Ever since the destruction of the World Trade Center, Al Qaeda had redoubled its efforts to recruit American Muslims to its cause, especially from within the ranks of the more militant offshoots of groups like the Nation of Islam and the Black Muslims. Al Qaeda operatives such as himself, as well as those from affiliated organizations like Hamas, had for years been establishing contacts in sympathetic community mosques all over the United States. Not all, or even most, were welcoming-some had even betrayed the cause by reporting their activities to the police; someday they would pay a price for their treason to God. But here and there the recruiters had made inroads, especially in poor neighborhoods like this one in East Harlem, where poverty created fertile ground for spreading anti-American seeds of destruction. Waiting for the young men in the meeting room to come in and take their seats, he looked at Zakir and smiled.
Zakir smiled back, but he was not happy. He knew that Mr. Mustafa wasn't working for any charitable organization. He didn't know precisely what the pockmarked zealot was planning, but he knew it was big and that it was going to happen on New Year's Eve. He suspected a bomb set in Times Square. Maybe, he thought with a mixture of fear and excitement, a plane out of JFK International will be hijacked to dive into the crowd. More than a hundred thousand people would be crowded into the area. The hijackers will want a plane still loaded with fuel to burn as many as possible…there'd be no escape; they'd be caught between the buildings.
Zakir tried not to think about the burned bodies-the innocent people. This was the evolution of the race war he'd advocated in his youthful days as a Black Panther. But Times Square will be filled with black as well as white, his conscience told him. Some of them Muslim. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the money he had in the bank, plus the money he'd been promised when the deed was done. There was going to be another large payment after tonight's ugly business, a business he'd objected to until Mr. Mustafa told him he'd be paid twenty-five thousand dollars.
"We have a traitor in our midst who endangers you as much as the rest of us," Mr. Mustafa had told him. "We must make a bold statement if Allah's will is to be accomplished."
"Have you heard from Basir and Moammar?" Zakir asked, more for something to say than because he cared about the answer. He didn't ask a lot of questions about the men who used the back rooms of his mosque, nor was much information ever volunteered.
Al-Sistani furrowed his brow. Basir and Moammar were two of his best men, handpicked from the training camp on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. They had been due to arrive from their shift guarding the supplies a half hour ago. Then again, they'd all been ordered to be careful going to and from the mosque and might have taken a circuitous route; something might have made them nervous-a cop walking his beat or patrol car moving slowly in close proximity to the mosque-and were taking their time just to be safe.
"No," he replied, "but they'll be here. Come, let's do this."
While Al-Sistani trusted his own men with his life, he did not trust these recruits. He'd done his best to weed out the weak and those whose commitment to Allah was not as great as it needed to be. Those who remained had been told that they would be taking part in a plan to humble the United States and the white men and Jews who oppressed them.
Of course, they would never be told the real plot. But there were ways of rooting out traitors, which, after his bodyguard's death, he'd decided to implement. He'd told the recruits at the last meeting that he was going to give them a taste of what was to come for infidels in America. He told them to pay attention to the news two days hence coming out of Union Square and involving a UPS delivery truck.
On the morning of that day, he'd called UPS from a pay phone and asked that a package be picked up from a law firm across from Union Square. He then went into a nearby Starbucks, ordered a venti caffe latte, and sat at the window to watch what happened. When the delivery truck arrived, it was immediately swarmed by SWAT team officers, who yanked the driver from his seat before he knew they were there.
Of course, the truck was just a truck, there to pick up a package. The driver, one Benjamin Hamm of South Queens, was taken away to be questioned but released a short time later when the police decided he'd played no role in the "hoax."
Al-Sistani left the Starbucks wearing a grim smile, which had returned to his face as he and Zakir and two of his men entered the meeting room. He had a traitor to deal with and there was only one way to do it.
Worried that the mosque was no longer secure, he'd withdrawn his men from the barracks the night before he called UPS and had them disperse to safe houses throughout the city. He'd then had the mosque watched for several days to see what happened. But when no teams of federal agents swept down on Zakir and his congregation, he decided that the traitor had not told them everything and probably intended to sell information bit by bit for the money.
Unfortunately, it did mean that the mosque was no longer completely safe. Even coming back this night was taking a chance, but he'd also wanted to make a dramatic statement the recruits would not soon forget. If the federal agents were watching him, he would know by how the recruits responded to tonight's event. But if they came looking for him, either here or at his midtown apartment, they would not find him. And soon it would not matter.
Al-Sistani entered the room and looked at the upturned and expectant faces of the young black men sitting in rows on folding chairs. Someday we will have to recruit their women as well; they are easier to get past security, he thought. "A salaam alaikum," he greeted the audience.
"Peace be unto you," Zakir translated for the non-Arabic speakers. He listened proudly as some of his more adept students replied:
"Wa alaikum salaam. And unto you, peace."
"I would like to read to you from the Quran," Al-Sistani said, opening his copy. "O you who believe, let Me inform you of a trade that will save you from painful retribution. Believe in GOD and His messenger and strive in the cause of God with your money and your lives. In return, He forgives your sins, and admits you into gardens with flowing streams, with beautiful mansions in the gardens of Eden. This is the greatest triumph. Additionally, you get something you truly love: support from GOD and guaranteed victory. Give good news to the believers!"
Al-Sistani closed the Quran and looked up. "I come to you tonight, my brothers, at a monumental time in history…when the shackles of Christian and Jewish oppression shall be cut from the legs and arms of true believers. In the days ahead, a few of you will be chosen to take part in an event that will shatter their world. You should be proud, as you will be freeing your people and other peoples around the world from the oppression of centuries."
As he spoke, Al-Sistani began to pace in front of the recruits, watching their eyes, searching for a doubter. "In the days ahead, the chosen few will take part in this glorious undertaking that will mark the beginning of a new world, a world dedicated to the one true faith and the worship of Allah. For security's sake, I cannot yet divulge the entire plan, nor can I meet you here again, though we will be in contact." He paused and wagged his head sadly. "One reason for that is tonight, sadly, there sits among us…a traitor."