Hearing Muhammad voice it filled him with cold anger. “Someone betrayed me, but it wasn’t the Taliban that bombed my house. It was the Americans. A man I trusted. Do you know why? Because the Americans are evil.” He pointed to the window. “This shop? This city? It is against Allah. That is why these terrible things happen.”
Ahmed returned and sat two coffee cups carefully on the table, glancing between the two men, watching in silence.
Muhammad eyed them sadly. “I’m afraid your grief has turned you mad, my friend. These people have done nothing against you.”
He wanted to scream at Muhammad. “These people will pay for their affront to Allah.” He wanted to make his old mentor see the truth, but realized the man’s cowardice ran deeper than expected.
“Is this what you intend?” Muhammad asked quietly. “To strike them down? I thought you were going to attack their military.”
“I have seen too many young men die,” Abdullah said. “Too many have martyred themselves. This is the only way. Allah demands it.”
“Please do not do this,” Muhammad implored, clutching Abdullah’s hand. “Attacking the Pentagon would be bad enough, not only for yourself, but for Muslims everywhere. If you attack this city, they will strike us down. Legitimate reforms are coming. Don’t let your wife’s death harden your heart. Think of the young, of what it means to them.”
Abdullah yanked his hand away. “I’m doing this for them,” he insisted. “Allah demands justice.”
Muhammad shook his head. “No, my friend. Allah would not condone killing innocents. I cannot agree to this.”
Abdullah took a deep gulp of the hot coffee. It scalded his lips, his tongue, burning all the way to his stomach. “The Islamic Brotherhood is split. The young want to fight.”
Ahmed turned to Muhammad and bowed his head. “Sir, with respect, Abdullah is right. We must strike now.”
Muhammad drew back, his eyes narrowed. “Do you really believe this? Do you even remember growing up in your village, Ahmed? You complain of how America treats Muslims, but you have benefited from this city. It sheltered you, educated you.” Ahmed started to speak but Muhammad raised his hand. “Would you so willingly throw away your life for this man?” he asked, pointing to Abdullah. “He is overcome with grief. Do not do this, I beg you. This is not the will of Allah. This is the will of Abdullah.”
Abdullah rose and shoved the half-empty coffee cup across the table. At least he had tried to reach Muhammad. He loved the man, but Muhammad had grown soft living in the decadent city. “Goodbye, my friend. I hoped you would bless this operation. I hoped that you still believed in Jihad.”
Muhammad rose and grabbed Abdullah’s arm. “Allah will not bless this operation, and the Islamic Brotherhood will not help.”
Ahmed spun on his heel, his face filled with disgust. “Some will.”
Abdullah glanced around the inside of the rundown brick building near downtown Newark, not far from a massive construction project Ahmed assured him would mask their comings and goings. The warehouse was a beehive of activity as Ahmed showed him the final preparations.
“We stole the truck a week ago,” Ahmed said proudly.
Abdullah nodded. The truck did look passable. Inside, two black men finished wiring the detonation cord around the last of the stainless steel containers bolted to the bottom of the roof. The young men looked up from their work and smiled, nodding at him. He smiled back and motioned for them to return to their work. “How much longer?”
“Only a few minutes,” Ahmed said. “Then they will load the rest.” He pointed to metal drums of improvised explosives made from fertilizer and diesel fuel, much like Abdullah had worked with in Afghanistan.
“Excellent,” Abdullah said. “The cord will cut through the containers and the explosion below will spread the caesium up and out in a cloud.”
“You are sure we should change the target?” Ahmed asked uncertainly.
Abdullah tilted his head and sighed. “I was a fool to think anyone in this city is innocent.” He pointed to the young men milling about, including Darrell. “They have been helpful?”
Ahmed nodded. “Without them, we couldn’t have acquired the caesium. The APR thought they were selling the caesium to a street gang from Los Angeles.”
Abdullah smiled and watched as the men finished with the last of the detonation cord and started placing the loaded barrels in the back of the truck. He turned back to Ahmed. “Did someone check the manhole cover?”
“Yes,” Ahmed said. “Nazer checked yesterday. It is still there.” Ahmed’s phone rang and he answered it, then turned to Abdullah. “It is Muhammad.”
Abdullah nodded. “Go. Talk to him. Perhaps he has changed his mind.”
Ahmed stepped away, speaking rapidly. His voice rose in frustration, then he keyed off the phone and returned. “He has not changed his position.”
“It is of no concern,” Abdullah said. He turned back to the truck as they finished loading the last barrel. “I only wish we had time to repaint the truck.”
“Do you think it will be a problem?”
Abdullah shrugged. “It would be better if we had time to paint it correctly, but this,” he said, waving to the PEPCO label, “will have to do. Are you ready?”
Ahmed nodded.
“Good,” Abdullah said. “Let us strike the Americans. For my wife. For Naseer. For Koshen. For all the young men who have died in the name of Allah.”
John watched Eric mechanically chew his food. Nancy stared off into space, head down. The failure in Dallas weighed heavily on them all.
He tried to reconcile his current feelings. Deion tortured him and yet he felt the man’s failure as his own. He hoped that Deion would soon be stable enough to return to Area 51. He worried about Nancy, her eyes downcast, the light gone from them. Even Eric appeared deflated.
On the other hand, he half-expected Eric to pull his sidearm and calmly shoot him.
Then he remembered Taylor Martin and Roger Johnson. Martin was in critical condition, but finally stabilized. Roger Johnson had died for the Office. John felt the loss sharply. He had liked Roger. They had only worked together in Denver, but Roger’s grin was infectious.
Nurse Tulli entered the cafeteria, caught his gaze, and scowled as she poured hot water into a cup. She placed a teabag in the steaming water, dipped it, then glanced at him again, utter loathing in her eyes.
She knows.
He could not put his finger on it, but he knew it to be true. She knew what he had done. With all the time he spent in the infirmary, how had he never noticed?
He turned back to Eric. “Is there going to be anything for Roger?”
“No,” Eric said. “No wife, no kids. His parents are still alive so they’ll get a letter. They’ll know he died a hero.”
“Doesn’t seem right,” John said. “We ought to do something for him.”
Nancy stirred. “He’s gone. Get over it.”
Eric glared at her.
“What next?” John asked.
“We hope Karen finds something,” Eric said. “Dyer intended for the caesium to wind up in Los Angeles, but we’ve identified the bodies from Dallas. They were members of the 39th Street Bloods, an L.A. street gang turned Muslim militants. Dyer got played. The caesium is with Abdullah. He could be anywhere. The VIPR teams in Dallas and Los Angeles are coming up empty.”
“You think they’ll attack Dallas?”
Nancy slammed her palm on the cafeteria table, and people in the cafeteria turned to stare. “For Christ’s sake, John, give it a rest.”
Eric’s phone beeped and he sat up, read the text message, then pointed to them. “Karen’s got something. Let’s move.”