Those who conduct their affairs by Shura are loved by Allah. (42:38)
It was late afternoon, and the usually bustling café was eerily calm. A group of students from the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts compared their sketches of the Jawhariya Madrasa-Mausoleum, a sacred monument from 1440 that Denmark had helped to restore. A few locals debated Egypt’s future. Their civil discussion quickly turned into an argument and then stopped. When it came to solutions, no one dared show support for either Western democracy or the outlawed Muslim Brotherhood. Even the waiters were jittery. The café itself had received a bomb threat. This was a troubling time for everyone.
It was perfect for plotting jihad.
Naimi opened the Wall Street Journal and quoted from an article, “Al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri calls for more 9/11-style terror attacks inside the United States.”
Publicity such as this in a major Western newspaper gave him comfort and hope. Al-Qaeda needed a victory. Something to rally around and be proud of again. He wanted to stand and shout, but he tempered himself. On the night they killed Osama bin Laden, the Americans danced in the streets and performed their disgusting fist pumps, he recalled. He would not celebrate this headline. Not yet.
Naimi set the newspaper down. “The FBI calls us radical jihadists. Perverters of Islam. They say we are emboldened and still a dangerous threat. Perhaps they have discovered your plans, Faiz. Attacking fifty-six targets is bold and dangerous — for them and for us. Some on the council are questioning your tactics, especially this business of crashing three passenger planes with a flying toy. Frankly, I have concerns.”
“Four passenger planes,” Al-Aran corrected in English without looking up, his face buried in a small spiral notebook, his eyes alternatively shifting from the notebook to a game board on the table. He stroked his black, trimmed goatee as he studied a series of attacks against enemy positions, probing for weaknesses. Seeking maximum damage. There were several options: Frontal, diagonal, and even flanking and L-shaped attacks. Al-Aran shook his head in disgust. The pathways were blocked, the targets impenetrable. The only option left was mass suicide against enemies that he termed the white faces.
“The Americans are like children,” Al-Aran said. “Frightened and paranoid of hirabi. They see terrorists in their dreams. Allah has always shown us the path to victory. If Zawahiri seeks larger targets, then he will be pleased with my operations. Great risk brings great reward. My tactics are sound.”
“I hope you are correct,” Naimi cautioned. “Day after day the Americans increase their security. I suspect now that whenever Arabs attend a marathon race or walk through a shopping mall, even their smallest children carrying stuffed animals will be harassed and searched. Years ago, we carried nitrocellulose through airports in Madrid, Heathrow, and even New York, thanks to that spiced aftershave with the ship on the bottle. Now even water is forbidden.
“Did I ever tell you that Zawahiri was only fifteen when he planned to overthrow the Egyptian government? We played together in the same suburb of Maadi just six miles north…” Naimi peered over his glasses. “Are you even listening to me? Look at you. Your concentration is weak. You have lost originality and surprise. You telegraph every intention. You study that notebook until your eyes swell, and for what? Your soldiers are still slaughtered like sheep. I think you have become distracted by that computer always at your side. Too much conversing on the Internet with the students at your Georgia Technical Institute. Next you will invite the American NSA into your classroom.”
Al-Aran accepted the scolding because he knew Naimi was right. Something had gone terribly wrong. His reputation as al-Qaeda’s best operational strategist was at stake. Now even he had doubts. How can I have been so stupid? he wondered. Frustrated, he spat at the notebook and swept it off the table.
Naimi politely retrieved it. He thumbed the pages, chuckling at the nonsensical maze of lines and scribbling. All for a simple game. A separate section caught his eye. It had no scribbling. Hogeschool van Amsterdam, Domein Techniek: Analyses of Boeing 777 Landing Gear.
Al-Aran sat back in his chair, massaging his balding scalp with both hands. The situation was hopeless. His attack force had started with fifteen men and one woman. A lopsided ratio, but the woman was extremely powerful. Her skills equaled those of the men combined. Now even she was dead.
Those accursed white infidels.
He gave Naimi a vengeful glance, then surrendered the game with the lip of his teacup.
The black king tottered over onto the chessboard.
“It seems I am too clever for you, Faiz,” Naimi said, inserting his pipe snugly into the corner of his mouth and drawing several deep puffs. The tight brown ball flamed orange. “The secret of chess, win or lose, is knowing that you have caused severe and repeated damage to an enemy. That itself is quite gratifying. Your plans will reignite a war that we once started but never fulfilled. Terrorism is a morally demanded duty. America is like a house that a snake has entered — a house filled with children. Who among us would not step forward and kill that snake? If you are successful, the world will know your name and your face. It will be prudent for you to disappear.”
“With a band of masked horsemen into the mountains of Pakistan?” Al-Aran grumbled, recalling the last rumored sighting of the ghostlike Zawahiri.
“Portugal,” Naimi answered. “The Abuzenima is an Egyptian vessel that sails the Saharan coastal routes. My brother has been captain for many years. I’ll speak with him. His name is Riad, the peaceful one. He has a farm sixteen kilometers east of Aljezur. He raises sweet potatoes, peanuts, and broad beans. A mysterious animal visits his garden each night and leaves a calling card. He believes it is a mongoose, but I think not. When you meet, you must tell him that it is an Iberian lynx. He will know that you are a friend. Then you will no longer be hirabi, but retired terrorista. The fertile valleys of Aljezur are beauti—”
“Kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse, kysse…”
The men turned.
Two of the art students, goaded by the daring group chant, put on an even more sensuous exhibition that included bumping and grinding. The vulgar display ended with a raucous cheer.
Al-Aran turned to Naimi. “There is Egypt’s future — a new democracy, one that accepts the culture of Western filth. Infidels were never allowed here. Now even women come and do as they please, and good Arab men say nothing.”
“Times change, even in old places,” Naimi said, stirring his tea. “Tell me more of this flying toy.”
Al-Aran produced his pipe and slapped the bowl vigorously against his palm. His dark eyes burned angrily at the students.
“It is a sophisticated drone, not a toy. Remotely controlled and four years in development. I supported the design team. The drone’s inventor is my colleague in Atlanta. I have his trust and confidence. And remember, liquefied nitrocellulose is still common lacquer. Clear and highly combustible, yes, but US airport scanners will detect explosive liquids even when they are mixed with a harmless companion.”
“You are not worried?”
“I do not intend to fly through their security lines,” Al-Aran stated with a hint of sarcasm. “The drone will carry solid explosives in quantities more than sufficient to severely damage an aircraft.”
“I thought you abandoned Semtex because of its chemical signature.” “I did abandon it,” Al-Aran answered. “Semtex has always been a wonderful plastique in both availability and power. Unfortunately, it is too easy to identify and follow. The Americans know it is our weapon of choice.”