Al-Sistani stopped in front of Rashad. He wondered about this one. He seemed to hate the "system" that he viewed as having ruined his life and had sworn fealty to jihad. But he had the friend Khalif, who'd made his distaste for Al-Sistani and his men no secret. Could he have influenced his friend to betray them? He'd half expected, when he set his trap for traitors, that his spies who'd followed Rashad and had his home telephone bugged would return and point the finger at him. But instead, the spies told him that the traitor was a small, yellow-skinned man named Robert, who was sitting next to Rashad. He'd been seen talking to a man who was obviously a plainclothes detective the night before the UPS ruse, and received an envelope.
Meanwhile, Robert sat quietly wondering what was going to happen to the basketball player, who was obviously the traitor. Serves the motherfucker right, he thought, Mr. Big-Time Basketball. Robert was still feeling flush from the two hundred dollars the detective had given him for snitching on that crack house in East Harlem. He'd been a snitch most of his adult life; it was how he made his living, though he was hoping that the "reward" Mr. Mustafa kept talking about would soon be forthcoming. He was happily fantasizing about how much money it might entail when Mr. Mustafa suddenly yelled and turned to him.
"Those who betray us, betray Allah!" Al-Sistani shouted. "In the name of Islamic jihad, I condemn this traitor and send his soul to hell."
Robert's mouth dropped open. He was going to protest that they had the wrong man-he was just a snitch-when the big bodyguard who'd been standing to the side suddenly pulled a handgun with a silencer out of his coat and pointed it at his head.
"Wha…," Robert said just before the.22-caliber slug struck him dead center between the eyes. His head flopped back as blood spurted from the little hole like a geyser, causing a general scramble by the men behind him to get out of the way. The bodyguard placed the gun on the dying man's chest and pumped several more rounds into his heart.
"Oh, God," Rashad screamed, jumping up and away. "Oh, God." He'd panicked when Mr. Mustafa started talking about traitors. After he told everyone at the meeting to watch what happened at Union Square with a UPS truck, Rashad had boasted to Khalif that "things are about to change; you can either get with the program and be part of a new Islamic state, or you can go down with the rest of the muthafuckas."
As far as Rashad was concerned, his life had been ruined. Ever since childhood, he and Khalif had talked about how they'd use their basketball skills to get out of the ghetto. They'd go to college on scholarships and then play in the NBA. They even joked about who'd have the upper hand when their respective teams played each other, or if they were really lucky, maybe they'd get to play together for the Knicks or the Nets. They'd have money and all the things it bought; they'd buy nice homes for their moms and their siblings, too. Their kids would grow up happy and prosperous. Such would be the will of Allah.
Then it all came tumbling down. He'd had sex with the bitch, just like everybody else, if what he'd heard was right. Then when she kept calling, he'd told her he wanted no part of her. Then there was the party. The bitch got drunk and lured Khalif into her room and they'd had sex. When Khalif came out, he looked troubled. "It was a sin to lie with a whore," he said. "I'm going to go get my coat and leave. You coming?"
"Yeah, just a minute," Rashad said, and went into the bedroom. There were candles burning, and the bitch had known who he was. "I knew you'd come back, Rashad, if you thought I was going to be with your friend. Now come here."
A lay was a lay and Rashad had not minded sloppy seconds. But then Khalif returned to the room and flicked on the lights. He looked disgusted but only said, "I'm going," and turned away. Rashad had laughed and jumped up, pulling up his pants.
"Come on, baby, stay here tonight," the woman pouted.
Rashad had laughed again. "Fuck no, bitch. I ain't spending the night with a whore. There's another five guys out in the living room, but you can get one or two of them to keep you company." Then he left, thinking it was the last time he'd see her.
Then the bitch lied and went to the university and said she'd been raped by a man she didn't know. But worse than that, the district attorney's office had believed her, and then compounded it by hiding evidence that would have demonstrated it was a lie. That's the way it was when a white woman accused a black man.
Nightmare followed nightmare. First, the university kicked them out and withdrew their scholarships. Then there was the trial, where he'd had to sit quietly in his seat and listen to the bitch lie and the prosecutor lie worse. After that the jury came back, and as he listened in disbelief, he and his best friend were found guilty. But nothing, nothing could compare to the terror of arriving at Attica, trying to look tough while real criminals leered and taunted. Except for the night he was gang raped when the Bloods caught him alone in the prison laundry. He'd been too ashamed even to tell Khalif, but Mr. Mustafa had understood his hatred.
Mr. Mustafa had put it all in perspective. The district attorney was a Jew. The prosecutor, Rachel Rachman, was supposedly a Catholic, "but look at her name…she's just another Jew," Mustafa said. The jury had contained some blacks "but the Jews on the jury swayed them with their lies and deceits." He'd lost his dream and been defiled "because of the Jews." That's when he'd sworn to join the jihad.
Then Mr. Mustafa started talking about a traitor, and he wondered if they thought it was Khalif. He hadn't told his friend any of the details, having taken Mr. Mustafa's warning to keep secrets or be considered a traitor to heart, but he'd gone to Union Square that morning just to see what would happen. When the UPS truck was swarmed by cops, he figured Khalif must have somehow figured it out and snitched. He'd been about to jump up and explain that his friend was just misguided and not a traitor when Mr. Mustafa turned on the little man next to him.
"Thus, it is written, will be the fate of all traitors who have sworn to Allah to carry out jihad," Mr. Mustafa said.
Al-Sistani looked over the frightened faces. Good, he thought, there will be no more traitors. Still, as one of his men dragged the body out of the room for its final journey to the New Jersey landfill, he wanted to try one more test.
"Tonight, I am going to tell you our plan and your role," he said. "But first, I want to ask you to search your hearts, and if you do not have the will for jihad, leave us now in peace."
No one moved but a lot of eyes went to the man with the gun.
"Do not worry," Al-Sistani said. "I do not consider it an act of treason to leave, so long as you make no attempt to contact our enemies, which we would surely know and take our revenge for. But until I have divulged the plan, you are free to leave, the blessings of Allah upon you." It was a lie, of course; anyone who stood up was going to receive a bullet in the head, but no one stood.
"Please," Al-Sistani said, motioning those who were still standing back to their chairs. "It is time to reveal the great blow you will help us strike for Allah."
Of course, he wasn't going to reveal the real plan. These martyrs would have no role except as laborers, and then would defend the supplies up until the moment they, along with thousands of others, were sent to meet the Creator. He didn't want them thinking, however, that this was a suicidal mission. Even the brainwashed children of Palestine sometimes balked at that; no, they would be told that they would live to fight another day.
"We have discovered an old, abandoned tunnel that the infidels have forgotten," he said. "This tunnel happens to run beneath the New York Stock Exchange, the financial heart of the oppressors. On New Year's Eve, we plan-with your help-to break into the building from below, set explosive charges, and bring the entire building crashing to the ground, and with it, the financial stability of the United States and its loathsome puppetmaster, Israel."