“Your plan has been tremendously successful,” said Masood. “We are in three markets that are returning well over twenty percent, even in a recession.”
Yousef had built the business model himself and was very proud of it. “Alhamdulillah,” he said, praising Allah.
“They were not as successful in Doha.” Masood changed the subject to the bombing.
“Yes.”
Masood saw a glimmer of the fire in his master’s eyes. It may have been a mistake to raise the subject.
Yousef knew much more than his response indicated. He changed the subject. “We need to remain as liquid as possible at all times.”
“Yes, sir.”
Masood had also attended college in the United States. Ironically, many of the Ivy League schools had trained the best of the leadership. Masood, born in Cairo, was raised in East Orange, New Jersey. From an Egyptian family of limited means, he was only able to attend Rutgers because of a full scholarship from the Islamic Scholarship Program. At the mosque, he was quickly recognized for his bright mind, and after graduating from Rutgers, he was selected from several applicants to be the executive assistant to the head of BMI, Inc., an Islamic investment firm based in New Jersey.
Masood had quickly earned a reputation as a trusted manager. His short, portly frame disarmed many. He would always smile, his round face and bright eyes indicating shyness, humility. Yes, Masood was disarming, though he’d never be able to hide anything from Yousef.
A young boy, barely as high as the stone wall that surrounded the garden, ran up and jumped on Yousef ’s lap.
“Patoo!”
Yousef’s voice was stern, but he gently picked up the child and raised him up to where he could almost touch the trellis and then dropped him to the ground like a brakeless elevator, stopping only at the last moment.
“Go to your mother.” Yousef patted the child on his backside in a mock manner of punishment.
Patoo ran away, knowing not to push his father too far.
“What is the next market?”
“As you know, we are finishing up in Baltimore,” said Masood. “Perhaps some commercial property in the South?”
“Atlanta. On the north side of the city. Anything near its Georgia 400 highway will turn a profit. We can concentrate on selling locations to drugstores. Properties with high traffic counts.”
The world had become much smaller. Although Yousef was hiding in the near-lawless mountains of Pakistan, a guest of the Sherani clan of the Pashtun tribe, he knew the real estate market of Atlanta in detail.
Masood, listening intently, nodded.
“They will continue to have growth,” Yousef said. “With our ability to leverage on the land in a high-traffic-count area, anything will be a profit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will have another private offering of stock. The stock will be issued to IIRO.” IIRO, known more formally as the International Islamic Relief Organization, had been established by the royal assent of Saudi Arabia’s ruling family. IIRO provided millions upon millions in relief to Islamic families devastated by the tsunami and various flood and earthquake disasters that had followed around the world. It also provided the source of funding for other projects. The profits would make their way back to Yousef.
“There is someone I want you to meet.” Yousef signaled with his hand to the guards in the front of the stone house.
As Masood turned, a man with a sparse red beard and a deep scar across his cheek, jaw, and neck approached. The beard accentuated the path of the scar, which looked like a chalky white streak cutting through the red. His looks were out of place among the Pashtun mountain men. Although built like a brute with wide shoulders and thick hands, he had an orange-freckled complexion.
“This is Abu, my brother and compatriot. Abu Umarov, a Chechen.”
“As sala’amu alaikum.” Masood spoke first.
“Walaikum as sala’am.” Abu’s light blue eyes bored a hole in Masood’s mind.
Good God. This man made Masood more uncomfortable than Yousef did.
Abu swung his AK-47 off his shoulder to shake Masood’s hand.
“Umarov is a true Muslim warrior,” Yousef said proudly. “He fought the Russians in Chechnya and the dogs in Bosnia. He was a lieutenant under Delić. Now he kills Americans and Jews.”
Masood nodded in appreciation.
“He is my second-in-command. Do you know why?”
Masood stood there in silence.
“His loyalty is absolute!” Yousef ’s voice rose as he spoke. “My Chechen!”
Abu Umarov smiled slightly at that.
“In Grozny, he was a construction engineer. He built buildings. Buildings that last.”
“Not like the Americans,” Masood put in.
“Then Tsentoroi came and all of Umarov’s family, his wife, his children, his mother and father, were shot like dogs on the street.”
Masood watched Umarov’s face and saw not the slightest change in his expression.
This man is cold.
“Umarov once served with Sabri al-Banna.” Yousef said it as if Abu Umarov had been a veteran of some great war. “Look at this!”
Yousef grabbed Umarov’s arm and pulled it up in the air like a referee’s final verdict in the ring. At the same time, he pulled Umarov’s shirtsleeve down, revealing a tattoo.
Masood had to look at it twice to understand.
“It’s a swan?”
“Yes,” said Umarov. “Hell yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t know what that means?” asked Yousef.
He explained that any man who carried the black swan and had fought with Sabri al-Banna was a man to be feared. Sabri al-Banna, a son of a wealthy Palestinian farmer, was also known by his more famous name: Abu Nidal. As Nidal hated the Jew who took over his father’s orange orchards, Umarov hated the Russian. They both made their enemies bleed.
“There is something else.” Yousef suddenly shifted the conversation again, avoiding the question altogether. “Do you still have the New York box?”
“Yes, of course.” They had maintained one address, a P.O. box in a small Brooklyn post office under a unique alias. Only Masood kept the key.
“You will receive something in a few days. The instructions will be clear.”
Masood nodded.
Yousef seemed to stare into space as he spoke.
“The plan has several steps.”
“I understand.” Masood didn’t always understand, but he knew enough not to say more.
Yousef looked up into the pale blue, cloudless sky as he spoke. “Masood, if you are not staying the night, it is time that you returned.” He pointed up as he spoke, meaning that the U.S. spy satellite would soon be crossing over the valley in its orbit.
Masood looked at his watch. “Yes, brother.”
“Someone in Riyadh is trying to point the CIA in our direction. It is my understanding that the CIA woman in Doha has now been transferred to Walter Reed Hospital.” Yousef spoke with his hands as much as his voice.
Yousef glanced at Umarov when he spoke. Both knew more than they were saying.
“We need to find her source.”
And with that, for the first and last time in their meeting, Yousef smiled.