The Command

“We must strike the enemies of God, and two stand foremost: the Greater Satan, the Americans, and the Lesser, the Jews themselves. It is God’s command, to carry on until Al-Quds is free and Palestine is free, and the Kingdom of the Two Holy Places is free of their presence and taint.

“This is my business here, my friend. Tell me now, does it meet with your approval?”

Bin Jun’ad’s pug face shone as if lit from within. For a moment he struggled to speak. Then whispered, like one given at last the land he’d worked as a laborer all his life: “There is no turning back from the ultimate victory of God.”

* * *

Presently bin Jun’ad suggested they go to a nearby mosque for the zuhr, the noonday prayers. They rose, paid, and passed out into the glaring sun.

They walked together down the Tarafa bin al-Abd, scanning passing faces and cars. Evidently he’d made his point, because bin Jun’ad said, “If that is why you are here, we must make decisions. There is a place we can talk. But we must be careful. The security service is active here. An English dog is their chief. They spy on us to protect the ruler, and the Crusaders. This is where they repair their ships. At this moment, fortunately, the police are concentrating on the cultists, who are politically active against the regime.”

“The Shi’a?”

“They attempted an armed coup ten years ago and were put down. There was another plot last year. Their Hezbollah are even more dangerous to us than the police.” The Yemeni lowered his voice as a foreigner came up behind them on the sidewalk. “We must not appear together, after this. Especially considering we’ll be working in the Shi’a part of town.”

* * *

Which turned out to be in the Makarqah quarter, south of the Gold Souk. Bin Jun’ad didn’t own a car; he said the island was small enough that when he needed to travel, a taxi sufficed. After prayers and discussion in the air-conditioned basement of the mosque, they walked for some time through the quarter, passing and repassing certain streets. Al-Ulam didn’t object. Better to be cautious. Bin Jun’ad explained they also rented a house south of the city. The first brothers to arrive had worked there under the cover of setting up a fishing business.

“Fishing,” al-Ulam said. “That’s good.”

“It let them buy equipment and travel about. The second team is waiting for us now. Do you have money? Is there anything else you need?”

Al-Ulam said he had enough, and more was there if it was needed; praise be to God, there were many who provided for those who fought the unrighteous.

Their destination was on the third floor of a narrow building on a narrow street lined with shops. The first floor was a shoemaker’s; the second sold cell phones. The third and uppermost, reached by worn steps, was a small apartment. Whoever had lived in it before had taken most of his furniture; what remained was a table, some folding chairs, and several mattresses.

Three young men bowed as bin Jun’ad introduced them. Abdulrah-man, Nair, and Salman. The local talent, like the bearded Qari, tended to be the weakest link. They were guides in unfamiliar territory. But as the time for the action neared, some wondered if too many of their Muslim neighbors would die, or they remembered infidels they liked. Sometimes they bragged to their friends about the great act of jihad that was going to astonish everyone.

When that happened, they had to be silenced.

He glanced through the single low window down at the street. “Qari, do you have the findings of our brothers, the first to come here?”

“They left this.” He pointed to a computer on the table.

Al-Ulam grunted approvingly. A new Sanyo, with hard drive, scanner, printer. A phone cord coiled down the stairs.

The first team, who’d reconnoitered the targets, was out of the country by now, except for the leader, who’d been killed in a bicycle accident. Abdulrahman, Nair, and Salman would buy whatever was necessary for the action. Only when all was ready would he turn again to bin Jun’ad for those fanatics who’d would actually drive, carry the bombs, throw the grenades — the “useful idiots” who, if captured, could say nothing, for they knew nothing.

He started the machine, waited while it booted, and inventoried the directory. Instead of opening the files, though — they’d contain only gibberish if opened by accident or by someone probing the system— he first opened the scrambling program. Shielding the keyboard with his body, he entered the passwords and user identifications, then opened the file.

He read in silence, while the others waited.

* * *