O Little Town of Bethlehem

O Little Town of Bethlehem

A Christmas Tale of A Pius Man

Randell Schwerdt, arms dealer, occasional "interrogator" for hire, and all around unpleasant soul, awoke to having his world turned upside down.

Literally.

For a quick, hopeful moment, Randell had thought he would wake up any time now. After all, why would the only illumination in the area be red and green lights? Or that, better yet, he would find that this was a dream where he could consciously subvert gravity. That hope was strangled in its crib as he looked towards his feet, and found a rope securing his arms and torso to a railing above him.

And, the red and green lights were explained by the distinctive spire of the Empire State Building, which he could see between his patent leather wingtips.

And then, Randell did the most logical thing that came to mind. He screamed.

Someone popped out for a look over the rail. "Ah, good, you're awake!" he said, in an overly cheerful voice. It was a young man, with a bright, cheerful smile, bright cheerful blue eyes, and a bright, shining knife held casually in one hand.

"You may not know me, sir, but my name is Sean A.P. Ryan, of Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates. I wondered if you and I could have a chat about you upsetting one of my clients."

Randell screamed again. There were some curses, some pleas, and some threats that he was in no position to follow through on.

"Oh, stop screaming, I bribed the guards up here to take a coffee break. Where was I? Oh, yes, believe it or not, sir, I actually like this client," Ryan continued. "He pays his bills on time, pays for his drinks, and I don't have to itemize my bill for him. And counting bullets and yards of rope is just so tedious, don't you think?"

Sean Ryan started to absentmindedly twirled the knife between his fingers. "Now, you have irritated my good and dear friend a lot lately. You may remember the fingers you recently received in the mail? Five left thumbs? I sent them overnight delivery, so you should have gotten them."

"What do you want?" Randell screamed at him, his thick German accent making it sound more like vat do you vant?

"First of all, I want an accent just like yours. Very Bela Lugosi. Second, I want you to leave my client alone. Now, I can either turn you over to the authorities, and hope that the justice system throws you under Guantanamo Bay, or ..."

The knife Sean held swiped very close to the rope on its next twirl. Randell gave a bark of fear.

"Can you give me one good reason," Ryan continued, "to let you leave here without being cleaned up in a soup container?"

"I have information!" Randell answered, his words caught in the wind.

Ryan only caught part of it, but enough. "Convince me," Ryan told him.

After fifteen minutes of screaming, Randell had successfully convinced Ryan that yes, what he had was worthwhile information.

"Thanks," Ryan told him. "I'm sure that's worth some cash along the line. Maybe a favor. Yes, favors are worth more, in the long run." He smiled and straightened. "Thanks a lot Randell. You're worth something, at the end of the day. Who knew? Bye."

Sean Ryan cut the rope holding Randell to the railing, and walked away, to the soundtrack of Randell's screams. As Sean walked back inside, and into the elevator, he pressed the button for the lobby. He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, and pondered from whom he could get the most value for the information ...

And the authorities will be so surprised to see him dangling from the bungie cord in the morning ... Sean blinked. Oh dear, did I forget to tie him to the bungee cord? I would hate to have done that again. I'll see when I hit bottom. If he beat me to the street, I'll know it.

T

Two weeks after Randell Schwerdt fell from the upper levels of the Empire State Building, the arms dealer's most recent client, Omar Siddiqui, stared at the new infiltration specialist, Abdel Hussein Muhammed.

"Are you saying you cannot do it?" Siddiqui asked, looming over Abdel. It was easy for Siddiqui, at 5'11" and rail thin, to tower over the 5'8" Abdel.

Abdel blinked a few times, and looked up at Siddiqui. And then he cringed back, hoping not to get his eye poked out by Siddiqui's sharp, hawk-like nose. "I did not say that. I said that you are asking much from me in a very short amount of time." Siddiqui growled, tempted to strike the little man, but merely scoffed and turned away. "Our last man had been caught in an Israeli air strike. We reached out to our Syrian brethren for a replacement." He glared over his shoulder at Abdel. "We got you."

The Palestinian looked over Abdel; he was not only smaller than they had expected, he was also darker. Abdel's hair was black, his eyes so dark they might as well have been black, and his pigmentation was less the dusky tones of Palestine, and more the darker shades of their brethren in Indonesia.

Omar Siddiqui waited only another thirty seconds as Abdel studied the plans. "Well?"

"It is not impossible," Abdel said. "The Church of the Nativity should not be too hard. Do you want to drop the building into the grotto below?"

"That would be preferable. And perhaps seal it in or destroy it permanently."

Abdel nodded. "It shouldn't be difficult to get both the Basilica and the Church of St. Catherine next door. There is a silver star beneath the altar, in the Grotto of the Nativity, that is supposed to mark the birthplace of Jesus. The center of the star is hollow. We can fill that with plenty of explosives." Abdul looked up at Siddiqui. "Should I ask where those are? And how much we have?"

"Enough to suit our needs," he answered tersely. Siddiqui looked at his longtime partner in freedom fighting, Farah Shariq. Farah was built like many structures in the area—large, and almost carved out of stone. Farah nodded, and moved directly behind Abdel.

The Syrian expert looked up at them. "You're in my light."

Siddiqui smiled. "You know much about Christians and their places of idolatry."

Abdel smiled right back at him. "I spend my free time studying targets that would best be blown up. These are places I can drive to without too many checkpoints. Now, the explosives?"

"They will be ready the night we are to move. Look at the other targets."

Abdel shook his head, sighed, and went back to the blueprints spread out on the table before him. It was an impressive list of targets. The Church of the Nativity was a major tourist attraction in the center of the city. Another target was where the so-called Holy Family stopped on their way to Egypt. And then there was the Jacir Palace, a hundred-year-old hotel.

"Some of our people have objected to the attack because this Jesus is supposed to be a prophet before Mohammed (blessed be his name). We have ... disposed of them."

"I can just imagine," Abdel murmured.

"Do you have any such objections?"

Abdel spared Siddiqui a glance. "This city is not considered one of our Holy Cities. And while the Koran says many complimentary things about Jesus of Nazareth, it says very few things about those who would follow after the man. Though I should ask if you want to do this."

Siddiqui arched a brow. He looked at Abdel down his sharp nose. "How so?"

"This city is based on tourism, which we will essentially destroy. It is a part of the West Bank. In 2008, this was the city used to secure over a billion dollars for Palestinian business investments." Abdel shrugged. "If you wish it, I will be happy to help."

"Who needs infidel money?"

Abdel said nothing, and went back to the maps. He made a few notes, circling all of the areas of interest within the structures themselves. "I hope you have a lot of explosives."

"We have enough TCAP to level all of these buildings and more."

Abdel merely nodded. TCAP went by other names. TATP, triacetone triperoxide, peroxyacetone, and, simplest of all, acetone peroxide. Even Abdel knew that Omar Siddiqui had a cousin who was a hairdresser—it practically guaranteed unlimited access to the key ingredients without setting off any regulatory alarms.

After another minute of looking over the plans, Abdel asked, "What about detonators?"

"Mercury fulminate. Radio detonation."

"So you'll need observers to make certain that the shrines are full, and the hotels. Do you have that many people?"

"We have enough."

Abdel sighed, and pushed back from the desk, and stood. He paused, briefly, to make certain that the bathrobe he had been given was well fastened. "Since I've arrived, I have put up with a lot. I didn't mind the blindfold. I didn't mind being stripped and searched as a precaution. I didn't mind being forced to wear a bathrobe during my entire time here. But if you're going to deny me information that is vital to understanding how you're going to pull this off, then you can blindfold me again, give me back my clothes, and get me out of here."

Siddiqui and Fahar exchanged a glance, and each of them did some political mathematics. Killing a prized Syrian operative, who was on loan, counted high in the list of the top five Really Bad Ideas. And they couldn't let him leave with knowledge of their plans. "We will agree to do this, but you cannot leave our presence, and you will be escorted by one of our men at all times. We will shower together, we will eat together, we will all sleep in the same room together. And you will not disobey a direct order."

Abdel smiled. "Funny, I was going to tell you the last one as well." He looked over at the muscle-bound Farah. "If you're going to be my babysitter, you better have walking shoes. We are going to walk over every inch of these sites." He glanced back at Siddiqui. "And you had better make certain that all of your explosives are tightly sealed. If the authorities become alerted to my presence because a bomb sensor caught a whiff of what we're carting around, this operation is over. Third ... someone get my my suitcase. I doubt you have the requisite music."

Farah blinked, and looked to Siddiqui. His old friend nodded, and Farah reached into the closet and pulled out the case. It had been thoroughly search and examined. There were no electronic devices, only clothing, dying chemicals, and audio cassettes.

Abdel reached into the suitcase, grabbed an audio tape, and slipped it into the stereo in the corner. He knew it would be there because he had sent word ahead that they have one in the room. And he wasn't going to ask about a CD player or an iPod in the West Bank.

Abdel pressed the play button. The tape started to play "Angels We Have Heard On High".

Farah's lip curled up in a snarl. "You would bring that music into our—"

"As of now," Abdel said calmly, "we are all Palestinian Christians. We will play the music of their holiday. We will attend their church services on Sundays. We will not attend services at Mosque. We will be perfectly, visibly, not of Islam. And when we are done, I promise you, this plan will be successfully executed without even a whisper to the outside world, until their buildings are in rubble. Am I understood?"

Siddiqui sighed. "Yes. We understand. But this had better work. And you had better be ready by the twenty-fourth of December."

M

By the third shipment of Christmas Eve, Fahar was nearly ready to throw the tape of Christmas music out the window. It was not only the third delivery, it was also the third truck, the third costume, and the third accent that Abdel Hussein Muhammed had put on that day.

The music aside, Fahar had to admit he was impressed by the little man named Abdel. It was only seven in the morning. Abdel had been a West Bank maintenance man at the Church of the Nativity at five in the morning, bringing in barrels of cleaning supplies. At six, Abdel had been a Priest from Gaza in the Church of St. Catherine, delivering "communion wine." And now, Abdel was a Jordanian expatriate delivery man bringing barrels of "cleaning detergent" to the hotel.

This trip required more men, though. This was the Jacir Palace, and it was a large hotel, made of solid stonework and more spread out than the two churches, which were taller than they were wide. Abdel also had more places to put strategic explosives in the churches than he did elsewhere.

Abdel walked inside with all of the other crewmen.

Abdel handled this like all of the other jobs. He personally held onto the detonators until all of the explosives were in place. Acetone peroxide wasn't the most stable explosive in the universe, so, there was no need to keep the detonators anywhere near the sealed barrels until the last minute.

Abdel kept Farouq nearby as his "number two," as he told the hotel manager. Farouq had been very competent in mixing the explosives. He was an expert at it, as evidenced by the fact that he still had all of his fingers. Farouq was tall and handsome, and probably could have made a decent living as a model. Abdel had encouraged him to grow his hair out for the duration of the operation, growing out into a becoming ponytail.

Farouq leaned into Abdel and whispered, "Why are you bringing in all of the barrels?"

Abdel looked at him not unkindly, more the look one would give to a child who was trying really hard, but still not getting it. "When we discover that we have delivered twice as much 'detergent' as we need to, that will give us the excuse to come back, and I can arm all of the detonators."

"Why don't you let me do that?"

Abdel smiled. "Kind of you, but if something goes wrong, I'd rather be the one with my head in the noose. I'm more experienced at getting out of it than you are."

Abdel saw that the last barrel was heading down the loading dock. He smiled at Farouq. "Time to discover the 'mistake.' " Abdel then headed after the barrel, jogging down the ramp.

When he got within five feet of the door, an alarm sounded. The one carting the last barrel froze just inside the door as the security gate came crashing down, locking everyone inside.

Abdel skidded to a stop, nearly crashing into the security gate. He growled, and pounded the door once with his fist. He turned and started running up the ramp. "Farouq, who sealed the barrels?"

"The men did. I don't understand—"

"Someone screwed up." Abdel grabbed his arm as he ran past. "The bomb detectors caught of whiff of the stuff. Damn, I knew this would happen. Come on, back to the truck. We need to get out of here and make do with the targets we have."

Farouq made it to the truck first, and Abdel slid in next to him. "Drive, Fahar, now!"

The body-building Palestinian said nothing, but hit the gas pedal immediately. Farouq started to explain the screwup as Abdel twisted in his seat and pushed his upper body out the back window.

Farouq was just about to get to the explanation of bomb detectors when Fahar noticed Abdel. "What are you doing?"

"Releasing the trailer. We'll move faster. The only fingerprints on it are the men we left behind, and mine. And no one has mine on file. Not even the damned Israeli Mossad."

Y

Imi Morgenstern, head of the Mossad, looked up from his novel as his secretary Joseph Janosh entered the room. "Can I help you, JJ?"

"I hate to interrupt your lunch, but—"

"Yes?"

"You remember the truck carrying those explosives in Bethlehem? I think it was connected to that tip from Sean Ryan a few weeks ago."

Imi gave JJ a half smile. "How can you tell?"

"Fingerprints came back from the truck's release handle." JJ handed him the report.

Imi studied it a moment, and let out a smile. "You see, JJ, this is why you never ignore any intelligence that comes in. Even if it comes from a madman."

"What should we do?"

Imi shrugged. "It's the West Bank. It's not our problem, now is it?"

X

That evening, the remaining men of the terrorist cell had been reformed around a new plan. This plan had been reminiscent of the Mumbai attacks of years before. Instead of multiple attacks, it would be one, concentrated blow, focused more on the body count than on the quantity of places destroyed.

Abdel had outlined the plan. The bombs would go off in the Church of the Nativity and St. Catherine's, the church next door. The crowds would come out in droves, driven by panic. An additional explosive device would remove the large Christmas tree in the center of Manger Square. The tree would topple, and block the path of one church door, sealing everyone inside as it all burned.

The other church would empty out into the square, into the path of several well positioned men with automatic weapons.

Five minutes into the start of mass, Farouq stood in Manger Square, outside of the Church of the nativity, standing next to the Christmas tree. At the opposite end of the square was one of the shooters brought in for the project—some random member of the Palestinian Authority who was good with an Ingram Mac-10.

Abdel was at the outside of the crowd, also issued a Mac-10. The weapons were small enough to be easily concealed. Fahar and Omar Siddiqui were both positioned at the second floor windows of buildings at opposite ends of the square. Nothing was going to go wrong ...

Omar sat in the dark, waiting. The plan was going to start in two minutes. He held his Mac-10 casually.

"I think the plan's over."

Omar turned, and nearly shot Abdel, dressed in the dark green that the entire cell had adopted for this mission. The little man crouched down, rummaging through the bag of equipment "What are you doing, you stupid little man?"

"I'm aborting the mission," Abdel said, not even looking at Omar. "Things are going to go wrong. We should have called game over when things went bad this morning."

Omar growled. He stood, slowly stalking his way to Abdel. "I have had enough of you. For weeks, I have put up with your Christmas music, your pretending to be Christian, your annoying, little, games! You are done. Get back to position, now!"

Omar pressed his gun to the back of Abdel's head, and the smaller man only said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Oh? Really?" he pulled the trigger.

Omar had barely heard the dull click when Abdel swept up the entire bag of equipment, torquing his entire body into what was essentially an uppercut that started from his ankles, slamming the bag into the side of Omar's head.

"Because I'm the one who dropped the guns off, you twit." Abdel picked up another gun from the bag, and held it a moment. He looked at the Christmas lights outside, and said in a voice tinged in a German accent, "And now I have a machine-gun. Ho. Ho. Ho."

He looked at the gun. "Nah." Abdel slung the bag over his shoulder and sped outside.

M

Outside, Farouq pressed the button for the detonators.

There were two explosions at that point. One was at the tree, as planned. The other was at the small of Farouq's back, which was not.

The tree toppled, as planned ... only it toppled on top of the Palestinian Authority solder, making him disappear into the conifer like Charlie Brown's kite.

From his own perch, the muscular Fahar blinked, wondering what was going on. He raised his gun, only to hear a voice behind him say, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Fahar turned, his Mac-10 raised ... and leveled on Abdel's forehead. "You. What did you do?"

Abdel shrugged. "I slipped mercury detonators into the back of Farouq's belt. Those things have the power to take off someone's hand if not handled properly. The damage dealt to someone's spine when handled correctly is ... unpleasant."

Fahar growled, and pressed the trigger of the Mac-10. The stock of the gun promptly exploded. Hot metal sheared up Fahar's forearm, and lodged in his bicep.