Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [76]
As my brother grew older, his discontent at our situation increased. He was particularly disturbed that our family could not make use of the refrigerator in our villa, for maintaining a supply of fresh foods was extremely difficult.
Although Abdullah had been on a campaign for some time, my father refused to relent when it came to using modern appliances. That just happened to be the day Abdullah decided to push the issue. Their heated discussion delayed my father.
While Abdullah was unable to convince our father of our need for refrigerators and other appliances, he did save our father’s life.
Over the next few weeks we discovered how the assassination attempt had unfolded. Four gunmen had gained access to our area earlier in the day and were poised in a pickup truck beneath a large tree opposite the guest house. Why they went undetected, I was never sure, but many residents in the neighborhood were diplomats and government officials who retained security guards of their own. Basically, the al-Riyadh Village was an armed camp with men from various countries watching over their charges. I suppose it was an easy matter for four new faces to go unnoticed.
Those men had been told that while Osama bin Laden might be early, he would never be late. After waiting impatiently for more than an hour after their set time to attack, they grew increasingly uneasy that their target must have arrived at the guest house much earlier than usual. Without a real plan, they began to fire wildly at the villa where we were studying, concentrating on open windows in the hope they would hit Osama bin Laden by pure chance.
Our father heard the commotion and instantly grabbed his Kalashnikov, the Russian AK-47, one of the first assault rifles. My father had decreed that none of his fighters should ever be without his AK-47. At the sound of the shots, he ran up to the roof of our family villa, where he fired upon the assassins.
Once the gunfight started, all the security forces in the area responded with a fierce barrage of gunfire heating the air. The assassins were heavily outnumbered, and their carefully laid plan to pump Osama bin Laden full of bullets and make a quick getaway turned to dust.
One of the men fled the neighborhood. A second man hid in the mosque. The third jumped behind the wheel of the pickup and started the engine. The fourth dove into the back of that same pickup. The driver careened through the streets, desperate to make his escape through the diplomatic area.
Surrounded by a small army of men, they didn’t have a chance.
During the attempted getaway, the driver was shot and killed.
The hired assassin in the back of the truck was shot and wounded.
The one hiding in the mosque was shot and killed.
The one who fled the neighborhood was caught and killed.
The wounded would-be-assassin was taken to the hospital where he made a full recovery. After he recuperated, the government hanged him by the neck until dead.
I never saw any of the wounded or dead men, although I would have liked to do so. Our father would not allow my curiosity to be satisfied. I did hear many tales of that day because some of our father’s guards were wounded.
One man’s story I remember particularly well, as he repeated it to anyone who would listen, even though his own words branded him a coward. When the shooting first started, he locked himself into a room in the guest house. But, as he proudly told us, his only thought was of our father and so he loudly prayed, repeatedly pleading with God Himself, “God save the sheik! God save the sheik!” None of us was rude enough to bring up the obvious, but I often wondered if he was so worried about my father why did he hide? He should have rushed out to shoot the assassins who were there to murder my father.
There were many wild speculations as to who was behind the assassination attempt. Some thought it was a revenge attack from the Russians for my father