The Hammer of God

The blue-eyed devil appeared at the door in her business suit and walked in. “Gooooood morning, Sheik. Good morning, Imam. Frank.”

The Sheik became instantly self-conscious and averted eye contact with Brooke.

“My son, are you saying these men…”

“No not the men…” He felt her eyes on him. “The food! It is lousy and as good as torture.”

“I will speak to the director of this prison and see if they can arrange for a proper meal. Are you ready to start?” the man of religion said as he opened the Koran.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Serving Two Masters

State Department Diplomatic Security, or “DS,” was a consolation prize for Jamal El Azam. He tried for the ATF, FBI, and Secret Service, but his college GPA index being 3.2 and his one little brush with the law closed those doors. It was patently unfair for his record to still carry the police report stemming from when, as a 17-year old, he and two friends were jumped by some lunkheads who blamed anyone with a middle-eastern look or name for the first attack on the World Trade Center in 1993. He was released and ultimately found innocent of all charges. But the red flag remained. If his Grade Point Average was 3.7 or above, it would have been overlooked, but things being as they were gave any federal administrator an excuse to say no.

The State Department, however, under Madeline Albright and the Clinton Administration, wanted to put the best face on America’s image to the world, so they sought out ethnic types for the Foreign Service. Jamal’s fluency in both Eastern and Western Arabic languages also helped in his chances of being assigned to Ambassador’s Protection Service in Egypt. Since his posting with diplomatic security, however, he had not advanced as he should have, being passed over three times for promotion within the DS. True, he had some attendance and lateness issues, but no more than would have been overlooked had he been promoted on schedule.

Deep down inside, however, Jamal knew it was because of her. She distracted and delayed him all the time. But he was in love and decided that she came first.

His mother would curse him if she knew of Salinda. She was a descendant of a nomadic tribe that was also the tribe of Libya’s former dictator, Mohamar Kadaffi. She was beautiful, her body was perfection itself, and, with it, she made him feel like no other woman had ever made him feel. They took up together, but kept a low profile among the embassy’s circle of influence. Jamal had two residences. One near the embassy for appearances and the other across town in a very Egyptian neighborhood where no Americans or Brits would dare go.

It was there that he brushed up against the Brotherhood. Salinda had brought him to a meeting. They spoke of the true call of Islam. They led him to the Prophet’s own words. At first, because of the fraternizing aspect of his relationship, he made no contact report, as any FSO at his grade was duty-bound to make. Later, the reason was not as benign as covering up a sexual affair. Jamal had acclimated to and then wholly embraced the notion that the only hope for mankind was through the words of the Koran. That America, his America, was imposing its Judeo-Christian ethic of freedom on the children of Allah. Forcing freedom on Muslims was, in a sense, blasphemy, equal to forcing an Arab to take communion from a priest. This enlightenment came to Jamal from many parts of the Koran but the one that still resonated within him was Qur’an 33:36 “It is not fitting for a Muslim man or woman to have any choice in their affairs when a matter has been decided for them by Allah and His Messenger. They have no option. If anyone disobeys Allah and His Messenger, he is indeed on a wrong Path.”

What he was about to do, what needed to be done, he did for the Brotherhood and on a deeper level, to honor his love for Salinda.

“The Ambassador is moving,” his radio crackled, breaking this stream of thought.