Vengeance

By Georgianne Wordlow

Anna Maria Dane is a woman who is struggling with despair after losing her father and fianc in the attacks of September 11, 2001. Her pain turns into anger, which gives birth to a desire for revenge, and she obtains it in the only way she can, by going after individuals still alive who helped bring that day about. She gets amazing and unusual assistance from Braeden Maguire, a guilt-ridden CIA operative, whose reasons for helping her are not what they seem. Anna Maria's killing spree takes her to some of the most beautiful and dangerous places in the world, and the things she discovers people did to help the hijackers carry out their mission astonishes her. But killing these people does not bring her peace, so she sets out to confront the terrorist leader who masterminded the September 11th plot. Killing this individual, a man whom the CIA has dubbed "The Most Dangerous Man Alive", is not easy and she herself is almost killed. So close to death's door and willing to stay there, the people around her refusing to give up on her, Anna Maria soon comes to realize that living is the best revenge of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 4, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595621002

Georgianne Wordlow

My name is Georgianne Wordlow and I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. My grandmother gave me books before I could read and that started a lifelong love for them. Vengeance is my first novel. I am leaving the corporate world to devote more time to my writing.

Book preview

Prologue

Uh, something’s going on in our building. I don’t know what’s happening here. I wanted to call you and tell you that I’m all right and that I love you…

Those were the words coming from my fiancé, thirty minutes after American Airlines Flight 11 flew into the north tower of the World Trade Center last September 11th. He was trapped in his office on the 86th floor of that building.

From the 6th floor living room window of my 2-bedroom apartment on Spring Street I can see down to the financial district. The twin towers would have been clearly visible from this window. Now all that remains is a gaping hole in New York City’s skyline. I spend some time every day standing in this window, staring at that hole because my love, my life, my future husband is still there.

His body was never recovered. All the rescue people were able to find of him was his Tag Heuer watch, identified only by the silly but endearing inscription I had it engraved with: To my funny bunny.

My father’s body was recovered, however, and rather quickly. He was taken from me that day, too. My God! What did I do to deserve all this pain, this horrible nightmare that feels like punishment? How is it that on the happiest day of my fucking life, my father and my future husband are murdered?

It is now September 2002, the anniversary of the September 11th attacks fast approaching. To me, it was only yesterday that nineteen terrorist pigs, ordered by Osama bin Laden, orchestrated the most horrendous act of violence America has ever seen.

And boy did we see it! You couldn’t have had better seats at a Yankees/Boston Red Sox game. One minute I was excited about my future with my gorgeous fiancé and all it took was the press of the TV power button for it to be blown all to hell.

Why, God? Why did you allow them both to be taken?

But could I have chosen if I had been given a choice which one had to go? The man of my dreams, or my father, who was my hero and my only family?

Everything happens for a reason, they say. So what was the reason for this? Was I too happy? Was my life too perfect?

No, I refuse to feel like I deserved this. A psychiatrist told me that victims sometimes feel they deserve the horrible things that happen to them, that by taking some responsibility for the pain they endure will help them cope with it. For almost twelve months, I have fought with my inner self to keep from reconciling losing my father and fiancé in those terrorist attacks to something I deserved.

I have won that battle but in the process, I have become obsessed with the September 11th attacks. More so with the nineteen hijackers who perpetrated them and their evil leader, Osama bin Laden. And over the last twelve months, something has been growing inside me that has taken the place of my passion for my work. Something that has kept me distracted in support group meetings, that has made me tune out my clients when they come to my office in Midtown.

And that is my desire for revenge.

There is no healing for me through these traditional outlets. There is only one thing left for me to do. The one thing I never thought I had it in me to do.

I was going to kill someone.

Chapter One

It’s all set. I’m going.

I could hear my best friend Betty McAllister’s shaky sigh over the phone. So, you’re really going through with it? Seriously going through with it?

I am. I have to.

"No, you don’t have to. She laughed dryly. God, I can’t believe we’re talking about this. You … something could happen to you. Is that what you want? Mark’s gone, your father’s gone. Do you want to join them?"

I was sitting at my computer desk in my living room and lowered my head down to the cold oak surface, closing my eyes. Would that be so bad, Betty?

"How can you ask that? Do you think I want to live without you? You can be so damn selfish sometimes that-"

Hey, I’m sorry, I interrupted her, sitting up and feeling dizzy with the movement. Did I eat today? Look, I’ve had a year to prepare, I have everything in place. Nothing is going to happen to me. Trust me.

Betty sighed again. Initially, I had had reservations about telling her what I was going to do but I didn’t want there to be any secrets between us. Our friendship was too important to me and she was all I had left now.

You know, Betty said, Grandma says that we can go through our entire lives never making our own whole acquaintance.

My brows narrowed in confusion. What does that mean? I got up from my chair, my stomach jumping in alarm. You didn’t tell Cici about this, did you?

No, of course not. You know her and her wisdom. This is something she used to say when I was little. It never made sense to me until now. It means that we may never get to know all of who we are, that we will only discover we’re capable of certain things when certain things happen. I have known you for a long, long time and never in a million years would I have ever thought you could do what you are planning to do. I’ll bet you never thought it either.

I pressed the thumb and index finger of my free hand into my eye sockets, nodding though she couldn’t see me.

Just be careful, Anna Maria, Betty said again, and I could hear the tears in her voice. Do what you have to, just come back to me.

I hung up with Betty, not saying anything more. What else could I say?

I walked over to the window and looked out. Today was Tuesday, September 3rd. It was bright and sunny out this morning. September 11, 2001 had been a beautiful Tuesday, too. Unusually beautiful. I was so excited, so looking forward to the rest of my life with Mark Reynolds. But little did I know, when I woke up that morning, all I would have with him, all we would ever have, were twenty-one more minutes.

I moved away from the window and stripped off my clothes. I headed into the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it and climbed in. September 11th left me feeling so violated, like I had been viciously raped. I wasn’t in New York on that horrible Tuesday but when I came back a few days later, there was still smoke and ash covering my city. It was so thick, it stung my eyes as I walked from one end of Manhattan to another, searching for any sign of Mark, putting up posters with his photo on it. The stench of burnt fuel and ash and soot hung thickly in the air and I could taste it in my mouth even after I had brushed my teeth, still smell it in my hair after I had scrubbed it. There was another smell out there too…it wasn’t strong but you’d get a whiff of it from time to time. I knew it was the smell of burnt flesh and it made me ill on those long, unproductive days following the attacks. Even now, when I step outside, I can still smell it, still taste it…

I let the powerful hot spray batter my body, a body that had at one time gotten so thin I couldn’t move from one room to another without losing my breath. Now, I was toned and tight and muscular. I was conditioning myself for my task ahead, just as those nineteen terrorists diligently got themselves prepared for their evil task. To them, we were the enemy and in order for them to be able to do what they did, they would have had to immerse themselves in us.

So I have immersed myself in them, and now I was ready. I was ready to carry out my own jihad.

I sank down to the floor of my tub, hugging my knees and resting my chin on top of them. My long black hair draped over my shoulders like a blanket. I closed my eyes and went back to that day, the day my future was shattered and destroyed, the day I learned what true evil really was.

An evil that must be stopped.

It was several minutes after 9a.m. that Tuesday morning when he called. The last time I had seen Mark was the previous afternoon, before I left to meet Betty at her mother’s family’s home on Martha’s Vineyard. Mark was going to be working all day that day and the next. We made plans for dinner that Thursday evening when I returned to New York. Betty and I had stayed up half the night drinking Sangria and reminiscing.

We both got up at seven to tackle things that had not been done for my wedding, the main thing being my choosing a dress. I think I was the only bride in history who still hadn’t chosen a dress two months before her wedding. The department stores and shops were gracious and allowed me to take the dresses home. There were seven, all of them beautiful, and I was determined that by nightfall, I would have one picked out.

We didn’t have the TV or radio on and Betty had not gotten on the phone yet with anybody. I was laughing at something Betty had said when I heard my phone ringing. I dug in my purse for it and saw that the display showed Mark’s name. I smiled.

Hey, sweetie, I said cheerfully, wearing the first wedding dress of the seven, a strapless creation by Vera Wang. You will be so pleased to know that by day’s end, I will have chosen a wedding dress.

Mark said nothing. I could hear shouting in the background.

Hello? I called into the phone.

Anna… He sounded urgent. Something bad has happened. Are you watching TV?

I looked over at the huge television in the corner that wasn’t on. No, we’re not. Why, what’s wrong?

Turn it on.

I walked over to the television and pushed the power button. It was on one of the local channels. I think the last thing on the tube before we turned it off was David Letterman. There was live news footage showing black smoke coming out of one of the twin towers. I jumped back from the TV as if it had burned me. My heart started racing and my stomach felt like it had been completely scooped out. I soon realized that not only was the north tower on fire, but so was the south tower. I turned up the volume as loud as it would go in time to hear the newscaster say, …I repeat, moments ago a second plane has hit tower two…

And they aired the footage of this airplane plowing into the second World Trade Center Tower and exploding. I covered my mouth with my hand. I heard Betty cry out, Oh, my sweet Jesus, from behind me, having seen what I just saw.

Oh my God, Mark, what’s happening? Are you all right? Where are you?

Uh…something’s going on in our building. I don’t know what’s happening here. I wanted to call you and tell you that I’m all right and that I love you

What was he saying? What the hell is this? Planes are flying into buildings? Where are you, Mark?

I’m in my office, he said. I was looking at some sketches and I heard this loud boom above me and the building shook. I’m hearing it was probably an airplane, and the other tower is on fire, too.

That’s what they’re showing on TV, I said, picking up the remote off the coffee table. I held it up and flipped through the channels. Every single channel, cable and local, had coverage of what was happening in New York City.

It’s on all the channels, Mark. It looks like they were passenger jets. What’s going on? Are you getting out of there? Did you call for help?

Someone just got through to 9-1-1, he said, coughing into the phone. All the power went out, and the phone lines are down. I’m using my cell phone right now. We’re having trouble getting down the stairs. We’re waiting for some help.

You can’t get down the stairs? I asked frantically. My heart was in my throat as I stared transfixed at the news coverage of this obvious attack on the World Trade Center yet again. What about the elevators?

Look, don’t you worry. I’m sure they’ve got the fire department on its way up. They’ll get us out.

Mark was trying to sound calm but I could hear the fear in his voice.

He coughed over the phone again and I could hear a couple of people yelling back and forth in the background. Mark shouted a response back to them.

I looked at Betty. Betty, we’ve got to find a way off this island.

Mark heard me. No! Anna, don’t try to come here. Whatever’s going on here, I’ll feel better knowing you are miles and miles away from it. You’re safe there with Betty and as long as I know you’re safe, that’s all that matters.

But what about you? You’re not safe. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit here and watch this happening and do nothing.

We’re going to get out, Anna, he said decisively, don’t worry. Hey, we’re getting married, remember? You’re going to be Mrs. Mark Reynolds in a few weeks. I wouldn’t miss that for anything in the world. He coughed into the phone. I love you so much, Anna.

I started to cry and I sank to the floor, clutching the telephone. I felt so helpless and I was so scared.

Mark coughed again and I could hear him talking to someone. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Promise me you won’t try to come here, he said to me, his voice sounding raspy. Don’t go out. I want you to be safe.

I didn’t answer him. I just sat there, eyes glued to the TV screen, shock starting to set in.

Promise me, Anna!

I closed my eyes tightly. All right. I promise. I won’t go anywhere.

Good. Now stay by the phone. The smoke is getting pretty bad. He started coughing to emphasize his point. I’ve got to hang up and -

No, Mark, I interrupted him desperately, not wanting to break our connection, not wanting to be separated from him, Please don’t go! Don’t leave me!

I’m not going to leave you, Mark said, his voice husky. You’re my everything, Anna. I love you more than I will ever be able to show you. There was a pause and more shouting. Hold on for a sec, he said and I could hear him talking to someone in the background again.

Betty squeezed my shoulder and I looked up at her. What’s going on, Betty? Is this the end of the world?

Don’t worry, Anna. Mark’ll get out. He‘s got you waiting for him. He‘ll get out.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mark came back on the line. I think we may have found a way out. I’ll call you right back, okay?

I love you, Mark. I love you, I love you, I love you.

I know. I love you, too. Talk to you soon.

And then he was gone.

I clutched the phone like my life depended on it. And it very well did. I waited impatiently for Mark to call me back while Betty and I held each other. Betty had the remote in her hand, switching from one channel to another. Nothing else was on. Not that we were looking for Seinfeld or Friends. We wanted to see different angles on the story, someone telling us something new, maybe even having some good news. But the coverage was pretty much all the same. Dismal. Dreadful.

I prayed for Mark, prayed that someone would get him out, hoping that Mark had indeed found a way out of the burning building.

Betty and I listened and watched, stunned to hear reports of people jumping to their deaths. Oh, my God! Has it come to that? What about Mark? Would he resort to jumping 86 stories to escape dying from asphyxiation or burning to death? Someone zoomed in on the figures of people clinging to the north tower above where the plane hit, some catching footage of people falling to the ground below.

This was too much to bear!

At about ten that morning, Betty and I watched as the top part of the south tower, having held on for as long as it could, start to buckle and fold in. In a cloud of dust and smoke and flying debris, the mighty steel tower collapsed. I sank to my knees, pulling Betty down with me. It was so surreal. This wasn’t happening. How could this be happening? All those people. God, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many people were still inside the building. Employees, firemen, policemen…

And if that tower collapsed, how long would it be before the north tower collapsed? Was Mark still inside?

The news footage changed and showed smoke and fire coming from another building. It was The Pentagon! The newswoman was talking about just receiving word that a plane had just flown into The Pentagon. That got me on my feet and I furiously called my father, who had made a career out of the Army and was now a general, working at The Pentagon. I dialed his office repeatedly, getting a busy signal every time. I tried to search through my muddled brain for other phone numbers I knew. Dad’s secretary! I hurriedly dialed her number only to listen to it ring and ring and ring. Dear God, please, please let my father be all right.

But he was not all right.

And Mark never called me back.

At 10:30a.m. that morning, Betty and I watched as the north tower collapsed, one floor on top of another, sending up a cloud of blinding gray smoke, reducing itself to a pile of rubble in mere seconds.

All I could do was scream and scream…

Ten minutes later, at about 10:40a.m., we heard about an airplane crash in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. It was later identified as United Airlines Flight 93. This plane became known as the flight that fought back.

One of my father’s colleagues called me the next day to inform me of my father’s death. Apparently, he was in an office that collapsed on him moments after the plane hit. My father’s office was on the third floor between corridors 6 and 7, but for some strange reason, on the morning of September 11th, he ended up in an office between corridors 4 and 5, right within the area that sustained the plane’s hit. What the hell was he doing there, I constantly asked myself. What was so important that he had to leave his section of the great fortress and end up in that plane’s path?

The days following the attacks were so hard to get through, I’m surprised I didn’t just drop dead from grief. I needed desperately to be in two places and it made me crazy that I couldn’t be. I needed to be in Arlington burying my father and I needed to be in Manhattan, combing the streets, looking for my beloved Mark. The medical examiners working on identifying the remains uncovered at the site told me that there was a chance his body had been completely consumed by the fires. I thought they were crazy. How could a human body just be…vaporized like that? I was unwilling to accept that and did everything I could to find him.

I was constantly visiting burn and trauma units at all the hospitals, carrying around different photos of Mark, showing them to everybody I ran into. I was frantic. Betty helped me put his photo up all over Manhattan, but nobody ever called saying they had seen him.

I called the medical examiners office two, three times a day, looking for good news, something, anything! I gave the authorities everything I could get my hands on that Mark had used that would be good in matching his DNA. His toothbrush, hair brush, his razor, even a wadded up piece of chewing gum that was wrapped in a piece of scrap paper I found on my desk. I gave them items Mark had touched, hoping they would be able to get his fingerprints. I gave a person in the cleanup crew at Ground Zero a magazine photo of the Tag Heuer watch I had given Mark that I knew he was wearing that day, hoping they could use this to identify him.

Day after day, I rode an emotional rollercoaster of hope and despair. All around me were people just as anxious and scared as I was. Men and women clutching photos of loved ones. People with red-rimmed eyes, wandering aimlessly in a city that looked as if Armageddon had arrived. The dust and soot covering everything and hanging in the air made me feel like I was living inside a vacuum cleaner bag. After three days on the street, I was coughing and hacking like someone with emphysema. My clothes and shoes and hair were covered with ash and there was talk of asbestos in the air. People working down at the World Trade Center site wore protective masks covering their noses and mouths. This was no longer New York City, but a war zone, and we were still trying to count the dead.

I flew to Arlington seven days after the attacks to attend my father’s military funeral and burial at Arlington National Cemetery. There were other funerals that day as well, so many tears being shed for the brave men and women running our military. Every person I ran into hugged me, expressing their admiration and respect for my father. I was dizzy and annoyed because I wanted a private moment alone with my father and there never seemed to be a chance for that with all the people around, military and civilian personnel alike, all offering their condolences. Betty wanted to come with me but I made her stay in New York, in case there was any word on Mark’s body. They had to be able to find him.

But nobody ever called to tell me they did. I returned to my damaged city and took up the search again, staying up all night staring at the phone. I refused to accept that Mark was gone. Mark was too strong to be killed by this senselessness. I pressed on, not wanting to give up hope.

It was a hard, hard time for all of us. And Mark’s parents, wanting to lash out at someone, lashed out at me. They couldn’t understand why their son called me moments before he was possibly going to die and not them. They even wanted to fight me over his personal effects. After weeks of searching and hoping for some sort of good news, I finally got a call from someone in the ME’s office. I didn’t really think it would happen but someone had found his watch. I don’t even remember going down to the ME’s office to pick it up. The watch was given to me and Mark’s parents hit the roof. I hated to see them in pain over losing their son, but I felt they had no right to the watch.

Mark’s parents and I didn’t communicate much after that but Mark’s mother did call me not too long after the recovery of the watch to tell me they had received Mark’s death certificate.

After all this time, and no word about Mark being alive and no one having seen him, Mark’s parents spoke to the medical examiners and they all agreed.

He was dead.

I wanted so badly not to accept this but in the end, I flew to Raleigh, North Carolina for Mark’s memorial service. I didn’t get to see the death certificate, but I talked to a woman whom I had met at Ground Zero who was looking for her son. She had finally received a death certificate and she told me that homicide was given for cause of death. That chilled me to the bone, but what else could I call it? My Mark, my young, handsome, talented, beautiful future husband had been murdered.

I thought I would have a lifetime with Mark. I never in my wildest imaginings would have guessed that he would be murdered in a terrorist attack. And instead of having that lifetime with him, I ended up with only two years, eight months and the twenty-one minutes right before he died.

It wasn’t until I got our Verizon Wireless bill that I discovered I had been on the phone with him for twenty-one minutes. Mark called me at 9:15a.m. and hung up at 9:36a.m. Twenty-one minutes.

Do you know how many things you can do in twenty-one minutes?

The next day I sat on a plane, staring out the window, contemplating that question. As if I hadn’t done that enough already. I’ve had almost a year to experiment with those twenty-one minutes. I could leave my office in Midtown and walk down to the corner to get a coffee, glance over the magazines on the newsstand and return to my office in twenty one minutes. I have showered, shaved my legs, washed and conditioned my hair and brushed my teeth in twenty one minutes. I can read 11 pages in a paperback novel in twenty-one minutes.

I’ve done some unusual experiments, too. Did you know that you can recite the entire alphabet 168 times, or wash and rinse 231 dishes in twenty-one minutes?

You can also write I want to die on a sheet of paper 336 times in twenty-one minutes.

God, how did I get here? A little over a year ago I was a chic interior designer with an affluent client base and an amazing office on West 44th Street in Midtown Manhattan. I worked hard and I was a good friend. I tried to live a good life. What did I do to deserve to have the two men who meant the world to me ripped out of my life?

I kept going over it in my head, where I had fucked up. What, in the name of Almighty God, is the reason for this pain and suffering?

I shifted in my seat as the plane banked to the right. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t afraid to fly in light of what happened on September 11th. And with my frame of mind, I was just in the mood for somebody to start some trouble.

I am on my way to Hamburg, Germany. God, just thinking about that makes my stomach jump with a mix of excitement and fear. All my hard work, all those hours on the Internet, all those sleepless nights have finally paid off.

I never thought it would be possible, but I got a line on a terrorist cell. These fuckers were all over the place, all over the world, plotting and planning their evil. And since Hamburg was where the ringleader, Mohamed Atta and a few others operated out of, preparing for 9/11, I decided to start there.

I searched chat rooms and anti-American websites. I learned everything I could about al Qaeda and people with the same extremist, destructive Islamic view the hijackers had. I was looking for someone to befriend, someone to make a connection with, which was difficult. These people aren’t stupid. They are very wary and most of their websites are hard to find and even harder to get onto.

But I pressed on and after several weeks, I eventually met a man in one of the anti-American chat rooms I had found and made myself home in.

For three months this fellow and I have been talking, man to man, about our hatred for America and anything American. Most importantly, we talked about how September eleventh didn’t nearly teach the U.S. a lesson and how something more needed to be done, something on a grander, more attention-getting, life-taking scale.

His name is Khaled Akhbar, although I’m not sure that’s his real name. And he had made a wonderful friend in me, Ahmed Mohammed. I learned long before any of this nightmare happened that in order to defeat your enemy, you had to think like him.

You had to become him.

Ironic, isn’t it? That in order to see justice done, sometimes you have to pretend to be unjust.

But who else can I rely on to avenge my slain loved ones if I don’t? How can I go back to some semblance of a normal life knowing Mark and my father’s lives, and the lives of all who died that day, will just end up being statistics of the most horrifying terrorist attack on America’s soil?

Someone has to pay. I don’t get a chance to make those nineteen hijackers who orchestrated the attacks pay. But there are countless others out there who helped them in one way or another. They learned and continue to learn everything they can about us, their enemy, so that’s what I’m doing.

I have been robbed and raped. The most important things in my life have been taken from me. I have no more to lose.

And that makes me the most dangerous woman on the face of this earth.

I will be like a thief in the night. No one will ever know it was me.

I am going to Hamburg, Germany to kill Khaled Akhbar.

Chapter Two

Taking this time out to go to Germany was not going to be a problem as far as my work was concerned. My company, Bet-An Interior Design, was doing exceptionally well and I have Betty to thank for that, for I certainly have not contributed anything worthwhile to our company’s success in the past year.

Betty was such a wonderful friend. I felt bad over my lack of involvement in our work. But she never complained, never fussed. She did a great job handling everything herself and still managed to be the best friend a woman like me could ask for.

Betty Jean McAllister. She is the only reason I still believe in blessings.

I met Betty in high school and I think I knew right away that she and I would be friends forever. She had come up to me in the lunchroom, this tall, gorgeous, African-American girl with her black hair in thick cornrows and the most unusual light brown eyes. She was rounding up students to be in a play about Martin Luther King, Jr. during Black History Month. I felt honored that she asked me and we had a great time doing the play. Each day saw us getting closer and closer. Women can have female soul mates, too. The Celts have a term for it: Anam Cara. Soul Friend. That is what Betty was to me then and still is all these years later.

She and I had a lot in common. I wanted to be an interior designer and so did she. She had grown up in Virginia and ironically was an only child in a very large family of aunts, uncles and cousins. Both of her parents were doctors and there was a lot of old money on her mother’s side of the family so, all in all, I had a pretty rich best friend.

But she wasn’t spoiled and pretentious. She rummaged through the clothing racks at thrift shops looking for unique items and she brown bagged it sometimes instead of sneaking off campus to go to lunch on bad school-lunch days. She was generous and sweet but she didn’t take any shit from anyone. Daddy loved her to death, treating her just like a daughter and her family welcomed me into the fold with open arms. Each year saw our friendship getting stronger and stronger. We did all the clichéd things best friends do, like listening in when one of us had a cute boy on the phone or skipping school to go to the mall. We lost our virginity at the same time in twelfth grade and we very rarely made a decision without asking for the other’s opinion. When we graduated from high school we enrolled in the same college but after one semester, we dropped out and went to Europe. Both of our parents were not happy about that.

Betty and I actually did separate after our European trip. I decided to come back to the states after four weeks while Betty decided to stay in Milan, where she worked part-time for a haute couture designer, went to art school and fell in love with a gorgeous Italian painter who was way too old for her.

Being on different continents didn’t cause us to drift apart. We stayed in touch, sharing our lives, loves and heartaches. I traveled to Italy at least twice a year to see her and we had so much fun, caused so much mischief, I’m surprised we never got arrested. I graduated from college with degrees in business administration and interior design and moved to New York City. I found an apartment, an actual apartment, in SoHo, a few streets over from the historic district, and started to make my own way in the world. Betty moved from Milan to Rome, working for different designers, honing her own craft and getting pretty good in Italian.

By the time she came back to the U.S., six years had passed. I had my own interior design business and was doing pretty good in the Big Apple. We decided to go into business together and found the perfect spot on West 44th street, in the heart of Midtown. The building was occupied by other businesses but the entire 10th floor was completely vacant. It was 3,500 square feet of possibilities. We took a chance and bought the space and spent so much money renovating it, I had nightmares constantly that we were never going to get out from under the debt. But buying this space was one of the best decisions we ever made.

Before I left for the airport, I checked my e-mail messages and then typed in a message of my own to my new friend.

I am looking forward to meeting you at last. My plane lands in Hamburg at 10:30a.m. I will check in and get settled, then contact you to set up a meeting. You cannot know how excited I am for the opportunity to join up with people who share my beliefs, friends of the true martyr, Mr. Atta. Allah be praised! Your group inspires me. Finally, something is being done to show this godless country that they cannot get away with their sins. There is more work to be done. I want to be a part of it.

When I finished typing, I clicked the ‘send’ button and the e-mail message was sent to my al Qaeda friend.

It was killing me to talk like this, pretending to want to be recruited by al Qaeda. But this was the only way I could get any of them. September 11th has inspired many disillusioned Islams living all over the world. It’s like a good business, really. Take mine, for instance. At the very beginning, right out of college, I was just consulting on furniture for law offices or called on to help chose fabrics. When I started designing larger areas, they weren’t that serious, but I did the best job I could and then boom. Someone told someone else about what I did, and that person told another person and soon I was in the big leagues and our phone hasn’t stopped ringing since. People pay attention and get more involved when they see success. To many, September 11th marked the beginning of extraordinary things to come. The unbeatable dragon called America can be wounded. It does bleed. It opened the door, made them realize that what they believe in isn’t bullshit. That they can make things happen.

I hope Khaled Akhbar, or whatever his real name is, celebrated royally with his friends over the September 11th attacks. Because their lives are about to be snuffed out like the flame of a candle. For their part in the attacks, no matter how small it seems, they will soon be burning in a lake of fire with their hijacker buddies.

When I think of all the amazing and wonderful people who were killed in those attacks, I feel sick. There are children out there who will never know what strong men their fathers were, what beautiful women their mothers were. There are countless men and women like me who had been waiting their whole lives for the person they had finally found, only to have them ripped from their lives by a Boeing 757 or 767, either plowing through their place of work, or taking them on a horrifying detour and then plowing them straight into hell.

This plane, however, landed safely in Hamburg at 10:35:a.m and I disembarked. I had just flown a peaceful, uneventful overnight flight but I wasn’t able to sleep. I felt pretty rested, however, and was ready to get the ball rolling.

Hamburg, Germany is a beautiful city, very modern. A perfect port city for tourists and theater hounds alike. I’ve been here several times, mostly with my father when he was stationed in Heidelberg, Germany, and twice on my own for trade shows. As a matter of fact, there’s an art and antiques trade show here this week that I planned on visiting.

Betty and I live at these shows when we’re not working with clients. The European shows are our favorite. I retrieved my two pieces of luggage and got a taxi to the Hamburg Marriott Hotel. The hotel was right downtown. It had modern facilities that made it simple yet elegant. I got a double room with a spectacular view. I placed my bags in front of the bed and walked over to the window to look out at the city.

Hamburg had everything: shops with the latest fashions, museums, theaters playing the top shows, galleries and the finest restaurants. Two years ago, I would not have even come to the hotel upon my arrival here. I would have wanted to go shopping straight from the airport.

I don’t feel like that anymore. I barely shopped for pleasure now. Me, who used to have a separate closet just for my shoes! I made the consignment shop down the street from me very happy when I showed up with 39 boxes of expensive pumps, sandals and boots. Now I pretty much relied solely on my tall, black leather Anne Klein boots. The rest of my attire was stylish but efficient. I only wore black or any other dark color. I do wear makeup, but never anything dramatic, just mascara and lip gloss and a little dab of my compact for the oily spots.

I constantly asked myself if I wanted my old self back. God, could I even be her? I’ve always known there was ugliness and evil in the world but the level at which it arrived on my doorstep is unbelievable. It has completely changed me and I don’t think I’ll ever be who I used to be. The Anna Maria Dane I am now needs anti-depressant medication to get through the day, a pill to sleep at night and the only thing I care about is the only reason I am able to get my ass moving in the morning.

Revenge.

I pulled a couple of things out of one of my bags, ordered a sandwich from room service, fooled around a bit online and took my second shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, my laptop, which was open and sitting on the other bed, announced that I had an e-mail message. Wrapped in a white hotel towel, I sat down on the flowered bedspread and turned the computer toward me. I punched into my e-mail account and a half-smile teased my lips.

Khaled Akhbar had responded.

Allah is good! I was so happy to hear from you. So, you are here. You are actually here. The struggle goes on and on. We need more and more men like yourself to help carry out our cause. We have big plans that I am sure you will want to be a part of.

The anniversary of the attacks last year is coming up and the Americans will wish to honor their soulless dead. What a godless country. They honor themselves when Allah is to be honored and served.

Tomorrow morning I have classes at the university, but I am meeting with two friends at their apartment later. I have told both of them about you and they are eager to meet you as I am but they are a little nervous. So as a precaution, to ease their minds, I would like to meet you by myself first at a place of my choosing. I will contact you tomorrow with a location and time. Until then, may Allah guide your path.

I sighed and read the e-mail again. He was a smart fellow, this Khaled Akhbar, setting up a meeting with me by himself to be sure I’m on the level. I turned off my laptop and, still wrapped in my towel, walked back over to the window. By now the sun was setting. Hamburg was even more beautiful at night. I thought about my chats with Khaled over the past three months, thought about all the messages I have written; inflammatory, anti-American shit that would surely have me thrown in prison without a lawyer or a trial. But I had taken extra precautions with my laptop and my computer at home. Hell, my father worked for the United States government his whole life. Even though his work was mostly a mystery to me, I had managed to learn a few things from him and I knew what to do to ensure that my phone conversations and computer activity would not alert Big Brother.

As for this trip, no one knew why I was really here except Betty, who thought I was truly insane. The people who worked for us, our colleagues in the business and friends all thought I had come to Germany to go to the trade show here. And I did intend to show up.

I moved away from the window, dropped my towel and slipped on a white cotton shirt. I turned on the television and lay down on the bed, staring at it, but not paying attention to what was on. I needed to get some rest. I got up again and went into the bathroom for a cup of water. I came back out and dug through one of my bags and pulled out a bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills. I popped one in my mouth, washed it down with water and settled back again. Yes, I had a big day tomorrow.

Chapter Three

The next morning, I got up at nine. I showered and made some coffee in the maker in the bathroom. I opened my laptop and checked my e-mail messages. Khaled Akhbar had e-mailed me again sometime last night.

I have been thinking all evening about meeting you and even though my comrades do not trust you yet, I feel in my soul that you are a soldier for Allah. If I have offended you, I am truly sorry. The two of us have spent many evenings chatting about our mutual feelings and you coming all this way says a lot to me.

Below is the address of the restaurant where I would like to meet you, say at six? It is in a hotel and they have a very nice vegetarian menu. We can talk and maybe have some food. My friend’s address is below, just in case we are unable to meet at the restaurant. You can just meet me there at about seven. Once again, I am sorry for any offense I may have caused you.

I laughed like a crazy woman. Soldier for Allah indeed!

But I was very pleased with myself. I had spent several weeks building and cultivating an online relationship with this man and had managed to convince him that I believed as he did, that America needed to pay and pay some more. He was probably, as I sat here, trying his hardest to convince his friends that I would make a wonderful addition to the group. And he was willing to give me the address of his untrusting friends as a show of good faith.

But now I had a dilemma. I had only planned on killing Khaled Akhbar, but could I take out his friends, too?

I didn’t dwell too much on that. I typed my response to Khaled. I would most definitely meet him. I was not offended, I told him. I was comforted in knowing that they were so cautious. After I sent my message, I logged into the Yahoo web portal and typed in ’September 11th ’ on the search line and chose a website that carried photos of that day’s horror. Ah, this is what I needed, the raw reminder of why I was here. I’m supposed to be taking my Zoloft to keep my depression and post-traumatic stress under control, but most days all I need are these terrifying images. News coverage of the attacks of September 11, 2001. The World Trade Center. The Pentagon. The crash of United Airlines Flight 93 in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

I stared at the North Tower’s hole as if seeing it for the first time. I imagined Mark inside there, trapped on the 86th floor, struggling for air, struggling to get out. I thought of the bodies falling to the pavement 100 feet below. Charred, dismembered body parts strewn all over the street. None of these people had known what hit them, not even knowing any of this was waiting for them when they left for work or stepped on one of those planes that day.

I found footage of The Pentagon. A whole side of the eight-sided building was completely caved in. When you think of The Pentagon, you think of a formidable fortress. Impenetrable. Impregnable. But it wasn’t, was it? I looked at the footage thinking of my father trapped beneath hundreds of pounds of rubble, still not understanding why he was in that part of the building in the first place. I closed my eyes tightly, allowing fresh anger to settle over me like a warm blanket.

I knew this wasn’t healthy, constantly reliving this nightmare. But I couldn’t help it. I needed to keep seeing it, keep feeling it. To me, 9/11 was a wound I wanted to keep open.

I switched off the computer and reached for the telephone book on the night table between the two beds. I searched for the phone number of the hotel Khaled told me to meet him at later and dialed it up. The nice woman answered in German on the other end so I spoke to her in German, knowing she most likely spoke English as well. I inquired about a room and was able to get one. When she asked my name, I told her it was Molly Jenkins. She asked if I was American and I laughed, saying I was. We then started speaking in English. I dug through my purse for my wallet and pulled out an American Express card with the name Molly Jenkins etched into it. In no time, I was set for check-in that afternoon.

It’s amazing how easy it is to create a new identity with a birth certificate and a deceased person’s social security number. And of course it helps knowing the right shady people who could work some amazing fraudulent magic. This credit card would never be traced back to me.

I stood up from the bed and ran my hands through my damp hair. I put on some underwear and black tights, then chose black slacks and a blazer from my bag. Beneath the blazer, I chose to wear a light blue striped shirt with French cuffs. I donned everything and slipped on my boots. I brushed out my hair and let it curl softly over my shoulders.

After dabbing some lip gloss on my lips and mascara on my already long eyelashes, I grabbed my purse and left the room. It was half past ten.

I strolled through downtown Hamburg, choosing to walk to the trade show. It had started at nine this morning, but people usually didn’t show up until noon. That was going to work out fine because I wasn’t just going to the trade show to see art decoratives. I was actually going there to meet someone.

Downtown Hamburg was alive with activity. It was September but the weather was warm, the sky clear. Even this early, there were people out and about, tourists and residents alike, either going to work or shopping or to have breakfast. I walked for several blocks, stopping in a small café for a cup of coffee to take with me, then continued on my way, taking my time, stopping in just about every shop window along the street. I stopped in front of a sporting goods store and peered in the window. There was a window display with two mannequins kicking a soccer ball. I looked further into the store and saw that it carried all sorts of sporting items; footballs and soccer balls, even baseball uniforms and bats. My curiosity piqued, I opened the door and went inside.

There were pictures on the walls of famous athletes I did not recognize but there were pictures of ones I did, like Babe Ruth and Michael Jordan. There were boxing gloves and a punching bag in one corner and above them a huge poster of Muhammad Ali.

That one is our biggest seller, he said in perfect English, pointing to the poster of the champion boxer. I looked at the series of baseball bats in a box not too far away.

Has baseball become big here in Germany?

Oh yes, the tall, gray-haired man said and smiled welcomingly. There are many teams here, professional teams, just like in the United States. You are American?

I nodded. Yes, I am.

Well, I don’t know if we can compare to your leagues, but they are very good.

I swung my head in the direction of the baseball bats. I would love to get a baseball souvenir for my nephew back home. He loves baseball and it would make his day to get something authentic from another country.

The old shopkeeper grinned. I’ll bet he was looking at me and seeing me as someone he could push a lot of goods on. And he did. Jerseys with German teams stenciled on them, balls that were signed by players, posters and such. And, of course, I bought all of it. As long as I was able to purchase one of those aluminum baseball bats I would’ve bought the whole store.

I arrived at the convention hall at eleven-thirty with my bag of sports goodies. I was on the list of attendees, representing my business back in New York. I signed in and received my name badge. There were a couple of guards at the entrance who used metal detectors to run over my purse, the bag from the sporting goods store and over my body. They wanted to keep the bag of sporting paraphernalia up front with them but all I had to do was bat my Mel Gibson-blues at the two tall men, smile pleasantly and explain how much my imaginary nephew loved baseball. They allowed me to take the bag with me without further questions.

This convention hall was big enough to hold about 60 exhibitors and it was packed. There were some beautiful antiques on display here. As a matter of fact, I saw a beautiful bleached oak chest that one of our clients would have loved. I made a mental note of the exhibitor and kept walking on. My contact said he would meet me here at noon. I still had a few minutes but headed to the meeting spot anyway.

There was a stairwell toward the back of the convention hall. I eased my way through the door, thankful that the emergency alarm had been disengaged and walked down the stairs, two levels. My heels were loud on the metal steps and echoed in the dim, concrete-walled stairwell. When I made it to the bottom, I leaned against the railing and waited.

I kept looking at my watch. I think I had about fifteen minutes to wait and I’ll tell you, those were some long minutes. At noon, I heard the door open above me and footsteps coming down. I looked up at a gentleman who was probably in his early forties. He was wearing a black leather bomber jacket, zipped up to the neck. He had close-cropped black hair that was graying at the temples and brown eyes. He wore dark jeans and black sneakers. He had a gold hoop in his right ear and he had stopped on the steps and studied me as I studied him. I didn’t know who he was but my instincts told me that he was the person I was supposed to be meeting here.

How all this came about was a lucky thing. Several weeks ago, I overheard a client who was in our office on her cell phone talking to someone, wondering how to secure a particular kind of gun for someone she knew. Normally this would have alarmed me. I run a respectable business and don’t usually overhear my clients talking about obtaining firearms. And suffice it to say, this particular client was a very classy woman. But you have to understand my frame of mind at the time. Overhearing her, to me then, was a godsend and I couldn’t help but corner her later to try to find out who this person was so they could get a gun for me.

At this time, I had been talking to Khaled Akhbar and made up my mind to do something but knew I would never be able to get a gun - or anything perceived to be a weapon - on an airplane. My client was a little reluctant, but I assured her I would never do anything to get her into trouble. So she put me into contact with her friend and after an interrogation worthy of a military tribunal, the friend still did not give me the name and phone number of the acquaintance, but made an appointment for me to see him. I was to pick the place, any place, and she would do the rest.

So, here we are in the stairwell of the trade show I had chosen, sizing each other up. My eyes didn’t waver from him. After about a minute and a half he came down the stairs and stood in front of me, towering over me about a foot. He spoke in French.

Are you looking for something?

My client’s friend had asked me if I spoke French because the person would probably want to converse in it, sort of a way of identifying me. Again, I thought this was a strange coincidence. I answered the man in French, Something very important.

He snatched my bag from the sporting goods store and he roughly riffled through it. He dropped the bag down on the cement floor and began frisking me. I obligingly held out my arms, my eyes never leaving his hard face.

He was very thorough in his search, and I do mean thorough. But I didn’t care. He moved all around me, patting me down everywhere, front and back.

You’re very beautiful, he said, still in French, as he came back around me.

Thank you.

Now, what is it you think I can give to you? he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, the leather creaking with the movement.

I’m sure you already know. I need something that will help me take care of the asshole who killed my father.

The man nodded in understanding, having heard that reason from the person who set this appointment up. It wasn’t exactly what I was going to do but it was close enough. He smiled at me and when he spoke again it was in English.

You’re tough, aren’t you?

I answered him in English. No, I said, I just like to see justice served. And sometimes if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.

He chuckled; I could tell he admired that. He unzipped his jacket and reached into the inside pocket. He pulled out a silver 9mm handgun.

SIG? I asked.

He looked at me and nodded. It’s a P226 nine millimeter. He held it up, turning it so that I could see it front and back. It had a silencer attached to it. It was beautiful.

I figured for the type of killing you want to do, he explained, reverting back to French, you’ll want something silent. Something that will get the job done right.

The man handed the gun to me and I took it, weighing it in my hand, pointing it a few times. There was some weight to it, but nothing I couldn’t handle. How traceable is it?

Well, it will never be traced back to you as long as you dispose of it properly and leave no prints. It definitely will not be traced back to me. There are no serial numbers, no registration, and no record of its existence. You’re safe as long as you cover yourself.

I shook my head incredulously, remembering my frisk out there at the entrance. I don’t even want to know how you got in here with it.

Do you want the gun?

Yes.

Was the price discussed with you?

I nodded and handed the gun back to him for a moment while I unzipped my purse. I pulled out a long white envelope and handed it to him. He gave me back the gun and opened the envelope, flipping through the bills in it. Nodding satisfactorily, he stuffed the envelope inside his jacket and when his hand emerged again he was holding a small box which he handed to me. It was the clips for the gun, more than enough for what I planned to do. I took them and shoved them and the gun into my purse, a huge, black leather Coach Bucket purse that I had had for years.

To get out of here, the