Iqbal was a leader of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, a group that was better run than Mahmud’s crowd. Thanks to the Front, there were certain areas in the southern Philippines where the Philippine army would refuse to go. The soldiers knew that Iqbal’s soldiers often beheaded their prisoners, always an effective strategy.
Yousef had been told to expect two strangers at the meeting. He guessed the purpose.
“Have a seat, brother.” The doctor sat at one end of the rug and dominated the meeting. The doctor was and always had been — even back to the war with the Russians several decades ago — the voice of the movement.
Yousef sat at his side, legs folded, with pillows on each side. “Our assets now exceed six billion in Saudi riyals. We have more than thirty sources that are indirect and, of course, several that are direct in funding the mujahideen fighters,” he told the doctor.
The doctor nodded. “What are we able to pay the martyrs’ families at this time?”
“At least one hundred thousand riyals,” said Yousef. “The Al-Aqsa Fund has had the direct support of the Saudi royal family, and has provided at least half of those monies. Other generous donators, such as the bin Laden family, have provided the remainder.”
He updated them on the Atlanta strategy he’d recommended to Masood.
The doctor nodded again. “You will receive additional funds, which will be allocated for the direct benefit of our brothers here from the Philippines and Indonesia. It has been decided that we must help make our Muslim family stronger, worldwide.” The doctor was suggesting a worldwide, coordinated, and well-financed Muslim movement.
“I have a condition.” Yousef unfolded one of his legs as he spoke.
“Brother?” The doctor turned his ear toward the younger man. He had lost much of his hearing, due to old age and having been too close a witness to several wars.
“I will not give money to anyone who has not shared blood with me. They needed to fight with us.”
“What do you suggest?”
“These men need to serve with our brothers in the TTP.”
The Pakistani Taliban had been the host and protector of Yousef since the Soviet army had been their enemy.
“I agree.” The doctor didn’t hesitate.
Yousef knew neither of the guests would not object. It would bring them honor to fight beside their brothers and sisters against the Americans. It would also build a lifelong loyalty, as well as create a broader net for his followers.
“You have been successful in both growing the funding and keeping it discreet. You will be given one hundred million dollars for each of these two groups as a principal investment, and with your past record of growth, you will be able to provide funding for their efforts for years to come.”
The plan was simple. Yousef was to become the stockbroker for worldwide terrorism. The two guests smiled at Yousef.
“Brother,” Iqbal said. “We understand that you have gotten over a ten percent return the last five years, even in these economic times.”
Yousef shrugged and nodded.
“We are grateful for your support, brother.”
Iqbal seemed to be one of those men who was easily misjudged. He didn’t need degrees of higher education. Yousef could immediately tell why his men followed him. Iqbal was bright and articulate.
“Yousef, let me talk to you privately for a moment. My brothers, if I may ask you to step outside.” The doctor was getting old, and it was more and more an inconvenience for him to rise up off the carpeted floor of the tent. Yousef knew that the guests would not mind. For the last several years, they had lived off the land, saving every round, taking weapons from the dead of the soldiers sent out to hunt them down. Now, they would have funding to buy new weapons.
When only the doctor and Yousef remained in the tent, Yousef spoke first.
“We have the cell,” he said in a low voice. He did not feel comfortable discussing the details, even around their trusted guests. “One from Danish Abad had been chosen and is learning now.”
“And?”
“My Chechen has made a trip to America.”
“This is the one that found out about the woman in Doha?”
“Yes.” Yousef whispered. Only three men could have the common knowledge of all and the doctor needed to know the least. “I know the Americans’ weakness. I have found a hole in their defense.” Yousef pointed to the space in front of him, as if there was an imaginary map of the United States.
“And?” The doctor let his eagerness show in his expression.
It had always struck Yousef as odd that a brilliant man such as the doctor, who had been trained by the best in medicine in both Egypt and the United States, would be so comfortable with a project that would kill thousands. “This will be devastating. It will break the back of their will.”
“Good.”
“They will pull back from our world. They will retreat in shame.”
The Americans had withdrawn some, but no one believed that they would ever truly leave Afghanistan. Their president had promised it, but it was a lie. Yousef ’s plan needed everyone to leave.
“And with that withdrawal you will soon have your state,” the doctor said.
“Allah’s will!”
“No, this will be Yousef ’s will.”
Yousef smiled at the compliment.
“The one from Danish Abad was chosen at birth. We will rename her village in her honor.”
“You will activate the cell once you have what you need?”
“Yes, from this.” Yousef held up a cell phone. It was not the one that would be used, but a similar twenty-dollar cell phone would initiate the mission that would be remembered by every person on the planet. It was remarkably simple. Yousef would use a Motorola V180 with a special Pakistani SIM card and only one number in it. It would be activated only once — and used only once. He would dial a number, put in the text code, and press Send.
“Good. And Allah will protect you.”
“Yes.”
“Allah and our brothers, the Sherani!” the doctor said.
“Yousef, you have been a good warrior.” The doctor sounded like the father that Yousef had always wanted but never had.
“Yes.”
“God understands.”
“This jihad will be remembered.” Yousef was no different than the many other warriors. He began this journey because of a loss.
“I remember seeing you at that store in Riyadh. What was it?”
“Lamsa.”
“Yes, you were buying her an abaya.” The black floor-length abaya was made of silk. “Was it her first?”
“Probably, yes.” Yousef thought the doctor was asking too many questions. It didn’t really matter now.
“Sira, that was her name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Yousef decided to break off the conversation. “When will I see you again?”
“She couldn’t have been more than twelve, maybe thirteen.”
The doctor didn’t take the hint.
His niece was only twelve when she died. She was not supposed to have been on Iran Air Flight 655. She was returning from a visit to her mother’s family. She was only a child, meant to be safe while being raised in Riyadh.
“This will probably be our last meeting, brother.” The doctor sighed.
“I understand.” From here, God would take Yousef down a different path. He would be alone. His family would live even more of a nomadic life than they had lived until now. They would constantly be on the move. No one would be trusted.
But that was the future. He still had much to do in the present.
CHAPTER 11
William Parker saw Scott standing next to the door to the flight line, nervously looking at his Rolex.