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Newark, New Jersey September 7th, 2001 - 4:10 AM Manhattan looked like a box of broken toys in the distance. The Midtown skyscrapers floated in a gray patchy haze, sparkling with a thousand lights like shimmering bulbs on a Christmas tree; lights dimming with the break of a new autumn day. Across the river stood the Empire State and the Chrysler Buildings - concrete and steel monuments to America’s great century - and downtown, the granite structures of finance hunkered silently in the mist. From the George Washington Bridge to the 51st Street ferryport, lights stretched for miles along the waterfront, all the way down to the Financial District and Battery Park. And there, at the southern tip of Manhattan Island, looming over the historic Hudson stood the square, white towers of the World Trade Center. The heartbeat of American Capitalism, of money and power and excess and greed - the economic pulse of the ‘free world’ - lay just across the river through the Holland Tunnel He’d seen the same cityscape before, the shadow of a man at the wheel of a white Ford delivery van. In a gray worker’s uniform he stared through the windshield as the van traveled north along the New Jersey Turnpike. Every inch of the route from Newark Airport to the roof of the Trade Center had been choreographed that morning; every mile marker committed to memory. A gaunt looking man sat in the passenger’s seat. Dressed in the same gray work shirt and slacks, his pale white face was visible through two days of facial growth. And behind, in the cargo hold, were two more technicians. Wedged between spools of telephone wire, they sat in the dark on wooden crates, wobbling with every bump in the road. The crates contained a sophisticated radio transmitter that would soon send homing signals from the top of the World Trade Center out over the Hudson River Valley - pulses that would beckon a new era in American history. And as the orange glow of daylight crept over the horizon, the van continued past the swamplands and chemical tanks that lined the Turnpike, merging with the gathering traffic towards Jersey City, the Holland Tunnel and the Towers. So the saying goes: ‘If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.’ Paris, France September 4th, 2001 - Three Days Earlier “. . . so it must be understood,” said a voice from an old cassette recorder, “that the more we seek to define our enemies, the more illusive they become . . .” Vu found himself mesmerized by the crackly recording. From the small, round window in his office-apartment he gazed over the evening lights of Paris, smoke rising from his cigarette. His gut told him the tape held a secret message, a last minute detail or an order, perhaps. Bertolli had left it in the black carry case the day before. It was a ‘gift’ of sorts, if such a thing existed. But Vu knew that when Bertolli started handing out gifts, it was best to be concerned. Continued . . .
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. . . Vu’s father worked for the Americans. He worked not as a matter of loyalty, for there were no loyalties during the American War, nor did he work as a matter of convenience. But rather his motive was a simple one - survival. Personal survival. The skills that Vu’s father possessed were in demand as the Americans came through and he soon faced an excruciating choice: Work for the Americans and enjoy the short-term benefits, or work against them. But, in reality, there was no choice and before long, Vu’s father - with Vu alongside to help - found himself at the infamous Dien Ma detention camp outside Saigon in the role of camp photographer. Continued . . .
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