acid, and machine oil. These went on top of the drums. He then found a hammer and used the claw end to breach each drum at the midpoint of height.
Fuel spilled out over the floor, the acrid stink tearing at Moustafa's nasal passages. He found a clean rag and held it over his nose and mouth. Next, he took the three packages from his satchel. He knew nothing of the formula that had been used, but Moustafa immediately recognized a smell similar to that of fireworks. The bundles were tightly wrapped in plastic, the simple fuses exposed. He placed them with care, one near each drum.
Moustafa stepped back and evaluated his work. As he did, his senses were keen for any disturbances outside. He heard nothing worrisome. As he reached into his pocket for one of the two butane lighters, sweat dripped into his eyes despite the cool air. He flicked the lighter and a flame sparked obediently to life. But then Moustafa snuffed it and cursed under his breath. He had nearly forgotten the last step.
He pocketed the lighter and looked straight up. In most buildings, dealing with the sprinklers might pose a problem -- the spray heads were obvious enough, but pipes were often hidden, concealed above painted drywall or a lattice of Styrofoam ceiling panels. Here, however, in a factory setting, all Moustafa had to do was track the lines visually. He followed a series of painted metal pipes through joints and connections, searching for the main line. He felt like he was surveying some massive circulatory system, and in a sense he was -- in the event of a fire, these were the arteries that would carry the building s emergency lifeblood.
It took only two minutes. A larger section of pipe led down along one wall and into the concrete slab. There, just above ground level, was a simple valve with a circular handle. It was even labeled for his convenience: emergency sprinkler shutoff. Like turning off a garden hose , he thought. Moustafa turned the valve full clockwise until it stopped. He considered using the hammer to break the pipe above the valve, but Moustafa decided against it, reasoning that he didn't want the water already overhead in the system lines to flood down across the floor. It seemed logical enough.
He went back to the drums and flicked his lighter again. Moustafa worked quickly now, an effort to keep the explosions nearly simultaneous. He had been told this was not critical, but Moustafa took pride in his work. The six fuses, two for each package, were simplicity itself -- a cigarette, and secured around it with plastic cable ties, four matches, the phosphorous tips grouped at mid-length. He had practiced at the apartment and found the configuration to be incredibly reliable, the cigarettes turning to ash at a rate that would give him between four and five minutes. In an idle moment, the accountant in him had calculated that each complete fuse had cost twenty-eight cents, most of this going to the American government as a tobacco tax. A delicious irony.
Moustafa lit the fuses in a flurry and ran out the same way he had entered -- the back door and the hole in the fence. Once in the street, he slowed to a quick walk and did not pause to admire his work. Not yet. Two blocks away he heard the explosion. Still, he did not look back. Instructions. Get away immediately. Soon Moustafa would be needed for another task, his martyrs mission, and nothing could jeopardize this.
Only upon reaching his car, near a deserted warehouse four blocks away, did he venture a look back. Colson Industries, whatever it was, was out of business. Flames licked high above the roof, their pulsing orange glow reflected in the thick haze above. Moustafa felt pride in his success. But he also felt a tugging sorrow, apprehension. In a matter of days there would be another fire, similar he supposed. And that spectacle would represent his funeral pyre, his departure from this world.
Moustafa turned away, not wanting to watch. He would do his sacred duty. Allah
Fuel spilled out over the floor, the acrid stink tearing at Moustafa's nasal passages. He found a clean rag and held it over his nose and mouth. Next, he took the three packages from his satchel. He knew nothing of the formula that had been used, but Moustafa immediately recognized a smell similar to that of fireworks. The bundles were tightly wrapped in plastic, the simple fuses exposed. He placed them with care, one near each drum.
Moustafa stepped back and evaluated his work. As he did, his senses were keen for any disturbances outside. He heard nothing worrisome. As he reached into his pocket for one of the two butane lighters, sweat dripped into his eyes despite the cool air. He flicked the lighter and a flame sparked obediently to life. But then Moustafa snuffed it and cursed under his breath. He had nearly forgotten the last step.
He pocketed the lighter and looked straight up. In most buildings, dealing with the sprinklers might pose a problem -- the spray heads were obvious enough, but pipes were often hidden, concealed above painted drywall or a lattice of Styrofoam ceiling panels. Here, however, in a factory setting, all Moustafa had to do was track the lines visually. He followed a series of painted metal pipes through joints and connections, searching for the main line. He felt like he was surveying some massive circulatory system, and in a sense he was -- in the event of a fire, these were the arteries that would carry the building s emergency lifeblood.
It took only two minutes. A larger section of pipe led down along one wall and into the concrete slab. There, just above ground level, was a simple valve with a circular handle. It was even labeled for his convenience: emergency sprinkler shutoff. Like turning off a garden hose , he thought. Moustafa turned the valve full clockwise until it stopped. He considered using the hammer to break the pipe above the valve, but Moustafa decided against it, reasoning that he didn't want the water already overhead in the system lines to flood down across the floor. It seemed logical enough.
He went back to the drums and flicked his lighter again. Moustafa worked quickly now, an effort to keep the explosions nearly simultaneous. He had been told this was not critical, but Moustafa took pride in his work. The six fuses, two for each package, were simplicity itself -- a cigarette, and secured around it with plastic cable ties, four matches, the phosphorous tips grouped at mid-length. He had practiced at the apartment and found the configuration to be incredibly reliable, the cigarettes turning to ash at a rate that would give him between four and five minutes. In an idle moment, the accountant in him had calculated that each complete fuse had cost twenty-eight cents, most of this going to the American government as a tobacco tax. A delicious irony.
Moustafa lit the fuses in a flurry and ran out the same way he had entered -- the back door and the hole in the fence. Once in the street, he slowed to a quick walk and did not pause to admire his work. Not yet. Two blocks away he heard the explosion. Still, he did not look back. Instructions. Get away immediately. Soon Moustafa would be needed for another task, his martyrs mission, and nothing could jeopardize this.
Only upon reaching his car, near a deserted warehouse four blocks away, did he venture a look back. Colson Industries, whatever it was, was out of business. Flames licked high above the roof, their pulsing orange glow reflected in the thick haze above. Moustafa felt pride in his success. But he also felt a tugging sorrow, apprehension. In a matter of days there would be another fire, similar he supposed. And that spectacle would represent his funeral pyre, his departure from this world.
Moustafa turned away, not wanting to watch. He would do his sacred duty. Allah
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