“But these places serve as magnets for our cowardly brothers and sisters, those who think we can have sharia without bloodshed,” countered Rostam.
“This is true,” responded Mohammed. “But as long as one in a thousand attending prayers in these places comes to know that we will never succeed with weakness, never conquer through Da’wa, lip-service jihad, then we will raise sufficient numbers to conquer through the sword.”
Rostam smiled. “Perhaps you are correct. Even their Justice Department supports the building of our mosques. You are a good teacher.”
Mohammed took a sip of tea before continuing. “Americans are mindless. They refuse to drill for their own oil, seeking to protect the environment. They do not care that their petrodollars have long funded our cause.”
“So when they are conquered, they will have clear skies,” said Rostam, grinning.
“Inshallah,” said Mohammed. If Allah wills.
All three laughed.
“Their days are numbered. Whoever has the sword will have the earth. Very soon the battle flag of jihad will be flying over the White House, their Stars and Stripes a mere footnote in the history books,” added Rostam.
Mohammed’s voice rose slightly as he leaned forward in the chair looking past the two men. “We do not have to be satisfied with mosque building. We were not sent here to ‘convince’ through their political system. We are here to remind the infidels that September 11, 2001, is the model, not the exception. We are here to strike fear in the hearts and minds of the infidels and rejoice when they are slain. The Prophet has told us, ‘The writ of Islam will be obeyed in every country and must be pressed by force.’ It is our mission to make it so when the time is right.”
Rostam nodded. “All that you say is true. But to wage war we need money. Much of our funding from the Islamic charities has been cut off. We can no longer count on financial support from our friends who have been so generous in the past. The sanctions against Tehran have hurt us the most.”
“You are correct, Rostam,” Mohammed said with a smile. “That is why the Prophet instructed us in the holy book and the Hadith to destroy our enemies and always be alert to making new allies; new friends. And now our spiritual leaders have done so.”
The cell leader had the full attention of his protégés. Rostam spoke first: “Who are our new friends?”
Mohammed waited a moment and then said, “The people of North Korea.”
Kareem still said nothing, but Rostam was stunned. “How do you know this? How will the North Koreans help us with our jihad here in California?”
Mohammed cut him off. “I know this because I have received a communication from our sponsors in Beirut. They have told me that a great agreement has been forged between the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Included in this covenant is an arrangement for providing us with funds to carry out our mission.”
“How will they do this?” asked Rostam.
“Through North Korean enterprises operating in this country,” replied the teacher.
“You mean their black market in knockoff cigarettes, jeans, and watches?” Rostam was clearly uncomfortable with the idea. He leaned forward and asked quietly, “Mohammed, please tell me, how did you receive this message.”
The imam cum cell leader reached into a pocket, pulled out two cheap throwaway cell phones, slid one to each of his co-conspirators, and said, “From now on we are going to use phones like these. They can be bought at Walmart for twenty-five dollars. Use only cash to buy them. Make or receive no more than five calls of less than a minute each and then smash the phone, throw it away, and get a new one. Make sure I have your new number each time you get a new phone. From now on, this is how we will communicate when we cannot meet face-to-face.”
“But why must we communicate this way?” asked Rostam.
“Because,” answered Mohammed, “thanks to the defector Snowden we now know how the NSA collects information. This will make it much harder for them to intercept our communications in what they call ‘real time.’ ”
Rostam nodded and said, “How will they get the money to us?”
“I don’t know the details yet. All they have told me is that it’s through North Korean enterprises in this country,” said Mohammed.
“And you believe them?” said Rostam. “They’ve told us before that money was coming and it never got here.”
Finally Kareem spoke up. “I don’t know about agreements with Iran, but we all know Korean businesses generate lots of cash.”
Rostam’s tone and expression revealed his skepticism. “How do you know what they make? Because they pay you so well at their infidel bar, shaming the word of Allah, that you are able to share your meager tips with us?”
Before Kareem could react to the insult, Mohammed intervened. “Kareem is working there at my direction. We need him there to protect our interests.”
Unconvinced, Rostam stared at Kareem and asked, “And just how much money does your employer Henry Yeong make on his counterfeit goods that he would have something to spare for us?”
Kareem thought for a moment, doing the math in his head, and said, “I don’t know all his overhead or exactly how many partners he has to pay off, but in addition to the cigarettes, phony-label clothing, watches, handbags, athletic shoes, and luggage, he’s also moving knockoff Viagra, OxyContin, meth, and ecstasy. My guess is he grosses somewhere in the neighborhood of five million a month.” Kareem paused to let the figure sink in, knowing his importance was about to increase in the eyes of Rostam and the teacher. “And if what I’ve learned is true we should be able to pick up a quick three million in the next few days.”
Rostam choked on the tea he was sipping as he and Mohammed fixed their gaze on the recent convert.
CHAPTER THIRTY
CIA “NOC” Gabe Chong, or “Cheech” as he was known to his Marine Corps friends, stood transferring his weight from one leg to the other, occasionally leaning up against the wall. He remained focused on the activities of the others, shifting his eyes back and forth, watching all in attendance. Six young, athletic Asian males surrounded the two older men sitting at a table in the center of the room.
The occasion: an extraordinary meeting between the two most powerful Asian crime bosses in Los Angeles, Henry Yeong and Park Soon Yong. The venue: Henry Yeong’s restaurant. By agreement, each “don” was accompanied by three security men. They were paired off in a circle around the table.
Gabe’s sport coat was open. His weapon, a Daewoo DP51 given to him by the supervisor of Yeong’s PSD, rested comfortably in a shoulder holster and was easily accessible. He wanted to give the appearance of being relaxed, so he engaged his partner from Park’s detail in quiet conversation while they waited for the two principals to begin the meeting.
The hastily called dinner meeting at Yeong’s restaurant had been convened by Henry Yeong — to deal with the instructions he had received from Pyongyang and the matter of Cho Hee Sun’s execution. Yeong suspected Park of being behind the murder and thought it was likely perpetrated by Park’s security personnel. Park, on the other hand, knew he had not called for the execution and suspected either an outside organization or an unrelated reason for Cho’s death. Park ordered his men to watch Yeong’s people and be on the lookout for potential intruders from the outside. There were no other patrons in the restaurant, as a sign in English and Korean greeted would-be customers with an awkward “Sorry, Closed for Private Party, Come Please Again.”
Gabe watched as Candy repeatedly refilled the empty cups of the two men seated at the table, offering all her coveted smile.