The agent reported to the deputy director, who then called Rhymes. He was surprised by Rhymes response.
“I expected something like that,” Rhymes said. “Not that exactly, of course, but something like that.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t come up with a name,” the deputy director said. “We’ll keep on it. He must have given a name to somebody. We’ll stay at this. I fully understand how important it is to identify that man.”
Rhymes interrupted him.
“I appreciate your efforts. But you needn’t bother. I know exactly who the Jew is. I just needed confirmation.”
“Well, then let’s cut the crap, Rhymes. What is this guy’s name? Who is this Jew?”
Rhymes jiggled the gold-colored dog tags he’d found lying on the navigation station of the sailboat. “His name is Chaim Levi. Lieutenant Chaim Levi of the Israel Defense Forces.”
CHAPTER 29
Sam Abdullah and Alfred Farouk had been close friends since they met at the Boston Islamic Society day care center fifteen years earlier. The boys were born in Massachusetts and raised in comfortable suburbs just west of Boston, where both their fathers hopped from one high-tech corporation to another. They’d resisted spending time at the Islamic Center, tired of stories from old men about how things were so much better “over there” and criticism about the evil of Americans here. Eventually, the boys’parents relented and sent them to public schools, Sam in Framingham and Al in nearby Natick.
By the time they were teenagers, they struggled to conceal their Muslim identity. America had hardened to Muslims in the wake of Bin Ladin, the Iraq War, terror bombings and the country’s seemingly lost cause in Afghanistan.
Sam was the first to begin, ever so gradually, to swing back toward embracing his culture and religion. He grew tired of the taunting, hard looks and racist rants on social media. Sam found himself drawn to a website called American Mujahidin as if it were pornography. He checked it daily, sometimes first thing in the morning before he went to school, reading commentaries on the day’s news or inside information telling him which TV shows were controlled by Jews, which clothing designers were Jews, which store chains were owned by Jews. The website portrayed America as a nation owned and operated by wealthy Jews who controlled the way Americans dressed and thought and entertained themselves. Sam introduced Al to the website.
The two spent much of their weekend time, especially through the cold Massachusetts winter, surfing the Mujahidin site and others to which it was linked, joining chat groups connected with the site and messaging with Muslim teenagers across the country.
They absorbed the website’s concept that they could be good Muslims and good Americans at the same time. Their task was to save America from the Jews who had taken over the country’s business, cultural and political life. By any means.
They argued about whether they had the balls to blow themselves up as their peers in Palestine had done for decades. They discussed what they’d say in their farewell videos, what their school friends would think of them afterwards. They agreed it would be “the coolest thing in the world,” in Sam’s words, to be the first Americans to sacrifice themselves.
Al said, “My father’s construction company uses TNT all the time to blast rock ledge to dig foundations for new houses. I even got to set off a blast when I worked for him last summer. He’s got boxes of the stuff in a little steel building at his business, way out back.”
“Yeah, but isn’t that stuff all locked up?” Sam asked. “Nobody’s going to leave TNT lying around.”
“It sure is. There’s a big combination lock on the door and no windows,” Al replied. “It’s locked, but my dad uses the same password all over the place—on his ATM card, on his computer and everywhere. I’ll bet he set the combination on the padlock to the same code.”
“Do you know it?” Sam asked excitedly.
“Sure, it’s the birthday of his oldest son, me, 5-28-04. I’ll bet anything that’s the combination. You know, just for fun, we ought to go there some night and try it, just to see.”
“I’ll do it if you’ll do it,” Sam said.
“Yeah, well, I’ll do it if you’ll do it.”
Despite the solemn nature of their dare, they didn’t attempt the padlock on the explosives shed. Fantasies about suicide bombers remained just that—fantasies.
All that changed with the bombing of Tel Aviv, followed by the destruction of Damascus. The website contained graphic photographs from Damascus showing bodies burnt to cinders and entire blocks of buildings leveled to rubble.
A new video appeared on the website, on the password-protected section, showing a sermon by a man identified as Mullah Abu Hamzah. He spoke in a rapid, singsong Arabic translated in English captions flowing across the bottom of the screen. He swayed from side to side as he spoke, his words hypnotic.
“The battlefield has moved to America itself,” the mullah said. “Allah gave us victory over the infidel in the Holy Land. Only the Great Satan America can snatch that victory from us. But the Great Satan is also the Great Coward. We must encourage fear in the American cowards. We pass the sword to our Muslim brothers in America to fight against the Jew infidels in their country, to take action to turn the cold heart of the Great Satan against the Jews in its midst.
“For this reason I issue a fatwa for our American brothers. Listen to me, brothers. I teach to you that it is allowed to jeopardize your soul and cross the path of the enemy and be killed, if this act of jeopardy affects the enemy, even if it only generates fear in their hearts, shaking their morale, making them fear Muslims. Only if it does not affect the enemy, then it is not allowed.”
The two teenagers debated the meaning of Mullah Abu Hamzah’s sermon, especially the meaning of his fatwa. Finally, Sam put an end to the discussion.
“I can tell you what it means,” he said. “It means we can stop saving for the airfare to Israel. The battle is here, in this country. We need to save America from the Jews. That is our battle.”
Al looked at his best friend with a startled expression as he realized that what he had viewed as a fantasy, as role-playing, his friend was deadly serious about. He felt a cold sweat on his forehead as the image of the two of them wearing the belts they’d viewed on the website came into his mind—belts covered with what looked exactly like the sticks of TNT he knew were stored in wooden crates at his father’s business.
“Hey, hold on, man. Are you really serious about all this stuff? I mean, is this really for real for you?” Al asked incredulously.
Sam turned to look at his friend. His eyes were cold, hard, mature. Different. “I understand that Allah placed us here as Muslims in America for a holy purpose,” he said. “With one action we can do the work of Allah as good Muslims and do the work of America, as good Americans. We can steer our homeland from the course of evil and snatch it from the grip of the Jews.”
“Man, you sound like Mullah Abu Hamzah,” Al said.
“I don’t know what our action will be, but I know that our path will be shown to us. We will each have to decide whether to follow that path or whether to turn away in fear. I know I have courage and faith. Do you, brother?”
Al hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said softly. “I think so, but I’m not sure. I need more time to think.”
“The time for action is near,” Sam said. “We only have to wait for that action to become clear. But while we are waiting, now is a good time to test the combination on that padlock at your father’s business. Will you take that first step with me, or should I go alone?”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Al replied cautiously. “When do you want to go there?”