by Suzi Weinert
One man stood, figeting nervously. “My name is Ali. Like you, I am Muslim. Like you, I acknowledge Islam’s inevitable world domination. Unlike you, I think Islam will triumph in our religious takeover of the United States without terrorist acts but in a bloodless coup where we eventually outnumber them. During my quarter century here, I’ve studied American culture. I think we can move forward together side-by-side under their democracy until time puts us in charge. Dictatorship doesn’t always serve people best. Meantime, we observe how they create their high standard of living and ask: what can we borrow to improve our own countries?”
Ali shuffled his feet as he looked at the men he’d just seen for the first time. He rushed on, his words tumbling out before he lost his nerve. “As directed by the Great Leader twenty-five years ago, my family and I assimilated into this culture; my children attend their schools, my wife shops in their stores. We live as peaceful Muslims in their land. Because of the secret nature of this mission, I discussed my reluctance to join you with no one, not even the imam. Our clandestine situation forced me to figure this out myself, begging Allah’s wisdom and guidance, blessings upon His name. He has shown me a clear path for my thinking and my actions. Your task is yours, but mine is different although still in devoted service to Islam. While in this new country with my family, I will learn all I can about their schools, science and economic success, to improve our lot in the Middle-East. It is with sadness, but certainty, I choose not to join you. May Allah guide your steps in all you do to further His true intentions.”
He looked around the room, inviting their understanding. Nobody moved.
“Go then,” Ahmed said amicably. When the man left, an uneasy silence filled the room.
“Anyone else?”
Some shifted in their chairs but no one spoke.
“Then may Allah, praised be His name, smile upon the jihad the ten of us remaining will shape today to honor Him and all Islam,” Ahmed intoned reverently. The rest murmured approval. “As you are aware, until now we were a little-known splinter group of Islam, the religion destined to rule the world. Our mission in northern Virginia will hasten Islam’s world-wide acceptance in the United States. Rather than wait a thousand years for this gradual inevitability, we will accelerate Islam’s path to victory by attacking and crushing our ancient enemies the Jews and, now, the evil American Satans whose warlike meddling disrupts our nations. The CIA and Homeland Security headquarters, both in McLean, will earn public humiliation when our attack explodes outside their very tents. We will shock Americans where they feel safe and join other activist units to shatter their resolve. They will know beyond any doubt they cannot escape their ultimate Islamic fate. Allah, peace be unto His name, blesses our actions and sacrifice with joy in his Paradise.”
Wanting his own attention, Mahmud said, “Ahmed brings us an underground Taliban video to remind us of our task here.” He pushed the DVD into a machine Abdul had been asked to provide. The others exchanged mumbles of surprise as the TV screen sputtered to life.
Background gunfire and chanting male voices sounded as actual war footage of bloody carnage filled the screen. Uniformed U.S. soldiers and military vehicles exploded in graphic detail as body parts and broken machinery spewed into the air. The capture and abuse of American soldiers in desert-storm-camouflage outfits preceded their being dragged through villages. Intact bodies of those not already beheaded were strung up for further mutilation. The film’s Islamic background voices praised fallen fellow heroes and invited more sacrifice.
A robed figure stepped forward and faced the camera. “Powerful oppressors come from all directions. We use what skill and weapons we have to destroy their tanks and planes; yet even when we set the infidels on fire and burn them to ashes, they do not stop, coming in even greater numbers. But if these heathens kill me as I fight for our cause, then pick up your gun and follow in my footsteps when I am no more. In the end, Islam will prevail.”
When the shocking visual and ear-splitting audible violence stopped at the video’s end, the men in the warehouse jumped to their feet, fists in the air, cheering as if at a sports event.
Gratified at the film’s electrifying effect upon them, Ahmed smiled. When they quieted he spoke. “Thank you for your loyalty to our cause and for waiting patiently for many years to pluck this forbidden fruit from our enemy’s tree. Our jihad will create a catastrophe killing more than died at the World Trade Center in 2001 and unleash a wave of terror earning great respect for our religion in all American minds. We shall smite the Infidels with Islam’s sword, showing their pathetic vulnerability in our hands. We shall avenge Osama bin Laden’s vicious murder and their cowardly drone attacks on leaders of our heroic fighters. We shall prod the enemy with a hot poker. They will tremble at the name of Islam.”
Cheers and stomping filled the room.
“The Great Leader instructs me to reveal to you more extraordinary news. At the exact time of our attack, simultaneous strikes by other units in a town in every state across the U.S.A. will happen. This will create both a local and a national atmosphere of sheer terror.”
Again, the men cheered and gestured. Ahmed thought if they’d held rifles, as they would in their native countries, at this moment they’d fire them again and again into the air.
19
Friday, 9:33 AM
Ahmed waited for silence. The men looked at him expectantly. From years imbedded in American culture, they knew far more of local life here than he. However, he came directly from the Great Leader, whose inspired, long-range vision placed each of them here in the first place.
“From information provided me by the Great Leader, I know who you are, but you do not know me or each other. To safeguard our project, we will use first names only. I will introduce myself first. My name is Ahmed. When I was a small boy, American Jews came to my village to murder my family before my eyes. Men from our secret sect rescued me, educated and cared for me at their madrassa. Later they sent me to learn specialized military and language skills. Our Great Leader honors me to lead this group to implement the plan he’s crafted like an artist for forty years, a plan attracting rich funding from Middle-Eastern and certain other governments who recognize his brilliance. Because of Americans’ atrocities to my family, I will punish these infidels twice: once for the glory of Islam and once for the deaths of my parents.” He gestured for the next man to speak.
“I am Muzamil. Sent to this country thirty years ago, I worked for rail transportation. My uniform, credentials, knowledge and industry associates give me access to trains and Metrorail. Ineffective security exists for freight cargo, including hazardous material. Exploding them in pre-determined locations insures severe damage or biochemical contamination lasting far beyond the event itself. Security for passenger trains is similarly lax. Luggage isn’t electronically screened or visually inspected. Even with security, many passengers board trains at unmanned depots such as Fredericksburg, Virginia. Detonating hidden bombs as a train passes through a tunnel or over a high trestle would create a railroad disaster crippling routes and frightening riders for years afterward.”
Ahmed nodded approval before turning his eyes to the next man.
“Abdul is my name. After fifteen years as trusted foreman of a big HVAC company, I started my own business. I have access to air circulation systems in office and government buildings. My uniformed crews and I fit in everywhere and can use our access to infuse ventilation systems with bio-weapons or deadly gases or place demolition explosives to blow workers to bits while destroying computers, files and creating chaos.”
“Mustafa here. For twenty-five years I worked with janitorial teams providing cleaning services in civilian, government and military office buildings, factories, schools and shopping malls. I am now supervisor. Nobody questions our presence in any commercial venue. My uniformed workers and I could install bombs to destroy buildings, office machinery, records and personnel.”
“My name is Mahmud. My business is commercial
and industrial painting, Painters are needed everywhere, so we go everywhere. Our company uniforms and equipment are tickets inside most buildings where we can place explosives or whatever is needed.”
“I am Mohamed. The U.S. government trained me to monitor and ensure computer security and prevent hacking. I have top-secret clearance. I can create considerable chaos in government, military and civilian computer systems even without a cyber-bomb. With such a bomb, and rumor has it several kinds exist, this country will fall to its knees. The advantage is useable infrastructure ready for our takeover. Only their technology and way of life it supports are destroyed.”
“Call me Faheem. A licensed semi-trailer truck driver, I learned my trade with major companies. I did well enough to buy my own rig plus four more. Explosives packed into my trucks can detonate in tunnels, on bridges or underground parking garages of office buildings, with horrific results.”
“I am Basheer. I worked my way to management in a gun shop chain and can get my hands on most weapons. More important, I am an accurate sniper, as are my associates, to serve you well.”
“Jabbar here. I work in a government chemical laboratory but have my own well-stocked lab at home in my basement. I can create toxic gases and poisons for the others here to deploy and can get bio-hazardous material for use if desired.”
“My name is Aziz. I am a construction foreman. Commercial work and road improvement exist all over Fairfax County. My crew and I are accepted without question wherever we go. We use heavy equipment, useful for destruction as well as construction, and know strong and weak points in buildings for Semtex, and other explosives, to insure maximum damage.”
Pleased at their array of talents and careers, Ahmed smiled. “Thank you. Our Great Leader’s plan uses all your skills for this jihad, our holy war against the Unbelievers. We will strike on the day after Thanksgiving. They name this ‘Black Friday,’ a day with meaning to American people which exemplifies their twisted devotion to materialism. But Friday also has great meaning for us: our day of the week to worship Allah. Our holy war on His holy day is the ingenious thought of our Great Leader.”
“And what is the target?” asked one of the men.
Ahmed smiled. “A very large shopping mall in northern Virginia. Because shopping is an American mania, stores are everywhere. Our attack will cause Americans fear when they shop for their needs and wants and they spend few days without visiting a store. Shoppers will cram the mall on this date. Many thousands will die. The plan is brilliant.”
Several cell members exchanged cautionary glances. Finally Aziz managed the courage to respond. “I speak with total respect for you and our Great Leader, but my company has constructed many malls and worked on expansions of others such as the Tyson Corner Shopping Mall, which almost doubled in size in 2005. Is the Great Leader aware security systems in these malls are super-sophisticated? To protect huge Black Friday crowds, the mall’s management greatly increases existing security personnel plus Fairfax County policemen, both uniformed and plain-clothes. Individual stores, responsible for their own security, also ramp up their security on Black Friday. The mall’s state-of-the-art camera systems miss little. Management’s suspicion for any irregularities will be on highest alert.”
Abdul added, “Individual stores in large malls must provide their own HVAC, but concourses rely on body heat in the winter. This is no problem since daily foot traffic in huge malls is about 55,000 shoppers a day. Chill systems cool common areas in the summer, but this is November. Extra security on Black Friday seriously limits my normally easy HVAC access.”
“Thank you both for your information. I will report this to our Great Leader, although I do not question his choice.” Ahmed looked at the group. “We will each make a farewell video for TV stations to receive after our strike. Write down your message to our enemies so you will be ready. We meet again here tomorrow morning at 10:00 to make the videos. Do you all understand?”
They assured him they did. Regrettably, the nervous Ali, who humiliated himself by revealing his traitorous cowardice and leaving before the meeting began, could not be allowed to live.
“Abdul,” Ahmed signaled him to approach, “I have a special assignment for you…”
20
Friday, 10:32 AM
Veronika Verontsova paced the living room of her Great Falls estate. Her long, gray hair, gathered in a braid at the back of her neck, framed a winkled face from which alert brown eyes surveyed her world. Wearing a shawl over a blouse tucked into an ankle-length skirt, she looked more like a wizened gypsy than a relative of the once-powerful Russian aristocracy.
Pain in her temples warned of a vision soon, but not until the special scent filled the air. Strong emanations today trembled with danger, yet she couldn’t identify the source. Sinister energy pulsed nearby, yesterday’s faint uneasiness more insistent today.
“I’m almost ninety years old,” she said aloud to the empty room. “I hoped these glimpses into the future would ebb long ago, but if anything, I’ve learned to coax more details from the unwanted scenes invading my mind.”
She smiled, remembering how innocently the discovery began. As a child, she’d loved playing outside in the gardens surrounding her family’s estate in Russia. She’d felt keenly alive outdoors with sunshine kissing her skin, breezes stirring the leaves to whisper around her, insects buzzing as they spiraled along on their pollen mission, and the distinct scents of flowers, especially lilacs. They drew her powerfully when first she inhaled their perfume.
At age four, on a glorious spring day, she buried her face in clusters of the fragrant lavender blossom spikes she’d picked, breathing their intoxicating lilac fragrance minute after minute until she felt light-headed and melted into another world. Although she lay in her garden with her nose in the lilacs, she “saw” a ship sinking into the ocean. The heady sensation of two dimensions excited her, and she repeated her secret “looks” other places by inhaling the inebriating lilac scent every day they bloomed. Soon she didn’t need the actual flowers but only the memory of their perfume to peer forward in time. She didn’t summon these pictures. They just happened.
Today’s vision in Great Falls, Virginia, was as strong as her first real experience at age five in the old country when the beloved family dog failed to return from the woods at dinner time. Speculation permeated the household from the salons upstairs to the servant quarters below.
Her mother tucked her into bed that night, comforting her child with the thought “Baron” would return by morning. But during the night, Veronika smelled lilacs and, in her dream, saw Baron pursued by a bear. She watched the bear sink predatory claws deep into their pet’s flank and drag it closer for the kill. As she watched, the bear’s jaws closed on Baron’s throat. The dog’s legs raked the air fiercely, then twitched and finally hung limp. Releasing the dog’s neck, the bear sank his fangs into his victim’s belly. Veronika awoke to her own screams in the middle of the night. Her nursemaid already stood at her side when her mother rushed into the room.
“Nika, my little Veronika, what is it, Darling?”
The child couldn’t believe she was in her bed rather than in the woods near the violent attack. “Baron is dead,” the child sobbed. “I saw the bear kill him. Now it waits for whoever comes next.”
“It is just a bad dream, Precious. Baron will return tomorrow. Now go back to sleep, Little One.”
Veronika lay back on her pillow. “The bear waits where the path forks near the giant oak tree. I saw him looking for the person who comes next.
“All right, close your eyes. I’ll tell Papa about your dream. We’ll talk more about it at breakfast.”
A bear did wait next morning for a servant sent to find Baron. Alerted by the nursemaid’s story of the girl’s dream, he carried a rifle. He found Baron’s remains in the bushes beside the path as the bear rushed at him. The servant later insisted the child’s vision saved his life.
Baron was but her first vision. A month later she smell
ed lilacs and “saw” her mother’s lost ruby earring beneath a bookcase. Later, when a gardener fell ill she “knew” he wouldn’t recover. Dozens of examples of her “gift” taught family respect for her sixth sense as years passed.
News of Veronika’s visions spread through the household to neighbors and finally to town.
Aristocrats, merchants and peasants came to the house, begging the child’s help to find a missing loved one or a valuable lost article. Her parents did their best to shield her, but several bribed servants brought her messages about mysteries, which the child then solved, increasing her mystique.
One day she overheard her parents talking. “Well, is she prescient about these events or does seeing them cause them?” blustered her father.
Her mother laughed nervously. “Rudolph, you do go on so. Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a beautiful child with a rare gift. You should be proud of this, as I am.”
Her father harrumphed, downed his whiskey and said no more. But this conversation frightened Veronika. Had she the power to make bad things happen? Nursing this fear, she didn’t know what to do when in her mind’s eye she “saw” her mother thrown from a horse. Veronika “saw” the doctor standing over her mother’s bed, shaking his head sadly.
“Don’t go riding today,” she begged her mother. “Please stay with me. I…I need you here.” But her mother said she’d return from the ride soon to spend the afternoon with her daughter. “Don’t go,” the child sobbed. “I saw your horse rear and you fell off and you…you died.”
Stopping in her tracks, her mother gazed into her daughter’s eyes. “Is it true you saw this vision?”
“Yes, yes.” The girl twisted the strand of beads at her throat until it broke, scattering jewels across the floor. “Please, Mama.”
“Well then, I think I’ll change my plans and stay with you after all.”
This experience introduced Veronika to the notion her gift might prevent calamity. But in this case she merely delayed fate, for a year later her mother was thrown from a horse and killed.
