Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  A first-generation American from a Somali heritage, he missed his friends in Minneapolis. Missed his father, but he knew that was wasted effort. His father had fled long ago, back to Mogadishu, and Anwar had heard he had been killed acting as a leader in Al Shabaab. Something that Anwar aspired to be. But that, apparently, wasn’t his path.

  He was more valuable here, in the United States. More useful because of his American passport. He’d made plans to leave—to flee his pathetic desert life in Nevada to a homeland he’d never known—but then he’d made a contact on the Internet. A very powerful and rich contact who had groomed him for something special.

  He heard the roar of a jet engine and glanced skyward, seeing the small reflection of two F-16s circling in the sky. Something that happened daily, as Indian Springs, Nevada, was the practice range of the Air Force Thunderbirds’ demonstration team. Stationed at nearby Nellis Air Force Base outside of Las Vegas, they routinely overflew Indian Springs, using the Creech Air Force Base ranges for their practice.

  While the Thunderbird rehearsals were routine, Creech was also used for something else. Something that interested Anwar much, much more than any aerial demonstration.

  He saw his mother’s beat-up Toyota Corolla pull through the fence of their “gated community” and took off running, trying to get to the trailer before she turned down their lane. He didn’t make it.

  She parked next to the aluminum skirting of the trailer, exited, and stood waiting on him, a smile on her face. He saw she hadn’t changed out of her slutty, shaming “uniform.” Pants that clung to her buttocks and a halter top barely covering her breasts.

  He hated what she wore and hated her job. The employment wasn’t exactly new, but the hatred was. She’d worked as a waitress in his home of Minneapolis, back when he was younger. Back when he had friends.

  Now he had no friends save the ones in virtual space. Here, in this desolate, weed-strewn patch of America, he was treated like a bug in a jar at his new school. In Minneapolis there had been a huge Somali diaspora. Here, none of these rednecks could even find the country on a map.

  When he got close enough, she said, “Why are you sweating so much? Playing soccer?”

  He knew she continually hoped that he’d make friends and take to playing like he used to, but that was impossible in Indian Springs. The town was a bleak outpost built mostly of cinder block and gravel, barely rating a post office. The sole employer had been a casino adjacent to Creech Air Force Base, and that had been bought out by the US government for security concerns. The action had left his mother looking for work, and she’d found it wearing that despicable outfit in a casino on the strip.

  Thinking fast, Anwar said, “No, it’s just really hot. I was out rock collecting on the other side of town.”

  The excuse was lame, but there was no way he could tell her about his makeshift lab. She’d already begun to question his use of the Internet and had even broached banning some of the websites he visited, stating that they were evil and destructive, just like his father.

  But how could that be? Both his father and the websites were followers of the purest form of Islam. And they both had taught him that the only thing evil and destructive was the very land he was living in. Just look at how far his mother had fallen, from wearing traditional attire at a Somali restaurant in Minneapolis to dressing like a whore in a casino in Las Vegas.

  Anwar bit his lip, wondering if his mother would ask him where the supposed rocks were that he’d collected.

  She didn’t, instead saying, “I got a big tip today. Want to go out to dinner?”

  He wanted to snap out that spending money earned from an infidel ogling her breasts was the same as becoming an infidel, but he didn’t. His friends had told him to be circumspect. To hide his true beliefs. And so he said, “That would be great. Downtown? In Las Vegas?”

  She smiled and said, “Of course.” She started to ask where he wanted to go when she noticed a UPS van pull into the trailer park and stop right outside their lane. Puzzled, she held a hand to her eyes as the driver pulled a box out of the back.

  She said, “Did you order something?”

  He had, but he’d had no idea it would come so quickly. Either way, he already had an excuse for the arrival, as he knew he could never hide the purchase from his mother.

  “It’s from my science teacher. For the science fair.”

  Confused, she turned to him and said, “He bought you something?”

  “No, the school did. It’s a drone, but I don’t get to keep it. I only get to experiment with it for a week.”

  His mother slowly nodded and the man dropped the package at her feet. Anwar peeled back the tape and opened the corrugated box, exposing a cellophane-wrapped container proclaiming PHANTOM 3 PROFESSIONAL, with a picture of a quadcopter drone.

  He tore into the box as his mother said, “The school bought you this? For no charge?”

  He pulled the drone out, saying, “Yes. Well, I think so. Maybe Mr. Rickter bought it himself. Either way, I get to use it; then I have to give it to him.”

  His mother didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press him further. She said, “Do you want to test it now, or go to dinner?”

  He gazed at the legs protruding underneath, mentally measuring the gap between them and the camera. It would work. He would have to bend the legs inward, but the jar would fit.

  His mother repeated the question, and in his overwhelming desire to test the drone he said, “Yes, I’d like to fly it right now.”

  Then he remembered that part of the flight controls required a smartphone. He had one, purchased through the same bank account that had bought the drone, but his mother didn’t know about that—the phone was his little secret. He knew his mother would want to watch, but he couldn’t test the drone without it, and there was no way he could claim Mr. Rickter bought him a phone as well.

  His mother, misunderstanding his apprehension, and wanting his approval, said, “It’s okay. We can get dinner later. Let’s see that beast fly.”

  He stared at the box for a moment, then said, “It’s got to charge first. That’ll be a few hours anyway.”

  Twenty minutes later they left the gravel of Indian Springs, his mother entering the flow of traffic headed south on Highway 95, the sprawling Creech Air Force Base in front of them. They drove by the empty space where the old casino once stood—the one demolished because of “security concerns.” The one that had forced his mother to start dressing like a harlot against the proscriptions of their religion.

  Anwar felt the anger rise, and then they were passing the east gate of Creech, a steady stream of vehicles attempting to exit at the close of the business day. He saw the cars and smiled, the anger growing into anticipation.

  His mother caught the look and said, “What so funny?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking about the science experiment I get to do with the drone.”

  9

  Jalal al-Khattabi took a seat at the rear of the main cabin, avoiding anyone else who had boarded the ferry, preferring to keep to himself. The less he had to interact, the less could be learned should someone be questioned later. He knew he was being paranoid, but he’d been taught specifically that such things had caused catastrophic failure in the past. The enemy was everywhere. After the operation, it would be very hard for anyone to connect the dots to this trip, but he certainly didn’t want to give the authorities any extra help.

  It had been thirteen long years since he’d left his homeland of Morocco, and in that time plenty of changes had occurred—most that the average person visiting would never blink an eye at. But for those like him, it was a danger.

  The ship under way, he saw the people line up for the immigration officer, each dutifully handing a passport over and answering the usual questions.

  He despised the fact that the Europeans were treated perfunctorily, while anyo
ne of Moroccan descent was questioned more harshly. An indicator of what he fought for.

  Directly in front of him were two Eurotrash couples, the males disheveled, with tattoos and backpacks, the females with disgusting dreadlocks that looked like cotton rope that had been dipped in wax. He knew exactly why they were making the trip, having worked the supply side of the Moroccan drug trade for most of his life, and he was sure the immigration officer knew as well.

  And yet nothing but cursory questions on their intentions.

  Jalal was a Berber from the Rif Mountains of Morocco, a land where the people fought for survival every single day, and through their trials, they’d found a method of success. The Rif had grown into one of the highest marijuana-producing regions of the world. When it came to Europe, forget about Mexico. If you wanted dope on the Continent, it originated in the Rif, and the trade was handed down from father to son in the hardscrabble life carved out of the rocks of the mountains.

  The two couples in front of him were on a hashish tour, Jalal was sure. He was, after all, a primary conduit feeding the trade. At least he had been, before he’d found the true cause of his life. He still dabbled, but not nearly as much as he had in the past.

  He listened to the questions and was disgusted at the lack of attention. The man simply rubber-stamped their passports and let them through. It was further proof of why his action was needed. Nobody could fight the West when one hand was in the pocket of those same people. The fight had to be pure, which is what he had become.

  He presented his passport and, unsurprisingly, was subject to much more scrutiny. He answered the questions, hiding his anger, and had his passport stamped, then returned to his seat in the back, fuming.

  The ride from the Iberian Peninsula was relatively short, no more than a couple of hours even with the berthing and unloading time, and soon Jalal could see the new Mediterranean port of Tangier slowly growing outside of his window.

  It was located about thirty kilometers from Tangier itself, and built in the time Jalal had been gone. He had never seen it before, but he’d been told it was a better place to use for infiltration. The port was four times the size of the aging one inside Tangier and, as such, strained the authorities’ ability to maintain security. With so much going on, there would be little chance that Jalal would be stopped and interrogated a second time.

  The boat began docking procedures, and he climbed out to the deck with everyone else, watching the trucks and cargo vans parked underneath the passenger area preparing to disembark. The heat of the deck, greasy and steaming, began to settle, and he wondered if they would be forced to wait until the vehicles had left. He would not.

  He saw a signal from the woman manning the gangplank, and the passengers began shuffling forward, most with roll-aboards, but some with gigantic garbage bags full of whatever they’d found on the Continent. One lady, clearly cresting eighty years old, was struggling with an oversize suitcase as the others passed her by, rushing to get off.

  Underneath her hijab, he could clearly see her pain as she tried to muscle her baggage onto the cleated stairs. She was knocked aside by other passengers too impatient to wait. He stepped forward and, speaking Arabic, said, “May I help you?”

  She looked at him gratefully and nodded. He hoisted the bag and turned to the narrow iron stairwell, and was promptly bumped aside by someone else. He dropped the bag and hammered the man who’d done it, throwing him into the steel wall of the ship. The man looked at him in surprise, not saying a word. They stared at each other for a split second, and the man retreated down the stairs. The line following him stopped. Jalal looked at them and said, “Will nobody help her? Is this what we’ve become?”

  Everyone glanced away. He carried her bag down, then returned to help her navigate the stairs, no other passenger daring to venture forward. She reached the bottom and said, “Thank you, I’ve been blessed. Thank you.”

  He nodded and shouldered his small backpack, following the flow of people off the ferry and toward a bus. He showed his passport one more time, the man checking only to make sure he had his stamps, and, after a ten-minute ride to the new terminal, was hailing a taxi to the city.

  After forty minutes of bouncing on the winding blacktop of the coast road, the windows rolled down to offset the stifling heat, they reached the outskirts of the sprawling port city of Tangier. Jalal marveled at how much it had changed. He had read how the city was rivaling Casablanca as a commercial hub, but he hadn’t translated that in his mind.

  He asked how much longer and was told about ten minutes. They wound past the old port—much smaller than the monstrosity built on the coast thirty kilometers away—and finally turned inland to the teeming city. The cabby went through a traffic circle, then left the main road, entering a zigzag of streets, the walls closing in on a lane barely wide enough for two cars. Eventually, he stopped and pointed at an American flag, saying, “American Legation.”

  Jalal nodded and asked how much. The man told him, and Jalal asked if he would take euros. The driver agreed and gave a new amount. Jalal paid, spending the final bit of euros he had and knowing he was being wildly overcharged. He didn’t care; it wasn’t his money.

  He took his small backpack and walked up the white stairs, passing through an arch with the United States’ Great Seal. He ignored it, and the museum it represented—the first American delegation to Morocco, formed here even before the nomenclature of “embassy” had been created. He passed by the door, disregarding the guard out front, and wondered if the Sheik had found a safe house at this location because he thought it was the most secure, or because he thought it humorous.

  He wound down a brightly colored pedestrian lane, the walls close enough to touch with outstretched arms, passing an attractive woman headed the other way. One who was wearing Western clothing, with no hint of her Moroccan heritage. Clearly, some other things had changed here as well. Some things he intended to reverse.

  After three turns in the alleys he stopped in front of an apartment labeled with the number twenty-four. He withdrew a key and was mildly surprised that it worked.

  He entered, seeing a small flat with a kitchenette and a separate bedroom/bathroom combination. On a table next to the stove was an envelope.

  He opened it, finding instructions for his meeting today, along with a set of car keys and a bundle of Moroccan dirham currency, the bill on top having writing on it in Arabic.

  Not even bothering to explore the apartment, he left, retracing his steps until he was back on the street, the Great Seal behind him. He read the instructions and walked south down rue de la Plage. He made a right turn and saw his landmark—a century-old Spanish theater called Cervantes, crumbling and decrepit, with boards over the windows and an iron gate outside. He was surprised at the state of the building. When he’d last visited Tangier, it had been operational, a symbol of the multiculturalism of Morocco. But that had been years ago, and truthfully, his family couldn’t have afforded the price of admission even then.

  Lining the street in front were cars parked in parallel and a man wearing a reflective vest studiously helping someone park. Jalal waited until the man was through, then handed him the hundred-dirham note with the Arabic instructions. Initially surprised at the amount of money, the man read the bill and nodded, leading the way to a Toyota Land Cruiser wedged between two other cars. Jalal thanked him, handing him another bill as he entered the car. The man guided him out, and in short order, Jalal himself was battling the traffic in Tangier.

  He headed north, forgoing the main arteries out of the city. He threaded through the winding streets until he hit a single ribbon of highway going southwest, now out of the city. Once again he paralleled the coast, only this time on the Atlantic instead of the Mediterranean.

  He passed through a forest maintained by the monarchy, the trees interrupted every so often with gigantic homes—palaces, really. One would think, given his bitter upbri
nging, that they would cause Jalal some umbrage, but they gave him no concern, as he knew who owned them: the same people who had taught him the true meaning of Islam. The Wahhabis of Saudi Arabia.

  Over the last two centuries, Morocco had seen colonization by the Spaniards, the French, and finally the Arabs, and through it all the Berbers had been the bastard children, discriminated against no matter who was in power. Eking out a living in the Rif Mountains, Jalal’s heritage was one of sorrow, with the Berbers’ language erased, their society and tribes marginalized. Moroccan law even forbade their families from anointing their children with traditional Berber names.

  Jalal knew none of this when he and his cousins set out for Spain to make their fortune so many years ago. Barely able to read and write, he had no knowledge of anything religious—most certainly not the rabid brand he now professed. That all changed in the immigrant neighborhood of Lavapiés in Madrid, Spain. Struggling to survive, Jalal and his cousins had been befriended by an imam from Saudi Arabia—one of the many the kingdom sent out to proselytize to the Arab diaspora. There, in a living room mosque, hidden from view of the authorities, they learned the true reason for their hardships and began to embrace Islam as it was meant to be. Pure, without the equivocation of the Takfiri or the outright apostasy of the unbeliever.

  It was there, in that small makeshift mosque, that Jalal had met the holy warriors who would strike a terrific blow in 2004. Moroccans like himself, they blew up the main Madrid train station, killing nearly two hundred infidels. While others lamented the attack, Jalal and his cousins, led by the imam, silently cheered.

  The mosque held another milestone in Jalal’s life. It was there, six years ago, that he was first introduced to a Saudi Arabian called the Sheik.

  10

  Driving toward the Atlantic coast on route des Grottes d’Hercule, stuck behind one Moroccan tour bus or tractor after another, Tariq decided he wouldn’t have time to meet his father. The thirty-minute commute had become close to an hour, cutting out the time he had allotted for that chore.