True Allegiance

Mohammed was always amazed by Ashammi’s total command of his emotions. Ashammi as benefactor—that persona had drawn Mohammed to him in the first place. He wasn’t the only one; many of those who believed in him had come to him because of his outstretched hand. He looked into the camera and continued.

“But now I offer you the chance to meet your destiny under the one true religion by clinging fast to the word of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. For those who believe and work deeds of righteousness and believe in the revelation sent down to Mohammed—for it is the truth from the Lord—He will remove from them their ills and improve their condition.

“Together we will dance in the gardens and rejoice in the fields. The word from merciful Allah is peace, and together, we must embrace peace.”

Ashammi pointed at the camera. Mohammed, his youngest recruit—an attractive boy of seventeen, struggling to grow a scraggly beard—hit the stop button on the camera. Ashammi walked behind the camera, and Mohammed replayed the segment. After watching it again, Ashammi smiled. “Mohammed,” he said, “it will be a great day. A glorious day. The weapons we got from the infidels in Iraq will be deployed.”

Mohammed bit his lip. Ashammi saw it. “I see you are worried,” he said. “Do not fear. Does not the Koran say, ‘Those who have said, “Our Lord is Allah,” and then remained on a right course—the angels will descend upon them, saying, “Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise” ’?”

Ashammi walked to the window of the compound and threw it open. The sound of the afternoon muezzin wafted into the room. He took a deep breath. Then he pulled out a disposable cell phone and dialed.

A man’s voice answered at the other end. He spoke with a thick Russian accent. “Yes?”

“Tomorrow,” Ashammi said, then hung up abruptly. He turned to Mohammed. “Go, Mohammed,” he said, “and Allah will go with you.”

As Mohammed left, Ashammi knelt on his prayer rug.

When he got up, he turned to the door and smiled. There, standing before him, was a large American man in a military uniform. He wore a blindfold.

“Welcome, General Hawthorne,” Ashammi said.

Mohammed glanced nervously around Café Naderi as he sipped his nana tea. It was a classy joint, and everyone wore a suit—it was a business café, located in the lower level of a hotel. It wasn’t the kind of place that would kick up any sort of fuss in a Western city, but in Tehran, it was a rarity. In fact, it bragged that it was the last non-Islamic café in the city.

Which is why it was perfect for the meeting. It was crowded, so Mohammed wouldn’t draw any suspicion; there were many non-Iranians, too, so Andrei would fit in. It also had the benefit of maintaining a solidly anti-regime reputation, so there would be no connections to any officials who had approved the operation. Intellectuals and writers hung out in packs and talked treason. For that reason, regime informers populated the place.

It was the last location the Western intelligence agencies would watch. After all, it was their home territory. If somebody was going to plan something, it wouldn’t be at this café.

At least, that’s what Ashammi was counting on. And Mohammed had complete faith in Ashammi. Ashammi was the man who had taught him the emptiness of secularism, the beauty of belief. He was a master strategist who had launched several substantial attacks on targets ranging from embassies to hotels to restaurants in America, Europe, and Israel. He is with Allah, and I am with him, Mohammed thought.

He just wished that Andrei would show up already. Even if this was a safe spot, he was getting sick of listening to the Western-style sinful music blaring over the speakers. What, he asked himself, does it mean to “hit me baby, one more time”?

Beneath the table where he sat was a small satchel. He had bought it at a local market along with a shaving kit so as not to draw suspicion. He tossed the shaving kit immediately, of course—it had taken him long enough to cultivate the beard—and kept the bag. This morning, Ashammi had crammed it full of euros (Iranian rials were far too inflated for this kind of payment) and handed it to Mohammed. “Good luck, my son,” he said. “Stay for half an hour. No more. If he does not show up, leave.” Then he stood up and hugged Mohammed tightly. “Take care, my son. You go on Allah’s mission, and He will guide you. I promise you.”