The woman was dressed in the traditional garb of a conservative Moslem Arab. Clad in black from head to toe, she was seated on a simple kitchen chair in an otherwise empty room. The curtains were drawn and there was no hint of light from beyond. Even her face was covered with the exception of her left eye. Her eye was dark brown. Her lash was long and thick and her eyebrow was an elegant arch. The little bit of skin that showed was of a light olive complexion. Yet, what showed was enough to hint of the beauty of this exotic Middle Easterner hidden behind her veil. A single light lit her features. She was facing a video camera mounted on a tripod. The camera was operating and the woman began to speak.

"My name is Aisha Mustafa. I am the eldest daughter of Abdul Waahib Fawaz Mustafa. On the 15th of September 2001, I was abducted while on a visit to London. I was blindfolded, drugged and transported to this location. I do not know if I am still in England. I do not know the fate of my companions. I do know that this is not a kidnap for ransom. The apparent reason for my abduction is that I am the daughter of a man who aided and abetted the crimes of one Osama bin Laden."

Who will ever forget the images of September 11, 2001? I was in London at the time. I sat in front of the television screen in my hotel room and watched time after time the video of jet aircraft slamming into the sides of the World Trade Center towers and their subsequent collapse. My first reaction after the shock began to wear off was to call my office in New York. I didn't have my offices in the WTC but I had friends and colleagues who did. I finally got a hold of my secretary, but she didn't have much more information than I did. My second reaction was to book a flight home, but air transportation to the States was already grinding to a halt. I was stuck in London for a while.

I wandered the streets of London the next day, unwilling to enjoy myself in a city I really loved. That afternoon I saw a Middle Easterner walking toward me in a fashionable section of the city. He was well dressed in a western style suit. I thought I recognized him. I wanted to greet the man if I could just remember his name. He obviously didn't recognize me. The man just kind of looked through me and continued on his way, eventually walking through the entrance of one of London's most luxurious hotels. My curiosity was aroused. A discreet inquiry and some cash got me the information I wanted. The man was unimportant but his employer was. Abdul Waahib Fawaz Mustafa was a big wig in Arab financial circles. I had met him once. The man I recognized was one of his bodyguards. I was anxious to do business with Mustafa but I was warned off by a good friend who had better knowledge of Arab politics than I did. He was suspected of financing terrorists and money laundering, but his considerable influence protected him well. One of his valued clients was none other than Osama bin Laden, already being named as the main suspect in the September 11 attacks.

My sorrow and anger wasn't far from the surface. I immediately began to entertain murderous thoughts. I would obtain a weapon and kill Mustafa, even if I had to sacrifice my own life in the process. I've never committed a serious crime, unless you want to count cheating on my taxes, but anyone can be provoked to violence under a certain set of circumstances.

On further inquiry I found out that Mustafa was still in Saudi Arabia, quite safe from my vengeance. Apparently, one of his daughters was in London for a shopping trip and was being escorted by two bodyguards, a chaperone and a maid. I quickly dismissed my plan. There was no sense in risking my life trying to kill a family member. She was probably an innocent anyway. If truth be told, I guess I was feeling a bit cowardly right about then, also. I walked on and finally made my way into a working class pub some distance away.

I have one of those faces, I guess, that instantly tell everyone I'm a Yank. Usually a stranger, and a foreigner to boot, isn't made to feel at home in the small neighborhood pubs by the locals. But the recent tragedy seemed to change things. I was instantly engaged in conversation and expressions of sympathy as if I had suffered a personal loss. I intended to just have a short drink and then take a cab back to my hotel. My plans changed when the other customers started ordering me drinks and it seemed impolite to refuse.

Two tall, muscular men seemed particularly interested in talking to me. They introduced themselves to me as Derek and Nigel (not their real names). Derek and Nigel were both members of the London Fire Brigade and they wanted me to take messages back to New York, expressing their sympathy and support to the New York firefighters.

As the drinks flowed, the conversation turned to the topic of vengeance and what they would do if they had an opportunity to deal with Osama. Being well primed with alcohol, I found myself babbling about my encounter with Mustafa's bodyguard and my abortive plan to execute an important supporter of Osama bin Laden. They listened politely and told me they wished I could have pulled the plan off. A while later, I took my leave. I was poured into a cab and taken back to my hotel. I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache.

The next couple of days were spent sending and receiving emails to and from my secretary. I kept the television off. I was already overloaded with attack coverage. Yet, the tragedy never left my thoughts. I started thinking about life before September 11. I'm a news junky. Newspapers, magazines, radio, television and the Internet are all sources for me. I was sick of reading and hearing about the saga of Congressman Gary Condit and the missing Chandra Levy. I had been wishing something would happen that would knock that jerk off the front page. Well, I got my wish. Now I was wishing I could take that wish back. My daydreaming was cut short by a knock on the door. I wasn't expecting anybody and the maid service had already been through. I was certainly surprised when I opened my door to Derek and Nigel.

"Fancy a drink, mate?"

"Er, uh. It's kind of too early in the day for me guys but I'll see what I can do for you. Won't you come in?" I was bewildered by their visit but I didn't want to be rude. Here were a couple of men I'd shared some drinks and conversation with and now they were on my doorstep.

"What can I get you?" I asked. I didn't have any booze in my room but the room service in this hotel was fairly decent.

"Nothing right now, thanks," said Derek. "We were just curious about what you thought of the news."

"Which news is that?" Now I was all ears and as curious as hell. Had they caught that bin Laden bastard?

"Someone's gone and kidnapped the daughter of that Mustafa chap you were talking about the other night."

"What? Fantastic!" Somebody had thought along the lines I had. But then, they had had the guts and wherewithal to get the job done. "I hope they turn the bitch into a dockside whore and send the pictures to her old man," I added. They laughed at my obvious excitement.

"At first we thought you were the culprit and we wanted you to take us to have a look at her," said Nigel.

"I wish. I'd give you two first crack at her. After me, of course." I grinned at that thought. I was getting a vicarious thrill, thinking about what Mustafa must be going through. I have a teenage daughter myself from a brief marriage.

"I assume the police are looking for her?"

"Of course," said Derek. "The wogs are making a fuss and the police have been searching high and low for her."

"Well, this certainly calls for a drink. Lots of them. And I'm buying."

"That's better news than we brought you," Derek joked.

I was all for going down to the hotel bar and ordering Champagne but my new friends insisted that I go with them to a private club that catered to firefighters and their guests. I was all for that and we headed for the nearest Underground station.

I followed my new friends willingly, talking and joking with them. I barely noted the station where we disembarked. We came out in a section of the city that I was completely unfamiliar with. I thought the neighborhood looked rather seedy but then became instantly ashamed of myself for my snobbish attitude about the surroundings. These men, after all, were the London counterparts of the men who had died at the WTC, trying to save others. I certainly had no right to judge where they chose to hang out. I wasn't apprehensive until they steered me into a darkened alley, littered with rubbish and smelling of stale piss. Derek and Nigel ceased talking and smiling. Oh shit! I'd been led down the garden path. Were they really firefighters? I'd only taken their words for it and now it was more likely they were muggers or worse. Nigel seemed to sense that I was ready to bolt. He put a hand on my shoulder and I knew I'd play hell trying to get away from them.

"We're almost there," said Nigel, not really trying to reassure me. We reached an unmarked door in the alley. Derek unlocked and opened the door. He motioned me in.

"Listen guys. I don't have much money on me but... "

"Shut up and get going," Derek said coldly. Games are over, I thought. I'm 5' 10" and I weigh 180 pounds but I felt like a midget next to these two. There I was, a seasoned New Yorker, being suckered like a child. I had no choice but to go along with whatever they had planned for me. I just hoped I would get out of it alive.

The door opened to a flight of stairs. A bare light bulb at the top was our only source of light. As I trudged up the stairs, I idly wondered why I hadn't been waylaid the evening I met them. Too many witnesses, probably. There was a door at the top of the stairs. Derek knocked once and entered. I followed with Nigel close behind. We were in a small but cozy flat. There was a middle-aged woman seated at a kitchen table. She was reading a book. The radio was on and I could hear light jazz music. The woman looked up long enough to nod and then went back to her reading.

"In there," said Derek. He pointed to another door. With the presence of a woman, I wasn't nearly as frightened as I been a moment before but I still wasn't sure I was going to get out in one piece. I opened the door and peered in. It was a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with a wardrobe and chair besides the double bed. I didn't see anything else. I took a deep breath and walked in. Was I going to be held prisoner here? Derek flipped a light on and I caught a slight movement on the bed.

"There she is," said Derek.

"There who is?"

"Mustafa's daughter. Her name's Aisha."

My heart leaped to my throat. Now I was even more scared than I was before. Half hoping it was a joke I walked over and looked down. A pair of dark eyes looked back at me. They were filled with both fright and anger. A young woman was tied hand and foot. There was a gag in her mouth. I looked back at Derek. Nigel had joined him. They were grinning ear to ear and looking quite pleased with themselves.

"How? Why?" I was so stunned they were the only words I could get out of my mouth. I was suddenly involved in a kidnapping with international repercussions. I began to imagine myself serving years and years in an English prison for this crime. And that prospect would only be possible if I was very lucky. Mustafa and his henchmen would certainly want to kill anyone even remotely involved in the kidnapping of his daughter.

"It was actually pretty easy," explained Derek. "Somebody called in a bomb threat at Aisha's hotel. The threat had to be investigated, of course, and the hotel evacuated. While this was happening, somebody yelled something about these Arabs being armed. Naturally, everyone thought they were terrorists and several lads wrestled them down. The police took the Arabs away for questioning. After that, it was pretty easy to separate the girl from the rest of her friends what with all the confusion. She sort of fell into our hands. As for why we did it, you know as well as I do."

I was dumbfounded. It sounded like a plot from some farce but they had pulled it off. I wondered how many of these "lads" were cohorts of theirs.

"Derek, please listen to me," I begged. "This girl's father plays rough. We're all going to be killed if you don't release this girl immediately."

"We'll take our chances," said Derek. "We thought we'd invite you in because it was you that gave us the idea. It's apparent that you don't want to be involved. We'll take you back to your hotel. As long as you keep your mouth shut, we'll be all right."

"I promise I won't give you away but I still don't understand why you're risking your lives for something that happened in the States."

"It's obvious you don't understand, friend," said Nigel. "Firemen around the world feel a kinship to each other no matter where they're from. What those terrorists did, they did to us also."

Nigel's explanation made sense to me on an emotional level but I was still worried about their safety. I heard muffled sounds behind me. I turned around and saw Aisha giving me a pleading look.

"May I talk to her?"

"Go ahead," said Nigel.

I sat down on the bed beside her and removed her gag.

"Oh, Allah! Save me, please!" she whispered.

"Just listen right now," I said. "I'm trying to get you released. If I succeed, will you promise to tell your father that it was just some kind of misunderstanding and forget our faces?" I didn't know if I could pull it off but I wanted to try.

"I will promise anything if I am released unharmed. Why did they abduct me in the first place?"

"Well, it seems your father financed some people who might have had something to do with the recent terrorist attacks in the United States."

"My father, like all Arab people, supports the legitimate Palestinian cause against the Israeli occupiers. He deplores the unquestioning support given by the American government to the Israelis but I am sure he would condemn what happened in your country."

"I hope so, miss. But I don't want to discuss politics right now. Just promise me that you'll agree to my proposal."

"I will agree to anything so long as I am released unharmed," the girl assured me.

"Good," I said. "Now listen to... "

"When I am released those two sons of camels and that she camel in the next room will die, Allah willing." Aisha didn't really say that to me directly. It was as if she had unintentionally given voice to her private thoughts. The girl quickly realized her mistake when she saw my astounded look. Whispering to me she said, "My father will reward you for helping me."