American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (21 page)

Namir had outdone himself. A whole lamb stuffed with rice, almonds, raisins and spices grilled on the fire was the central course. The red meat dish was paired with fragrant chicken with pomegranate walnut sauce. A salad of the freshest cucumber, tomatoes and onion seasoned with crimson sumac spice began the feast and, of course, there were hummus, tahini and other accoutrements. The imam downed his meal with the thick dark tea so favored by Iraqis, whereas Ahmed’s drink of choice was an American soft drink, laced with the non-odorous Russian gift to the world of drink, vodka.

“We need money,” said Ahmed nonchalantly as he cut off a piece of the spiced lamb.

“You always need money,” retorted the imam. “What is it for this time?”

“None of your contacts in America have come through and...” Ahmed took a deep breath. “I was wrong about Casey and Nabil.”

Ahmed’s father spat on the floor. “Nabil and Casey recruited convicts. What else can you expect from filth?”

“The prison imam they connected with is a holy man.”

The older man shook his head in disgust. “They did not properly interview the recruits themselves.”

Better not tell the old man that Casey did it all over here—and that there was no prison imam.
“You’ve got to start trusting people sometime. It is a minor setback,” said Ahmed.

“Nothing is minor. Everything is important. Details are important... What do you want the money for?”

“There were unexpected delays and some immediate expenses.”

“Put whatever you’re doing on hold until you raise funds.”

“The wheels are in motion and we can’t take our foot off the gas pedal now.”

“Your problem is not delays but poor timing.” The imam snorted. “You will never catch up to the organizations that are already established in the Great Satan. Abort the American expansion. It is foolishness.”

“All is possible through Allah. Allah is making us stronger and this is His way.”
 

The imam balled his hands into fists. “Living under Sharia law does not mean spreading your seed into every young girl you meet.”

Ahmed looked directly into his father’s face. “Her father gave her to me for helping his family. She is my wife.”

“And he sent this, too?” The imam took an empty wine bottle from the folds of his white, ankle-length thaw and smashed it on the table. The bottle splintered with a resounding crack. Many of the shards flew into the Muslim leader’s foot-long grey-and-white beard, where they twinkled like miniature stars.
 

Ahmed inhaled angrily. He knew it was a risk to bring the child and wine into his room, but years as a soldier for Muslim Rock, where he had hundreds of young virgins energized by casks of wine, made its mark on him—he could not live forever like an ascetic mullah.

“The words of the Prophet are eternal and apply to all ages,” said the cleric, sadly but firmly. The imam stared at his son, powerless to speak or act. While he was truly a holy man of Islam, he suffered the same blindness toward his son that a priest of the hated Jews did thousands of years earlier. Israelite high priest and judge Eli could not see the sins of his sons... just as the imam could not see Ahmed’s.

“Don’t be angry. The American operation will soon be operational.”

“Ahmed, you are not an orator. You are not a cleric. How can you possibly expect to compete with well-organized groups like the Islamic Confederation? Their leader is dynamic, a demagogue. You can never compete with his ability to rouse the faithful to action and commit their funds. In less than a year, he has raised millions and wreaked havoc.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” said Ahmed testily.

“Ahmed,” said his father softly, “he was the one responsible for the drone attack on the Washington Monument and the chaos on the New York subway system.”

“He was?” said Ahmed, startled and challenged at the same time.

Ahmed and his father glared at each other, daring each other to renew their decades-old fight. This time, Ahmed shocked his father.

“You’re right, Father. I will never be that man. Sad, but true.” Ahmed lifted his glass. The holy man did the same. Both men drained their glasses in a single gulp.

I don’t need to be him. I just need to be me… I gave him his final chance.

***

The next day, just after noon prayers, Ahmed stood in front of the Great Hall in the Mosque of Ali, in the same place his father had stood for the past four decades. The imam had been found dead in his bed that morning. While seemingly healthy, Ahmed let it be known that his father hid his ill health from the members of the mosque, not wanting them to worry. The thankful congregation murmured that the holy man had at least enjoyed a final meal of his favorite foods before retiring to bed early, complaining of an upset stomach.

Ahmed took immediate charge, overseeing the washing of the body and placing of the shroud himself. He conducted the funeral service, led the prayers and threw the first fistfuls of dirt over his father’s body at the graveside. All the members of the mosque were impressed with how quickly and authoritatively Ahmed took charge, and his selection as the new imam of the mosque was unquestioned.

The truth was, Ahmed acted so quickly because he didn’t want any possibility of an investigation as to why his father died. Not that someone requesting and performing an autopsy was likely, but Ahmed did not want anyone to discover the elevated levels of risin and cyanide in his father’s body. Ahmed was unfamiliar with this kind of killing—an assault weapon or sword were more his style—so he was unsure about the dosages required. Throughout the day, he had Namir place one or the other of the deadly poisons into his father’s tea or meals, which seemingly had no effect. Ahmed insisted that Namir keep increasing the amounts. He was surprised his father lasted the day and was prepared to take more direct action if his father woke up the next morning. Had Ahmed known more about the efficacy of the materials he used, he would have known that death was not always immediate—there was enough risin and cyanide in his father’s body to kill twenty people

None of this mattered as Ahmed completed his remarks. “The imam, my father, was a great man and I am honored that you have chosen me to take his place. When he was young, he sent me to America for school, where I spent two years so I could understand their people. My first action as the new imam is to return there for a speaking tour to help build bridges between nations. As you may have heard, the Great Satan has accused our brethren for the attacks on New York and Washington. How untrue and how evil can they be?” He gazed out over his congregation, a look of sheer innocence on his face. “I will go in peace to tell of our love, to tell them who we are. I know this is short notice as I have just been declared the new imam, but I feel I must make an appearance as quickly as I can. I will be leaving tomorrow as I want to help America celebrate its Independence Day, the fourth of July...”

Chapter 25
 

Fatima had known the fifty-two-year-old Tariq almost her whole life. He sold cloth from his stall in the bazaar and his family of four attended the Mosque of Ali. Tariq was not a fan of Saddam Hussein and found the teachings of Fatima’s father very much in line with how he viewed the world. Many of his non-working activities centered on the mosque, and Fatima and Tariq’s daughter, Ula, were inseparable playmates.

March 20, 2003 changed everything. Tariq had taken the family to attend the wedding of his younger brother in Baghdad. While he was helping organize the wedding feast, his wife and children were killed by a bomb from an American Air Force F-117 stealth fighter on the first official day of Operation Iraqi Freedom. The inconsolable Tariq vowed that day he would do all he could to humble and defeat the Great Satan.

Claiming that his family had been tortured and killed by Saddam Hussein’s forces, Tariq applied for and received refugee status in the United States. The naturally quiet and timid man knew his limitations. He could never be a fiery orator and his lack of education and computer skills meant he could never penetrate the internet or gain any position of authority.
 

But he could operate a dry cleaners and laundry shop. Using this as a front, he worked behind the scenes, gathering information and being an intermediary for clandestine activities. When Ahmed and Fatima went to an American college, he went to visit them. Quietly, he told them what he had been doing and offered to help in any way should they need it. Fatima realized the gold mine that her old playmate’s father had become and, as her own plans developed, took advantage of his offer of assistance. If the American Muslim Militia were to succeed, it would need local allies who were not already aligned to bigger players, or who at least were willing to consider new ones.

Tariq had done his research well on different Muslim-American organizations. He knew which ones would be sympathetic to Fatima and Ahmed’s cause and which ones would not. Not wishing to appear on the radar of any of the intelligence agencies who might be investigating them, he was innocuously friendly in his dealings with them.
 

Which was good enough for Fatima. Tariq’s introduction would be enough for her to get the meetings she needed. In the greater Los Angeles area, Tariq had identified six potential candidates for Fatima who were “safe.” In other words, even if they rejected what she said, they would never report her to the authorities. In briefing her on his shortlist, Tariq gave his notes on what approach Fatima should use, what their “hot buttons” were.
 

But first things first. They had a suitcase full of heroin to dispose of. Rocko was Tariq’s go-to guy. An aspiring drug lord, he had bought all of Tariq’s previous imported goods and knew the quality was first class. A half million in cash was an easy exchange, which was made as they met in a covered garage in Santa Monica. Then, for the next six hours, they worked on depositing the funds. Tariq had already set up half a dozen different accounts for Fatima and Ahmed under different names and organizations, but they had to open a few more. After all, any deposit of over fifteen thousand dollars cash could draw the suspicion of tellers.

Although she still had over a hundred thousand dollars in cash, it was time to set up meetings, especially as Ahmed would be arriving shortly.

Los Angeles was home turf for Tariq and the majority of his contacts were in the City of Angels, but he did not want to go to that well too often—there were already five other groups he had made introductions to. Tariq felt his lesser-used San Francisco contacts would be more open to Fatima and Ahmed.
 

Tariq gave his daughter’s childhood friend a big hug as he dropped her off at the airport. He had done his best but knew his limitations—he was good at working behind the scenes but was of no value in the very public meetings Fatima would soon have.
 

***

The strategy for the initial San Francisco meetings was simple. The American Muslim Militia would be undeniably attractive to Muslims with progressive as well as terrorist inclinations. Nothing could state that more directly than that Fatima was in a prominent leadership position, able to take and give meetings without the presence of a man. But she knew this was a card that had to be played very cautiously, if at all.

Fatima would not initially be asking for funds—they wouldn’t need any for a while. The late Hank Azarius ensured that. However, as profitable as drug running was, it was a risky business with multiple opportunities for things to screw up. It would be best if the American Muslim Militia could establish a regular donor base and/or find a few key funders, to provide the stability they wanted.
 

Of course, Fatima would not tell the organizers of the meetings these issues. What she wanted was the opportunity to introduce the American Muslim Militia and their plans of undermining the Great Satan.

The first meeting Tariq arranged was at the Jefferson Islamic Community Education Center with Imam Peter. Tariq’s briefing notes were simple. “These guys are broke. They will say all the right things about community engagement, education, etc., but you’ll have to give them a bigger cut.”

Imam Peter was most gracious and gave Fatima a tour of their modest house of worship. In addition to the mosque, it housed a small library and a school to teach Islam and the Arabic language. The holy man went on to talk about the desire to enlighten America about true Islam, promotion of harmony with non-Muslims and, most important, to guide the general Muslim population with correct religious opinions and attitudes.

Thinking that Fatima was a typical visitor who just wanted the public relations version of the center, Imam Peter invited Fatima into his office for tea and asked, “Is there anything you would like to know?”

He was shocked when Fatima responded bluntly, “Imam, every mosque says exactly the same thing. I hate these cookie cutter explanations. What I want to know is, how real are you? How committed are you to Sharia? What will you do to help achieve the caliphate?”

The imam hemmed and hawed.
Can I trust this person? And she is a woman.

As if reading his mind, Fatima continued, “I know you feel that, as a woman, I cannot be trusted with knowledge. Actually, I know that, too. I am not here on my own but as a representative of my brother who is the imam of the Mosque of Ali. Like him, we are committed to the caliphate and we seek partners that share our vision. Let me show you something.”

Fatima played the video of the attack on the Christian town, finishing with Ahmed’s rant against America. After the video finished, Fatima looked at the imam directly and made her pitch. “My brother is a warrior priest. Right now, we are just beginning our expansion into America and are looking for seed partners. Will you join us?”

Fatima sensed the imam’s interest but knew that inside the holy man was thinking,
“What’s in it for me?”

“We want holy men like you to help us recruit and raise funds. We do not expect anyone to do this without full inspection of who we are and the receipt of exceptional compensation, either to your organization or yourself personally. Moreover, twenty-five percent of what we raise will go to your coffers. Will you be willing to meet with Ahmed when he comes?”