Free I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes

iftherewereIcouldn’tthinkofanyatthatmoment.
    Ihadaguninmypocket–allceramicandplastic,designedtobeatmetaldetectorsliketheonesat Bucher ’soffice–andIwasangryenoughtoconsiderusingit.
    AsIfoughtbackmyemotions,UnitedAirlinesflight175outofBostonhitthesouthtower.Itsent
    everyoneintheroom,eventheidiots,reeling.Mymemoryisthatafteraninitialscreamthebarwas silent,butthatmaynotbetrue–allIknowisIhadaterriblesenseofworldscolliding,oftheGreat Republicshiftingonitsaxis.
    Alone,farfromhome,Ifearednothingwouldeverbethesameagain:forthefirsttimeinhistory,
    some unidentified enemy had taken lives on the continental United States. Not only that, they had destroyedaniconwhichinawayrepresentedthenationitself–ambitious,modern,alwaysreaching
    higher.
    Nobodycouldsayhowdeepthedamagewouldrun,butinthebarlifewasfracturedintodisjointed
    moments – a phone ringing unanswered, a cigar burning to ash, the TV jumping between the immediatepastandtheterrifyingpresent.
    Andstillpeopleweren’ttalking.Maybeeventheidiotswerewondering,likeme,iftherewasmore
    tocome.Wherewoulditend–theWhiteHouse,ThreeMileIsland?
    Ilefttheguninmypocket,pushedthroughthecrowdthathadgatheredunnoticedbehindmeand
    wentupinanemptyelevatortomyroom.IputacallthroughtoWashington,firstonaconventional landlineconnectedoutofLondonandthenviathePineGapsatellite,butallcommunicationsonthe
    EastCoastoftheUnitedStateswerecollapsingundertheweightoftraffic.
    Finally,IcalledanNSArelaystationinPeru,gavethemtheRideroftheBlue’sprioritycodeand
    got through to The Division on an emergency satellite network. I spoke to the Director on a connectionsohollowitsoundedlikewewerehavingaconversationinatoiletbowlandaskedhimto sendaplanesoIcouldgetback,wantingtoknowhowIcouldhelp.
    He said there was nothing I could do and, anyway, he’d just heard from the National Security Council:allflightsinandoutofthecountrywereabouttobehalted.Ishouldsittight;nobodyknew wherethisdamnthingwasgoing.Itwasn’tsomuchwhathesaidthatscaredme,itwastheedgeof
    panic in his voice. He said he had to go – his building was being evacuated, and so was the White House.
    IputthephonedownandturnedontheTV.Anybodywhowasalivethatterribledayknowswhat
    happened:peopleleapinghandinhandfromGodknowswhatheight,thecollapseofthetwotowers,
    the dust and apocalyptic scenes in Lower Manhattan. In houses, offices and war rooms across the world,peoplewereseeingthingstheywouldneverforget.Sorrowfloats.
    AndthoughIwouldn’tdiscoveritforalongtime,watchingthecopsandfirefightersrushinginto
    whatwouldbecometheirconcretetomb,therewasonepersonwhosaw–inthatwhirlwindofchaos–
    theopportunityofalifetime.ShewasoneofthesmartestpeopleIhaveeverencounteredand,despite my many affairs with other substances, intelligence has always been my real drug. For that reason alone,Iwillneverforgether.Whateverpeoplemaythinkofthemorality,therewasnodoubtittooka kindofgeniustostartplanningtheperfectmurderinthemaelstromofSeptembertheeleventhand
    thencarryitoutalongtimelaterinascummylittlehotelcalledtheEastsideInn.
    Whileshewaslayingherdarkplans,Ispenttheeveningwatchingpeoplejumpuntil,by10p.m.in
    Geneva, the crisis itself was winding down. The president was flying back to Washington from a bunkeratOffuttAirForceBaseinNebraska,thefireatthePentagonwasundercontrolandthefirst bridgesintoManhattanwerebeingreopened.
    AtaboutthesametimeIgotacallfromanaideattheNationalSecurityCouncilwhotoldmethe
    governmenthadintelligencepointingtoaSaudinational,OsamabinLaden,andthatattacksagainst
    his bases in Afghanistan, carried out under the guise of a group of rebels called the Northern Alliance, were already under way. Twenty minutes later I saw news reports of explosions in the AfghancapitalofKabulandIknewthattheso-called‘waronterror ’hadbegun.
    Claustrophobic, depressed, I went for a walk. The war on terror sounded about as generic as the war on drugs, and I knew from personal experience how successful that had been. The streets of