Al-Shibh was also in Tarragona Province in July of 2001. One afternoon, Jonathan Revusky and I drove to the Hotel in Cambrils, where al-Shibh had stayed. Just a block from the beach, the five-story hotel has a private pool, bar and low couches, Arab styled, in the reception area, with a Turkish samovar set. Unlike Selou down the road, Cambrils is not overrun by British, German, Russian and French tourists. With a historical core and several fine restaurants, Cambrils still has character and charms. There aren't Irish pubs all over, as in Selou. Al-Shibh, my man, you have taste, and it's a shame they've locked you up for nothing.
Why nothing? Simply because commercial planes cannot fly over 500 miles an hour at such a low altitude, around a thousand feet, then disappear completely into steel skyscrapers, so the acts for which al-Shibh and the other 19 Arabs are accused of simply didn't happen. They did not cause any building to implode and pancake into its own footprint on 9/11, nor did any of them fly into the Pentagon. The only proof of a violent hijacking that day is a farcically unconvincing recording of a purported air stewardess, one Betty Ong, who talked quite casually for 23 minutes about murder and mayhem on a plane, but without any sounds of panic in the background, as if people were quite OK with their fellow passengers being murdered, and terrorists running amok. Oh Lord, the guy next to me just had his throat slashed with a boxcutter. Let me finish this tiny cup of coffee.
Revusky, "There are facts, then there is story telling. What are presented as facts in the media these days are often just fiction, just bullshit. When I was in Marrakesh in 2001, I saw these professional story tellers mesmerizing crowds, and we have professional spinners of tales also, so a handful of Arabs hanging out on the Costa Daurada is spun into a terror summit. They can say that the notorious Vietnamese-American terrorist Linh Dinh suddenly showed up in Tarragona, an Al Queda hotbed, to hash out some plots with the deranged subversive, Jonathan Revusky. Locals could observe them swimming at various beaches, as if looking for weak spots in the city's de-fense. Occasionally, some Slavic broad was seen to carouse with them."
So there you have it. Though I'm sitting in this sun bathed apartment, with palm trees just outside, dark plots are being hatched, apparently, for on the wall, there's a Putin calendar, and the music is the Algerian Cheb Hasni belting out "My Way," then "Saddam," an homage to the late Iraqi leader. Not quite believing my eyes, I stare at a plate of potato frittata and blood sausage. Oh, the endless terrors! The Mossad! The C.I.A.!
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Why nothing? Simply because commercial planes cannot fly over 500 miles an hour at such a low altitude, around a thousand feet, then disappear completely into steel skyscrapers, so the acts for which al-Shibh and the other 19 Arabs are accused of simply didn't happen. They did not cause any building to implode and pancake into its own footprint on 9/11, nor did any of them fly into the Pentagon. The only proof of a violent hijacking that day is a farcically unconvincing recording of a purported air stewardess, one Betty Ong, who talked quite casually for 23 minutes about murder and mayhem on a plane, but without any sounds of panic in the background, as if people were quite OK with their fellow passengers being murdered, and terrorists running amok. Oh Lord, the guy next to me just had his throat slashed with a boxcutter. Let me finish this tiny cup of coffee.
Revusky, "There are facts, then there is story telling. What are presented as facts in the media these days are often just fiction, just bullshit. When I was in Marrakesh in 2001, I saw these professional story tellers mesmerizing crowds, and we have professional spinners of tales also, so a handful of Arabs hanging out on the Costa Daurada is spun into a terror summit. They can say that the notorious Vietnamese-American terrorist Linh Dinh suddenly showed up in Tarragona, an Al Queda hotbed, to hash out some plots with the deranged subversive, Jonathan Revusky. Locals could observe them swimming at various beaches, as if looking for weak spots in the city's de-fense. Occasionally, some Slavic broad was seen to carouse with them."
So there you have it. Though I'm sitting in this sun bathed apartment, with palm trees just outside, dark plots are being hatched, apparently, for on the wall, there's a Putin calendar, and the music is the Algerian Cheb Hasni belting out "My Way," then "Saddam," an homage to the late Iraqi leader. Not quite believing my eyes, I stare at a plate of potato frittata and blood sausage. Oh, the endless terrors! The Mossad! The C.I.A.!
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