Project StrikeForce (19 page)

“Like you were touched by Allah,” Abdullah said
softly.

“Yeah, like that. I started to see how we treated
the world. How we treated Muslims. Look, I’m not saying everybody in America is
bad, but we kiss up to Israel. And, why are we even in Iraq? For the people? We
don’t give a shit about the people.”

Abdullah nodded, then quickly translated the
conversation for Naseer, and for the first time in a long time Naseer smiled.
Abdullah turned to Mahbeer. “You have a similar story?”

Mahbeer nodded. “Just a dirty Mexican, that’s all
I was. There was this kid from Yemen. Not a lot of kids from Yemen in South
Central. He got the shit beat out of him. Me and my cousin, we started hanging
out with him and I found out he was Muslim. I asked him about what being a
Muslim was like. My Mom was pissed when she found out. She’s old school
Catholic, man, you can’t even imagine. I found out she wanted to send me back
to live with my Grandma in Mexico City. Why the hell would I want to go to
Mexico? So I said fuck that shit, ran away and hung out with my cousin, Manny,
playing video games until I turned eighteen. I joined the Army and got sent to
Iraq. Shahid got me a copy of the Quran. Helped me understand it.”

“What about the driver?” Abdullah asked.

“That’s Greg,” Mahbeer said. “He’s a good Muslim.
He’s the one who arranged to have his friend in Bagram sneak you on the plane.”

Abdullah considered that. “And you had to ship
heroin?”

Shahid shrugged. “His friend in Bagram needed the
money and we needed to get you on the plane.”

Abdullah smiled and patted Shahid on the hand. “It
was a good thing. But, please, the heroin should not be used by Muslims.”

Shahid nodded. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Abdullah let the lie pass. It wasn’t Shahid’s
fault. The heroin business funded Jihad, whether Abdullah liked it or not.
“Before we continue, we should pray.”

Mahbeer and Naseer pulled the coffee table to the
side of the room and Shahid placed the prayer mats on the floor. They performed
wudu, the ritual cleansing, washing their faces and arms, pulling up their
sleeves to wash to the elbows, then finished with their feet. When the ablution
was complete, they sat on the mats facing Qibla and performed dhurh, the
mid-morning prayer.

When they were done, Shahid led them to the
basement. The makeshift tables were loaded with munitions and wire. “We did it
just like the instructions,” Shahid said, “but I’d like you to check for
yourself.”

Abdullah nodded. “Just as I described.” He
followed the wires from the switch to the circuit board, through the
spaghetti-like loops of wire, to the detonators. “Very good. You have the
truck?”

Mahbeer had joined them. “It’s not far from here.
You want to see it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not safe now, too risky,” Mahbeer said.

“Better wait until after dark,” Shahid agreed. He
stuffed the improvised trigger and detonators in a green canvas bag and led
them upstairs. Mahbeer and Shahid left while Naseer kept watch through the
front windows.

Abdullah took a seat on the couch and read from
Mahbeer’s copy of the Quran while they waited. His mind was spinning with
excitement, but he used the time to calm himself.

The soldiers returned near dark and Shahid fixed
them a light supper, then Naseer and Shahid argued about whether evening
prayers were necessary. Naseer was convinced that since they were traveling
they were not, and Shahid was convinced they must.

The argument brought a smile to Abdullah’s face. “We
may skip maghrib prayers,” Abdullah said. “I would very much like to see this
truck.”

They all squeezed into the white car and Mahbeer
drove them through the darkened streets of Landstuhl. Abdullah watched the
German town pass by, the streets so neat and orderly, so unlike Afghanistan.

Within minutes they were on the outskirts of the
city and creeping down a narrow lane. Mahbeer parked the car beside an old
wooden barn.

“We rented this from a local man,” Mahbeer said.
“His family doesn’t farm anymore. Nobody comes around, there’s no prying eyes.”
He led them inside, where the overhead light spilled a soft glow over the
ambulance.

Greg, the young man who smuggled them off the
American base, was there to greet them. “Sorry I couldn’t stay earlier, I was
still on duty. Anyway, here’s the ambulance, it’s all fixed up, just like you
wanted.”

Abdullah nodded. The ambulance appeared original,
and as he inspected it, he knew the soldiers had done an excellent job
restoring it. He turned to Mahbeer and smiled. “Very good, my dear friends.
Very
good.”

Shahid grinned at the compliment. “We had to
hollow out some stuff to get it all in. Greg will drive, and trigger it when
he’s reached the front.”

Abdullah watched as Shahid took the canvas bag and
dumped the wires and detonators on the workbench. Soon, Shahid and Mahbeer were
working diligently, inserting detonators in each brick of C4.

Abdullah turned to Greg and gently took his hand. “This
is a great thing you do for Allah. Are you prepared for this martyrdom operation?”

“Yes,” Greg replied softly. “Allahu Akbar. God is
great.”

Abdullah patted Greg’s hand. “Allahu Akbar.”

* * *

When they returned to the
apartment, Mahbeer showed them the bathroom. “Here are the items you asked
for,” Mahbeer said, passing them a plastic bag. “The clothes are in there,” he
said, pointing to others sitting on the floor, “and in there,” pointing to the
two travel bags hanging from the back of the bathroom door.

Abdullah nodded and Mahbeer left. He opened the
plastic container with the grooming scissors and handed them to Naseer. “First
we trim our beards.”

“Must we do this?” Naseer said, opening and
closing the scissors. “It is every man’s duty to grow a beard.”

Abdullah smiled and spoke slowly, as if to a
child. “We are not doing it from choice, but from necessity. We must change our
identity. If we shaved our beards from personal choice, it would be a minor
sin, but we do what we must for Jihad.”

Naseer took the scissors and started trimming his
beard, the wispy black hairs drifting lazily into the sink. Abdullah dug
through the bag until he found the safety razors and shaving cream. Naseer kept
trimming away until only short hairs adorned his face. He glanced at Abdullah
for approval.

“Now you must shave,” Abdullah said. Naseer
reached for the razor but Abdullah stopped him. “No, wash your face with soap
and water.” Naseer started to argue but Abdullah stopped him. “I know these
things. Wash your face with hot water and soap. It will soften the hair and
make the shaving easier.”

Nasser washed his face with hot water and the bar
of hand soap next to the sink. When he finished, Abdullah instructed him to use
the shaving cream to lather his face. With Abdullah’s help, his face was soon
smooth and bare.

Abdullah eyed him critically. “Take the scissors
and trim your eyebrows.”

“My eyebrows?” Naseer asked, incredulous.

Abdullah couldn’t help but laugh. “We must not
look like Mujahideen. We are Indian business men from Mumbai. That is our new
identity. The Americans accept Indians.”

“How am I to trim them?”

“Cut them short. You must look well kempt, as if
you lived in a city.”

Nasser grumbled but trimmed his eyebrows, twisting
the scissors back and forth to cut the fine hairs. When Abdullah opened a black
plastic container and removed electric shears for haircutting, Naseer shook his
head sadly. “I only do this because it is for Jihad.”

Abdullah smiled at Naseer’s discomfort, then
proceeded to cut away most of Naseer’s hair. After much fussing, he had Naseer
well-groomed.

“Now bathe. When you are done, put on the clothes.
Make sure you put on undergarments. That includes the white undershirt. Then
the socks, pants and dress shirt.”

Naseer had never spent much time in cities, let
alone a Western-style city, and Abdullah remembered how it felt when he first
went to New York, completely lost, no idea how to act, dress, or speak. He
sighed. “Naseer, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Naseer smiled reluctantly and Abdullah left him to
bathe and dress. When Naseer finally opened the door, Abdullah nodded his
praise. “You look like a different man.”

Now it was his turn. He ushered Nasser out and
went to work cleaning the remains of his Afghanistan life from his body. When
he was done, he inspected himself in the mirror. His beard was gone, his face
soft and supple. His hair was trimmed and the streaks of gray dyed black. He
looked ten years younger than his forty six years. He dressed in the Western
clothes and paused for effect.

Yes.

He looked the part of a successful businessman,
from the fashionable suit to the shiny leather shoes. He stood, lost in
thought, and wondered about what might have been, if only he had convinced his
wife to stay in New York instead of moving back to Afghanistan.

The memories of his house came, unbidden, his ears
ringing, his screams muffled as the others in the village emerged from their
houses, looking on in shock.

He ran to the remains of his house and saw his
wife, eyes empty, her body stained with blood. He held her in his arms and
begged her to come back. He begged until his voice was ragged, and the blood
cool and stiff against his clothes, and he knew she was gone. He screamed,
howling like a maddened animal as the villagers stared, their faces bearing
silent witness to his grief.

The realization finally broke through his grief,
and he knew they had never accepted him.

His wife may have been born there, but he was a
foreigner, a Saudi. Someone had passed information to the Americans. The local
Taliban leader, Azim, had just been promoted but he was a vain and shallow man
and disliked Abdullah.

He had been betrayed, either by Azim or the
locals. They had fed information to the CIA, perhaps, even to his old friend
Jack.

Jack, the man who came to see him shortly after
the towers fell in 2001.

Jack had asked for his help in tracking Bin Laden,
in helping overthrow the Taliban. As much as he wanted to help his old friend,
the man who taught him to build bombs, the man who smuggled him out of
Afghanistan and gained him entry into the United States, he wanted nothing to
do with the madness.

He begged Jack to leave him in peace. And, for a
time, it had been peaceful, until the Mujahideen came. He wanted nothing to do
with them, but they begged. And, after all, they were brave and loyal Muslims
and it was his duty to help with Jihad.

Someone had betrayed him. Even now it brought
forth such rage he found he could no longer see his image in the mirror. The
world went black, only a pinpoint of light in the middle of his vision. He
focused on that spot and took deep breaths, his hands grasping the cold
porcelain sink for balance.

That man, Azim, that man who pretended to be a
good Muslim, that man would pay. Abdullah had seen to that. The Mujahideen owed
him many favors and after Koshen was safe they would execute the traitor.

As for his old and dear friend Jack, it took
months before he found Jack’s location, but when he learned of the Army base to
the northeast of Kandahar, he knew that Allah was guiding him, and that Jack
must pay for what he had done. That bomb was the beginning in his war against
the Americans, those who had taken so much from him. The American military
would pay the price.

Or, perhaps the civilians.

No, he shook his head, those were Naseer’s words.
He would not think of it. They were innocent, he knew that from living in New
York City. They lived blissfully unaware of what the military did in their
name, of the lives they destroyed.

Oh, how he missed his wife. If only could talk to
her, ask for her opinion, to beg her for help, but to do so would be to commit
shirk. Only the living could answer pleas for help. The dead were beyond such
things.

His hands trembled on the cold porcelain. Nothing
would stop him. He prayed to Allah for strength. Slowly, ever so slowly, his
hands stopped shaking and he felt his rage and grief and pain slip away until
there was only the plan. He would strike back in the name of Allah and his
enemies would finally know justice.

* * *

Washington DC

Hobert answered the video call with
a grin. “Miss me?”

Smith glared at the video monitor. “Your humor is
lost on me. Was she hurt?”

“She’s fine.”

He breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Did they find
anything?”

Hobert shook his head. “Nothing.”

“I hate sending her into danger.”

“Of course, but you can’t protect her forever.
Besides, it’s one place where she might have an advantage.”

“I could remove her from the OTM,” he said. “It
would ensure her safety.”

Hobert sighed. “She would never forgive you. Could
you live with that?”

He slammed his hand against the desk. “How could
it have come to this? I never should have agreed to let her join the Office.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Hobert answered. “Once
she entered your world, there was no turning back.”

Smith sat back in his chair. “It’s hard to let her
go, Hob. Much harder than I expected. I worry endlessly.”

Hobert nodded, his face softening. “You’ve done
everything you can.”

He wanted to remove his daughter from the OTM,
lock her up in a padded room where nothing bad could ever hurt her, but he knew
that like all good parents he must let his daughter find her own path. He
laughed mirthlessly. “It’s killing me.”

“I know,” Hobert said.

He switched gears. “How did he perform?”

“Well above expectations. He’s the one,” Hobert
said.

“Why so surprised?” he asked.