself, later.’ He waved furiously at the other two men to rectify the situation, shocked when smoke appeared from somewhere under the bed.
‘I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ the maid apologized, ‘my manager Miss Guerrera thought you had gone out.’
Ahmed fell to his knees to determine the seriousness of the accident and how quickly the alcohol-fueled fire was spreading.
‘Put it out, now!’ Wali Khan Amin Shah hissed, ‘before she calls security.’
Outside in the hallway the maid stopped, tilted her head questioningly and sniffed the air, alarmed when smoke appeared from under the door. ‘Mister Haddad, Mister Haddad,’ the woman yelled, ‘there’s smoke coming from your room!’ Suddenly she was afraid, recalling such fire traps as the Filipinas Hotel when flames engulfed the hotel trapping many of the guests, the huge death toll causing an even greater decline in the deteriorating number of tourist arrivals.
By now Yousef had filled the rubbish bucket with water from the bathroom and flushed the area directly under the bed.
To their great relief, the flames died almost instantly, Yousef returning to the bathroom to refill the bucket.
‘It’s okay,’ Ahmed looked up at Amin Shah, ‘we have it under control.’
Again the maid called. ‘Is there a fire in your room Mister Haddad?’ now less concerned when she could see that the smoke had ceased.
‘Just a cigarette burning in the waste paper basket.’ Yousef assured as he emptied the second load onto the now saturated carpet. The fire appeared to have died. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Yousef pulled a hundred pesos from his pocket and unlocked the door, his frame hiding the view inside. ‘I will clean up the mess. Here, let me have the fresh linen.’ He smiled and passed the tip to the maid who surrendered the bedding, shrugged and went on her way.
Back inside the room Yousef and Ahmed examined the burnt carpet, all present sending a silent prayer that exposure had been avoided.
‘I must leave. I agreed to catch up with Khalid,’ Amin Shah announced. ‘We’ll meet here again tomorrow, in the afternoon.’
Yousef smiled knowingly at Ahmed. Both men accepted that Amin Shah would not be rendezvousing with Khalid Shaikh Mohammed but with Arminda Costudio, a Filipino waitress who worked at the Manila Bay Club on Roxas Boule-vard. Arminda had captured Shah’s attention from the moment he had set eyes upon her.
With Amin safely out of the room Ahmed raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think he knows?’
Yousef snorted. ‘That Arminda Costudio is also sleeping with my uncle?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing to be gained in his knowing this.’
Ahmed refused to let it go. ‘You don’t think this Filipino whore could jeopardize the operation?’
Yousef ’s face clouded at the suggestion. ‘Khalid is not one to cross. Leave it be.’
Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, the mastermind of