Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones knelt on the rugs that were placed before the Deaf Mullah for that purpose,
their hearts quickening. They had been called a title bequeathed only on martyrs en route to Paradise.
"You have done Allah's good work," the Deaf Mullah added.
"Thank you,'' they said in unison, using the preferred honorific meaning "Commander of the Faithful."
"But there is work yet to be done."
"I am ready," said Jihad Jones.
"I am more ready than this dog," Yusef spat.
"We will have peace in this place of peace while we talk of the destruction of this corrupt and infidel nation."
Yusef composed himself, resting his hands on his knees. Jihad Jones did the same, but Yusef saw with ill-concealed satisfaction that his posture was poor.
"Today we have restored the fear of Allah into the heart of the godless nation. This is good. Yet it is but the beginning."
They nodded. These were true words. The Deaf Mullah continued.
"Greater than the fear of jihad is the shadow of what the West calls the Islamic bomb. Long have they feared it. Great is their dread of it. But until this hour, there has been no such thing. It is only a jinni of smoke invoked to frighten the Western mind."
Yusef and Jihad Jones exchanged startled glances.
"Yes, I see it in your faces. It is too good, too wonderful to fall truly upon your believing ears. But it is true. While the Western intelligence organs chase Germans and Poles and Russian scientists, seeking to interdict the forbidden knowledge that will bless Islam with the might to enforce its will through peace
and terror, we have in this place, in the heartland of the infidel nation, developed a true Islamic bomb."
The silence hung in the cool air a long moment.
"For months it has brooded in a secret silence, only awaiting what some call a delivery system. This, too, has been created."
"A delivery system, Holy One?" asked Jihad Jones.
"A missile. The greatest missile in the history of the world."
"It is gigantic?" Yusef queried.
"Long as the tallest minaret. As formidable as—"
"As my Egyptian tool," said Jihad Jones boastfully.
"I will wager it more properly resembles my tool," Yusef insisted.
"You will soon judge for yourself," intoned the Deaf Mullah from behind the green-as-water glass screen. "For you have been chosen as pilot-martyrs."
And in the cool silence of the al-Bahlawan Mosque, Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones exchanged pleased expressions.
They were going to die.
It was what they had lived for.
Raining down upon Ibrahim Lincoln, too, but this was necessary to prevent the spread of what the Deaf Mullah decried as Westoxification. And the blood of the infidel was lawful. For it was written in the Koran that Allah does not love the unbeliever, and further, that idolatry is worse than carnage.
It would be terrible, yes, but making widows and orphans was necessary in order to establish a pure Islamic theocracy upon the ashes of the United States. Besides, Ibrahim Lincoln would be spared the terrible sights and sounds of the dead and maimed because the explosion would catapult him into the waiting arms of the eternal virgins promised to him.
He hoped at least one of them had an oral fixation. Neither of his wives would do this for him, never mind spitting afterward.
Ibrahim Lincoln was contemplating his posthumous sex life when feet pounded down the stairs. The door was thrown open and he was thrown to the floor by a thick wave of men.
One knelt on his back while others pointed guns at him.
"Ibrahim Lincoln?"
"Yes, that is I."
"You are under arrest for the crime of sedition and waging a terroristic campaign against the United States."
"Does this carry the death penalty?" he asked unhappily.
"You bet it does."
"It is not as good as victory, but it is better than nothing," he said as they cuffed him and dragged him to his feet.