“The van is important.”
A cough drew Abu Alhaul’s attention. The man in the western suit had been standing silently beside him throughout the incident. Abu Alhaul looked down at the man, his expression never changing. It was the Palestinian.
“Abu Alhaul,” the short, stout man said, pushing the brim of a white fedora off his forehead. “My apologies for interrupting your thoughts, but I wanted to apprise you of where we stand.”
“Continue, Doctor Ibrahim.”
“Food and water is onboard. Captain Alrajool asked that I relay that to you. The medical supplies needed—for the health of the martyrs—are also on board.”
Abu Alhaul reached out and touched the shorter, squared-bodied man on the shoulder, forcing himself not to jerk his hand away from touching the western garment. “Doctor, you’re very important for the success of this mission. This is not a mission that will be accomplished in a week or two weeks, but it’s one that will carry the jewels of obedience to the infidels. Those chosen to martyr themselves in this Holy cause must be healthy so they arrive at the right place at the right time. My friends in Somalia tell me you are the best, but then I have to ask myself, if you are the best then why do they send you. Could it be that maybe they have no further use for you? Can I count on their words of your ability to keep them clean and clear of focus?”
Dr. Ibrahim’s eyes narrowed and he stopped himself before he said something that may cost him his life. Changing the subject, he pointed at the van. “Is this necessary, my leader? I thought I was the secret of the mission. Is this real? Is this something like a backup in the event I am unsuccessful?”
Abu Alhaul allowed himself a laugh. “Of course, it is necessary, Doctor. Every great plan has its details. Great plans are better carried out when the enemy realizes that he failed to watch the other hand of the magician. By then”—Abu Alhaul snapped his fingers—“the trick is over, the crowd is both surprised and perplexed in their amusement. You, my dear friend, are the magician. The van is the hand the Great Satan will watch.”
The sound of the chains being secured to the van and rehooked to the crane drowned out the doctor’s words, but Abu Alhaul nodded anyway. What did it matter in the scheme of obedience where the lesson was learned as long as those learning it recognized their decadence? But if America was as decadent and soft as Osama predicted, then why were they still fighting years later and still chasing the remnants of Al Qaeda around the world? He sighed.
The breeze changed slightly, blowing across the inlet, lifting the fetid smell higher into the air to whiff across the freighter, the pier, to flow across where Abu Alhaul stood.
“Whew!” said Abdo. “How do they stand living here? The smell, the dirt, the filth.”
“They need to understand Allah’s obedience before they can appreciate the depth of depravity in which they live.”
“Depravity? I would call it more a lack of hygiene. I bet if you gave them a bar of soap each, half of them would think it was something to eat.”
“And the other half?”
“Would know it was something to eat.”
The crane strained as it lifted the van slightly. On board the ship, about twenty men shoved and twisted the van until the supervisor shouted for them to stand back. Then the crane lowered the van into the corrected position on the helicopter deck.
“I have several more crates to load with my medical supplies, then we’ll be finished,” Dr. Ibrahim added.
Abu Alhaul watched the van. If it was damaged or lost, the mission could be endangered. He nodded at Ibrahim. As long as the doctor did what he was supposed to do, they would succeed with a greater measure of success than having the van explode inside the American harbor.
“I talked with Captain Alrajool, Abu,” Dr. Ibrahim continued, ignoring the inattention of the man in front of him. He wondered briefly what these Arabs saw in this man. “He is in engineering, checking the steam pressure. He says that as soon as the remainder of the supplies, including the zodiac rafts, are on board, and they finish securing the van, the ship would sail.”
“Looks as if we have it loaded, my brother. I see that Tamursheki has taken charge again. You have a loyal servant in him.”
“And, I don’t in you, Abdo?”
Dr. Ibrahim sighed. “If there is nothing else, I’m going to return to the ship and make sure that the things I need to do my part have been properly loaded.” He looked past Abu Alhaul to Abdo. If you wanted something done, never go to the number one person, always go to the number two. Then, things get done. “Abdo, would you relay to my bosses that everything is going according to the agreement and plan.” He looked at Abu Alhaul, then back to Abdo. “That is, I trust everything is going according to your wishes?” He asked, peering over the top of his wire-rim glasses.
A few minutes later, the Palestinian was climbing back up the restored gangway to the ship.
“I am but Allah’s servant,” Abu Alhaul mumbled, just loud enough for Abdo to hear.
Abdo laughed.
“A servant such as you, Abdo.”
“A servant, no. A loving brother who would sacrifice his life for his older, misguided brother, yes.”
Abu Alhaul faced the freighter again. “You didn’t always think I was misguided.”
“I didn’t always think I was going to have to follow you to places where humidity and heat create red patches to cover my body. Where fresh water is something unusual, but hot water is a normal occurrence. Where even the plants are dangerous. Where the snakes that are not poisonous can swallow you whole. No, my brother. Love is one thing, but being comfortable and happy would definitely improve my love for you.”
Abu Alhaul shook his head. “You know, little brother, I fail to understand your attempts to distract me from my mission. If Allah wanted us to remain in Egypt, living off the sweat of others, and giving lip service to him, he would have shown me the way.”
Abdo reached over and touched his brother on the shoulder. “Ramsi—”
Abu Alhaul jerked his shoulder out from under his brother’s hand. “The name is Abu Alhaul. Ramsi is dead. He died years ago.”
“Say what you will,” Abdo said irritably. “You are Ramsi to me and will always be the younger brother who I carried from the house when it burned. You’ll be the younger brother who I protected from bullies in our village. And who was it who pulled you away when you decided to die defiantly by standing in front of an American tank as it roared down the street? Ramsi, it was, and Ramsi it will always be.” Abdo turned and walked away, heading toward the stern of the freighter. “What is wrong with a name of a Pharaoh?” Abdo muttered to himself.
On board the ship, Tamursheki jumped from atop the van to the deck. Shouting orders to the Africans and his fellow voyagers, the man watched closely as they quickly fell to the task of securing the heavy van to the ship. Both line and chain ran from the deck to the bolts on top of the van.
Abu Alhaul nodded, satisfied with Tamursheki. This Yemeni would need to maintain a strong hold on the martyrs accompanying him — taking the war to the country that had destroyed so much of the organization he had inherited.
* * *
At the bottom of the gangway, Dr. Ibrahim pulled an African out of line and motioned him to put the two metal boxes he was carrying to the side. He reached up and pushed his white fedora back, revealing several sweat-soaked strands of hair plastered across the bald pate in a vain attempt to hide the baldness. He ran a handkerchief across his forehead, wondering how he came to be here. Was what Abu Alhaul said correct? Did the Iraqi underground want to get rid of him?
He squatted beside the two boxes, running his hands over the seals to see if they were intact. He licked his lower lip and felt a fresh wave of perspiration break out across his forehead. He wondered why. He had nothing to fear except those he was about to sail with. Satisfied the boxes were okay, he remained squatting, glancing back and forth along the pier, looking for what, he wasn’t sure. Ibrahim pulled a dirty handkerchi
ef from the back pocket of his white trousers and wiped the sweat from his brow. He never should have trusted Tamursheki to have them carried aboard. The Arab was as useless as the other fanatic martyrs signed up for this one-way trip. Of course, most, if any, didn’t realize this was a one-way trip. Few knew it was, except for him and the Captain. All they had to do was deliver the van to operatives ashore. He had two options, he thought, reaching up and patting the papers in his right suit-coat pocket.
If it weren’t for the money — and the knowledge that he wouldn’t live long enough to make it to the exit of the port — he’d give this enterprise up. Plus, being a member of the Iraqi underground didn’t mean being Arab. If they knew he was Jewish, he wouldn’t live another second. He patted the keys jammed into his pants pocket. If anyone looked closely at his keys, they would discover a small Star of David hidden within one of the key-chain ornaments.
He patted the boxes as he stood. He needed the medicine in these boxes, otherwise he couldn’t guarantee the degree of health that Abu Alhaul wanted for this bunch of human weapons. Without these containers, how could he fulfill his part of the bargain with this bunch of “let’s die for Allah” fools?
Ibrahim had given strict instructions to this weasel Tamursheki to have these boxes carried directly to the medical facility on board the ship. Instead, if he hadn’t seen them being carried by this African, they could have been stored anywhere on the ship, and it would have taken a long time to find them. Time was the critical element. If you managed the time right, then everything else fell into step. The loud voice of Tamursheki drew Ibrahim’s attention to the stern. He gave a few seconds’ thought to marching down there and shouting his anger at him. He sighed, reached down, grabbed the handles of the two boxes, and turned toward the gangway. This Tamursheki was mercurial. Ibrahim was unsure whether Tamursheki would leap down to the pier and cut his throat, ignore him, or offer a groveling apology if he marched down in righteous anger and shouted abuse at him. Ibrahim hadn’t lived to be this age without being able to control his emotions.
Pushing his way into the line of Africans loading the ship, Dr. Ibrahim soon passed up the gangway and disappeared into the ship.
Abdo waddled back toward Abu Alhaul, his head down.
“It is loaded, Abu. We can go and watch the departure from the hillside.”
Abu Alhaul shook his head. “Soon, my brother.”
It took another thirty minutes to complete the loading of the old, rusting freighter. In that time, the man Abu Alhaul had chosen to lead this attack, Tamursheki, finished overseeing the anchoring of the heavy van to the stern. Abu Alhaul and Abdo watched from the shadows as Tamursheki mustered his fellow martyrs on the stern. They were unable to hear what the young twenty-five-year-old told the other young men, but Abu Alhaul knew it would be something about how they were working in Allah’s name; that killing infidels increased Allah’s might and joy; and, if he was there, he would remind them of the seventy virgins waiting for them in paradise.
“It’s all Assassin, isn’t it?” Abdo said
Abu Alhaul looked at him and smiled. “And where did that thought come from? Has some insight suddenly exploded within that fat brain of yours?” Abu Alhaul said, his voice betraying amusement.
Abdo grimaced. “Fat I may be, but I prefer to think of it as added padding to keep the bullets out of the vital spots.”
“If fat can do that, Abdo, then you will be invincible. Now tell me what you mean by referring to Al Ahsan.”
He pointed to the group of Jihadists gathered on the stern of the ship. “You know what I mean; you’re doing it. What we do today is really a descendant movement of Al Ahsan.”
“Al Ahsan was a great man.”
Abdo chuckled. “He was a wise man who knew how to manipulate the emotions and the desires of young men.”
The smile left Abu Alhaul’s face. “Brother, you mock me.”
Abdo shook his head. “I would never mock you. I admire and love you. You know that. No one loves you more than your own brother. And this fat may someday protect you from death.”
Abu Alhaul turned away and continued his observation of the activity visible on the ship and the pier. Africans were crawling aboard the flatbed truck at the urging of their supervisors. A few were twitching their shoulders, loosening the tight muscles from the heavy carrying. The tone of the conversation, the friendly slaps and hits being exchanged, the joking banter of workmen finished for the day and happy at the thoughts of going home, made the scene almost surreal.
“During the Christian crusades of their eleventh century,” Abdo recited softly, “there arose a great prophet in the land now known as Iran. And this prophet, known as Al Ahsan, gathered around him other mullahs of Allah and discussed how they could rid the Holy Lands of these defilers. And it was decided that to instill fear into their hearts would hasten their departure. And what weapon do we — people of the desert — have to throw against the infidels? And the only weapon they could find were the children. Al Ahsan, acting on the word of Allah, sent his followers into the barren cities of Persia and Iraq, and there they spread the word of Al Ahsan about an unbelievable paradise that awaited those who died in the name of their religion. A paradise oasis where those who died in Allah’s name lived for eternity in a spacious home surrounded by fruit trees and flowing waters.”
The engine died on the truck. The grinding sound of the starter caused Abu Alhaul to believe the truck had broken down, but then it caught. The driver revved up the engine. A backfire caused the Jihadists to crouch instinctively. A blast of dark, oily exhaust shot out from the tailpipe, and the wind blew it back across the Africans crowded into the bed, bringing forth shouts of displeasure.
“And when Al Ahsan and his followers believed they had found a willing disciple, they would drug him—”
“I prefer the version where he falls into a deep sleep.”
“—and while he was asleep they would take him to a hidden place, so when he awoke, he found himself in a great mansion in the middle of nowhere surrounded by fruit trees and running waters. And, dashing through the house and among the garden were young girls—”
“Virgins.”
“—virgins with whom the young man would have his way. And, after a few days—”
“Two days.”
“—two days, they would dru — put him to sleep again and spirit him back to whence he came.”
“That’s better. We drug no one.”
Abdo cocked his head at his brother, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “No drug?”
“No drugs. Never, ever.”
“Words and a willingness to believe; to echo words that mean nothing when you peel them back like an onion, but they bring tears to the eyes of those who bathe in them.”
Abu Alhaul waved his hand impatiently. “Go ahead and finish, Abdo. I enjoy the story and it passes time.”
The truck shifted into gear. The driver’s head appeared out of the window, his left arm draped outside the door as he looked behind him. The engine noise rose in tempo as the driver pushed on the pedal and the gears ground as metal teeth tore against each other. The truck backed up, inching out of the narrow confines of the pier, past the stern of the ship toward an alley between the warehouses, where it could turn around.
“And, when the disciples awoke and told Al Ahsan and his closest followers what had happened, they convinced him that he had been blessed by Allah and shown what paradise would be like when he died.”
The headlights of the truck played across the freighter as it backed into the alley. The familiar sound of grinding gears announced the shift from reverse to first.
“Convinced that he must die in the service of Allah, the leaders gave the young man a knife and whispered instructions on what he must do to re-enter the gates of paradise. Then, they patted him on the butt and laughed as they sent him off—”
“Abdo!” Abu Alhaul scolded.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said with a downward motion of his hand
. “I will try to stay to the original story.”
“That would be something I would like to hear.”
Abu Alhaul nodded at the man who had crawled under the truck earlier. The man handed the AK-47 to the man beside him, reaching into the knapsack to pull out a remote control device, along with a couple of hand grenades. Glancing again at Abu Alhaul, who lowered his eyes in acknowledgment, the man ran down the pier toward the truck that had now reached the gate leading off the jungle pier and into the bush.
“And the young man would sneak into the camps of the Christian infidels and cut the throat of a single person sleeping among the others. Lying on his stomach, he would then saw the head off the body and place the head on the chest of the dead Christian before sneaking off into the night again.”
At the gate, the taillights of the truck passed through the open chain-link fence. The man stopped, jumped behind a couple of large crates stacked on top of each other. He leaned around the edge, pointed the remote control at the truck, and pressed the button.
“Eventually, he would be caught and killed.”
The explosion split open the night darkness and rode over the sounds of the ship and the jungle. From beneath the warehouse, other members of Abu Alhaul’s guard strolled toward the dead, dying, and wounded. The man who had blown up the truck pointed to the hillside outside the gate, pulled the pin on the grenade, and threw it over the fence. The explosion stopped some of the screaming. The men walked among the Africans. Those still alive they shot. Some near the fetid waters of the inlet they rolled into the bay.
“And the Christians called these silent killers of the night Assassins, which means followers of Al Ahsan. When they realized the nature of the killings and what those doing it believed, and to whom they swore undying loyalty, the Christians sought out Al Ahsan and destroyed his palace and him. And, to send a message to others who may follow, they killed his wives and his children so that his seed would not pass into posterity.”
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