Nazarene Eleven

Since his blessed meeting with Moamar Qaddafi in Tripoli, Osama Bin Laden had spent more than three years absorbed by his fixation. What had started out as a simple plan, on a single sheet of A4 paper, had escalated into a conspiracy of which he was rightly proud.

His hidden army of conscripts had grown to thousands, covering every town, big and small, throughout the United States of America. His shrouded web, when triggered at its nerve center, would spread utter chaos into every corner of the infidel's banking system. He had left nothing to chance. Or so he thought!

Now a message had arrived that signaled a dire threat to the hatching of his plot.

As he continued to stare at the message, his inner rage was smoldering, close to erupting into its outer merciless form. The 'king of all the terrorist world' read the message several times more before he reached a decision. Right now, he couldn't see any other way out of the mess.

Picking up his cell phone from the wrought-iron lounger, he punched in the series of numbers that he'd held committed to memory for more than a decade. He knew that the line was secure, despite his 'mole' being at the heart of the infidel's FBI. The phone on the other side of the world rang only twice before his 'mole' came on the line.

"Hello".

"Where did the message originate?"

"I regret to say it, number-one. From San Diego".

"How many people know about the leak?"

"Hard to say. Maybe only the one. Maybe all".

"We must plug the leak. I need to see you now".

"That's impossible, number-one".

"Make it possible".

"At such short notice, I can only send my best operative".

"Is he aware".

"Of the real plan? Of course not!"

"Who is he?"

"This is a secure line, but you know how things are".

"Send him to me now. I'll expect him within twenty-four hours".

"How can I send him to you when I don't even know where you're based! And you don't know what he looks like!"

"He'll be met at Istanbul airport. Tell him to ask for John Smith at the Lufthansa check-in counter. I'll look after him from there".

"That's a really creative name, number-one!"

"Just make the arrangements. Twenty-four hours".

Bin Laden looked at his watch, and promptly pushed the red button to cut the flow of words. Even if the line were not secure, the infidels would not have had enough time to trace the call.

Bin Laden was livid that the veil covering the nerve center of his web had been polluted. His entire deception balanced precariously on the veil remaining undetected. The West had to be kept focused on the obvious but false threat, in the run in to the New Millennium. If they remained unaware of the 'Doppler strain', the infidels would finish up as willing aids in their own destruction!

He was unhappy to wait for twenty-four more hours before beginning to fix the mess, but then decided that the minor delay didn't matter. He had already made his final decision, about the action needed to plug the leak. He'd quickly conceded that all the web's veil had to be obliterated. He also knew that there could be no trace of foul play, or the web behind the veil would be put at risk of exposure. The obliteration would have to appear to be self-inflicted.

Bin Laden began to plan a mass suicide.

As he briefly emerged from the shadows, a mirthless grin spread across his face. The hit man recalled the baby-face looks of the street kid. He had taken time to enjoy his fill before he'd inhumanely ended her wretched life. He had not left the body in the ally-way. The hit man intentionally left it propped up against a fire hydrant on the sidewalk. He hoped that the badly mutilated body would be his bait, that would switch police focus . . . at least for the time that he needed!

He was a long way from home. A heavy suitcase and holdall were slowing his normally confident stride. Having spent fifteen minutes with 'baby-face', he was now straining to reach his final destination on time. As he turned left into Gale Street, he struggled by a sleazy all-night diner. The wafted smell of stale food almost caused him to retch. He couldn't afford any more delay, so the beckoning smile of a lonely and shapely target didn't tempt him to enter the diner. With his perverse needs already satiated, the hit man was bent on starting the true purpose for his trip.

Being three-o'-clock in the morning, there was very little activity out on the streets. Slowing to an amble at the next intersection, he waited until there were no cars or pedestrians in sight. Scuttling across the road, he melted into the deeper shadow cast by a bus shelter. He'd established that the main-gate to the estate would be heavily patrolled. He had been warned. His target had only moved into a rented house within the enclave because of the excellent twenty-four hour security. His arrival had to be without warning.

From the darkness of the shadows, he could now see the brightly-lit entrance to Rancho Sante Fe. It was some eighty yards distant. Putting the suitcase on the ground, the hit man removed a pair of night-vision binoculars from the holdall that was strapped on his back. He began to carefully assess the main gate. He knew that was the swiftest method of entry, for him to carry out his instructions.

The hit man had been briefed that Rancho Sante Fe was one of the most exclusive enclaves in America. Housing up to five thousand of the nation’s wealthiest within its high walls, the enclave was a much sought after address. To downplay immense wealth, owners called their secure enclave simply 'The Ranch'. What the hit man did not know was the extent of patrolling within the grounds of the sprawling estate. He prayed that there would be no dogs.