The Bin Laden Plot

The service door on the side of the Intercontinental opened, and two women wearing housekeeping outfits emerged. They ignored the man smoking nearby as they engaged in conversation and turned away, headed toward the main street. As the door swung closed, Mixell moved swiftly, grabbing it before it latched.

He moved into the hotel’s service area and wandered around casually, passing a few workers until he was spotted by a supervisor, a woman in her fifties with gray hair and the required equipment: a handheld radio clipped to her waist. She examined the man wearing jeans and a gray windbreaker, then approached him.

“Excuse me, sir. You’re not supposed to be back here. Do you need help getting to the lobby, or is there something I can help you with?”

Mixell quickly scanned the area; it was just the two of them in a long hallway with several intersections in the distance. He glanced at the woman’s name tag.

“Yes, Adelle, there’s something you can help me with.” He pulled the knife from its sheath and pressed it against her abdomen. “Stay quiet, and let’s talk somewhere private.”

Adelle’s eyes went wide, but to her credit, she kept her mouth shut and led Mixell into a nearby supply room. She turned to face him as he closed the door behind them.

“I need assistance,” Mixell said. “The room number where a man named Jake Harrison is staying.”

“I have no idea,” Adelle replied. “You’ll have to ask one of the lobby assistants.”

Mixell smiled. “Let’s pretend your life is at stake and you have to obtain the answer. How would you do that?” He already knew the answer and glanced at the radio clipped to her waist to provide a hint.

Her face clouded in uncertainty for a moment, but then it cleared as she reached for her radio and brought it to her lips.

“This is Adelle in housekeeping. I received a request for fresh towels for a guest, but there’s an issue with the registry display, and I didn’t get his room number before the guest hung up. Can you provide the room number for a Jake Harrison?”

“One moment,” was the response, followed by, “1051.”

“Thanks,” Adelle replied.

Mixell held his hand out and she handed him the radio. He turned it off and slipped it into a pocket in his windbreaker. Now came the delicate part. He needed Adelle to stay silent until the deed was done. There were a few ways that could be accomplished, but he required one that was quiet and wouldn’t risk getting blood on his clothes. One way in particular stood out.

He spun Adelle around and covered her mouth with one hand as he pressed his body against hers, pinning her against the wall. With his hand firmly around her mouth and chin, he gripped the back of her head with his other hand and twisted, turning Adelle’s face around toward his. Her body squirmed as she tried to break free, her neck muscles straining as she fought the rotation. She tried to speak, but the force on her jaw from Mixell’s hands prevented her from talking. He could tell she was pleading for her life, but the only thing he heard was a desperate whimper.

To Mixell, there was something tantalizing about this type of death. The thought of physically overpowering an opponent, even if it was a fifty-year-old woman, brought immense pleasure.

As her head twisted slowly toward him, he saw the pain on her face and the panic in her eyes. He paused for a moment and smiled warmly, offering Adelle a glimmer of hope. Then he twisted her head with all his strength until her neck gave way with a sickening sound of shredding tendons and cartilage.

He released her and she fell to the floor, and he knelt beside her as she stared at him. She was paralyzed but still conscious, and she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Mixell placed a hand over her mouth and nose until her eyes stopped moving.

* * *

Mixell found a service elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor, emerging in the middle of a long hallway not far from the guest elevators. After a quick glance at the room number directions on the wall, Mixell headed to his left, passing several rooms until he reached 1051. He placed his ear to the door; he heard only the sound of soft music.

He examined the doorframe. It looked solidly built, but a forceful enough ram by a man of his size and strength should be enough to splinter the frame. If not, a few bullets into the door lock mechanism should sufficiently weaken the frame to gain access. In the latter case, he’d lose a few seconds of surprise, but he figured Harrison was probably undressed without quick access to his firearm.

He stepped back from the door and was reaching inside his jacket to retrieve his pistol when one of the guest elevators dinged, announcing its arrival on the tenth floor.