To his right, he heard voices coming from the parlor, a traditional room for business and reception, always near the doorway in any Arab dwelling of substance. Ever since Khan had agreed to shield and shelter bin Laden, he had disciplined himself to have stone ears.

But these voices were too loud to ignore. Emotional speech in this dwelling was rare. The visiting workmen were usually so softly spoken, they had to lean close to one another to be heard.

“Why have we not made more progress with the water tunnels?” Khan heard one of them snap.

When the man he was addressing remained silent, the sharp-tongued speaker went on.

“You have said we have loyalists on the maintenance crews. How difficult can it be to seed the anthrax?”

“The workers are never alone.” This was another voice, with a distinctly Yemeni accent. “We have already lost a man, rest him peacefully. Handling the anthrax is as dangerous to the warrior as it is to the targets.”

The first voice. “Can we reliably expect a result within six months? That is the greatest question. Money, as we all know, is an issue. Our purse is light.”

“I think not. We began this endeavor in the hope that success with the water tunnel would make the Trade Center victory seem like a stolen bicycle by comparison. But fortune has not favored us.”

A third voice, this one slightly off, the speaker an Arab though not using his first language. “We have the poison payload. We now also have a Shadow 600 drone purchased from the Romanians, rated and waiting in Toronto. It has an engine and fuel tank that will get it to New York, Boston, or Philadelphia from the Canadian border, flying below air traffic radar coverage. Maybe even, with the grace of Allah, enough to reach Washington, D.C. The drone is big enough for a payload of dust, salted on leaflets or confetti. Times Square at their New Year celebration. That would be most impactful.”

Khan had failed utterly in his resolve to hear nothing. In fact, so mesmerized was he by the confrontational back-and-forth, he did not detect bin Laden’s bare footsteps descending the stairs.

Bin Laden always waited until everyone had assembled before joining a meeting. He encountered Khan in the hallway and glared at him at first before his long face softened. He had entrusted Khan with his life, and this was not without great consideration. Before Khan stood the most wanted man in the world, the living object of the wrath of the world’s most powerfully evil nation.

What did it matter that Khan overheard the strategists of his inner circle discussing their plans? Khan had sworn to take his own life rather than be captured and tortured. And he would do it too. By the grace of Allah.

Bin Laden reached out to his friend’s shoulder. He extended his other hand palm up.

Khan smiled in relief, at first mistaking this gesture for one of friendship. Then, realizing his mistake, he reached deep into his long pocket and handed bin Laden the Lexar flash drive.

“As always, we are safe,” said Khan.

Bin Laden nodded, slipping the drive into the folds of his robe. “You would be more comfortable in the kitchen,” said bin Laden.

Khan nodded, said thank you, and turned and walked to the kitchen. He was most relieved to have escaped the tension in the entry parlor, and looked forward to a repast before midday prayers.

He heard bin Laden’s voice rise in fury as he encountered his advisers—“You foul my house!”—before Khan quietly closed the kitchen door, moving to the teakettle on the stove.

Bin Laden stood before the men seated in the antechamber parlor. They looked at him like surprised students caught brawling by an imam.

Bin Laden moved to his cushion and folded his legs, sitting down among them.

“You foul our one purpose under Allah by compounding your failures. The same plans I hear over and over. Ambition without results. Bomb this. Bomb that. Nothing original, nothing intelligent. From the moment of approach, you are all wrong.”

He looked at each face in turn, wanting to strike a chord deeply in them. For this was not simply a disciplining. He was disgusted. He was angry.

“Failure has somehow become noble. How is this? A wrong we need to right.” He kept his voice low and patronizing, addressing them as though explaining rules to disobedient children. “We have achieved our preliminary goal, inciting the United States into invading Muslim countries. We have drawn the enemy into engaging long wars of attrition. But we are far from achieving our ultimate aim—that of collapsing the world economy that is controlled by the Americans, and installing in its place a Wahhabi caliphate to rule according to God’s law.

“Our strike at the heart of capitalism eight years ago was a triumph, not because it killed three thousand people, but because it instilled fear in the hearts of the American people. For what are three thousand deaths to a nation of two hundred seventy-five million? A trickle from the bucket. Our victory was in striking down a symbol of their wealth, their strength, their prestige. Their perfidy. We weakened them, not in number but in spirit. We humbled them.

“And since that time, what? A few bodies in the London attacks? That could have been just as easily carried out by common gangsters. And now this most recent embarrassment in New York. We could not even manage to get one single soldier of God into the city subway. Instead of a blow to remind them that they will never, ever know peace, we allowed them another burst of confidence. Another victory to show their people.”

The Yemeni spoke. “Plans are increasingly difficult now,” he said.

“You are only seeing what they want you to see. The Americans are devouring their treasure in order to prevent us from doing what we have already done. Their airport surveillance makes it exceedingly difficult to succeed with an airliner, yes. But, I ask you—why should we wish to repeat ourselves? We have failed to innovate. If we have learned nothing else from the past decade, it is that we must be more bold, rather than less. We declared jihad against the United States government because it was unjust, criminal, and tyrannical. Not because it was easy. Thirteen years later, it is no less so.”

“With respect, my friend,” said one of the others, “the enemy has learned well.”

“That, I reject. It is not they who have learned well, it is we who have learned poorly. I have been praying on this recently. We have given up our greatest advantage, and that is the element of surprise. Always in battle, the moment arrives when courage and a calculated risk turn the tide. Years ago in Afghanistan, we learned when we chose to sacrifice thousands in order to close Khyber Pass to the Russian supply convoys. It worked. By the light of Allah, we wore them down. We bled them slowly, the work of a thousand leeches, until they retreated. We have now drawn the Americans into the same trap. They are stuck, bleeding like a pig, and yet still refuse to change their way of life that so offends God.” Bin Laden removed an empty hand from the folds of his robe, pointing at each man in turn. “We are at the moment of Khyber Pass now. We will part today with a vision of beautiful success, and a divine plan to achieve it.”

The room was silent for a long minute. The man who spoke halting Arabic lifted his hand, asking permission to speak. Bin Laden nodded.

“We must direct our energy toward a target of such powerful symbolic importance to the Americans that its destruction will resonate for generations.”

Bin Laden nodded. At the very least, he was confident that his words had gotten through to them.

Another said, “They are waiting for a direct attack from us.”

“Precisely. And we should never give them what they anticipate.”

“But our resources have dwindled.”

“All the more reason to act smarter, to move more swiftly. With an economy of effort. We must think in a new way. What is our goal? Anwar.”