Monday Night Jihad (33 page)

“What am I supposed to do? Thank you? Hey, I guess Sal’s not such a bad guy after all,” Riley said sarcastically.

A fist struck Riley’s face again. The other man’s mouth moved to within inches of his ear, and he hissed, “I said my name is Hakeem.”

Riley turned his head and the two men stared nose-to-nose. Blood and saliva filled Riley’s mouth. He prepared to spit, then turned at the last moment and shot the bloody liquid to the ground, splashing both their feet.

Hakeem straightened and walked to the single barred window Riley could see at the back of the room. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the salty night air that Riley could catch only a hint of through the scent of the blood coating his face. “I don’t understand you, Pach. You go around Afghanistan killing people. You come here to kill people. No one hits harder than you do on the football field. But you’re soft on the inside. There is no hate in your eyes. I mean, you’ve just found out that your best friend has lived a double life and betrayed you. And what do you do? Rather than dishonor him by spitting in his face, you spit on the ground.”

“You’ve dishonored yourself enough already, Sal. You don’t need my help,” Riley said, the swelling in his cheek causing him to lisp slightly. He noticed that the mention of Sal’s name hadn’t drawn a swing this time. “You kill out of hate. When I have to kill, I do it out of duty. And I don’t kill innocents, only perpetrators.”

“Ah, the higher ethics of murder.”

“My actions are not murder. Bombing a stadium is murder.”

“Then what do you call your actions, O virtuous warrior?”

Riley’s temper went over the edge. “You want to know what I call it every time I kill some button-pushing psycho like you? Preventative medicine!”

Hakeem walked back from the window and straddled his chair again. He was chuckling, and Riley knew his temper had cost him an edge.

“That’s quite the high road, Riley—‘Your killing is bad, but mine is good.’” Hakeem’s smile quickly disappeared. “But what do you call it when your government blows up a house, and a ten-year-old boy watches his family die in front of him? Was my mother a perpetrator? Was my aunt a perpetrator? Your president wiped out my whole family. Am I supposed to sit back and say, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Accidents do happen’?”

“Get over yourself, Sal. There’re a lot of people who have had horrible things happen in their lives, but they don’t go turning themselves into a walking mass of C-4.”

Hakeem started to reach across to hit Riley again but pulled his arm back and stared at him.

Riley realized his temper was about to cost him any influence he might have on his old friend. He forced himself to dial the rhetoric back a notch. “Listen, I’m sorry you lost your family. I can’t imagine what you went through. But this—what you’re doing—it’s just plain whacked.”

“See, there—right there!” Hakeem cried, poking Riley on his bare shoulder. “That’s why I say you’re soft. If you hit me, I’ll hit you back—only harder. That is the answer! If I hit you, what do you do? You just sit there and do nothing. Or you look for ‘alternatives’ or ‘understanding.’ And please spare me your ‘turn the other cheek’ drivel.”

“Wait a second; get your facts straight! If you hit someone close to me—someone I love—trust me, you won’t be doing it again. But if you hit me? Yeah, I’ll ‘turn the other cheek’ or ‘take one for the team’ or whatever you want to call it.”

Hakeem laughed derisively. “Well, I’ll tell you what. According to your beliefs, Jesus ended up on the cross because He turned the other cheek. But Muhammad is a warrior; he struck the other cheek. One day Islam will dominate the earth because we fight back. It’s the way of the world—the strong take over the weak. Face it—my religion is one of strength; yours, of weakness.”

“Your religion? What religion do you have? I’ve read your file, Hakeem. You’re a Ba’athist—a worshiper of Saddam Hussein. I’ve got bad news for you, friend. Your god died at the end of a rope in 2006. Don’t go talking to me about religion. You have no more love for Allah than I do.”

Color flushed across Hakeem’s face, but his voice remained steady. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m no Ba’athist. Saddam was a strong leader, but he was not my god. I am a follower of Allah, the one true God. And I am a follower of Muhammad, his prophet. What I do, I do for Islam and in the name of Allah.”

Riley gave a bitter laugh at this religious declaration. “Maybe your own twisted brand of Islam. Most Muslims hate what you’re doing, but they won’t say anything out of fear one of you whack-jobs is going to plant a bomb in their mailbox.”

Hakeem dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Interpretation of the Koran has been watered down in the name of political correctness and world opinion. Tell me, what do these weak vessels do with Surah 5:33, where we are told that the only punishment for those who wage war against Allah and his prophet is that they should be killed or crucified or have their hands and feet chopped off? Why, in Surah 4:74, does Allah promise reward for those who sell this world’s life for the hereafter and die fighting for him?

“You look surprised that I can quote from the Holy Book. Well, all those nights in the hotel rooms on the road while you were studying your Gideon Bible, I was learning the true words of the Prophet. That’s why I know my calling to be true. I fight the infidel, and I wage jihad against those who try to take what belongs to Allah because that is what I am commanded to do!”

“So, it’s a religion of hate.”

Hakeem was on his feet again. “You’re not listening! It’s not a religion of hate! It’s a religion that takes care of its own. It’s a religion whose followers are commanded to expand its borders. Think about it, Riley. How is it any different than Christianity? What were the Crusades? How many people over the centuries were forced to convert to your supposedly crucified Jesus at the end of a sword?”

“C’mon, Sal, you’re smart enough to know that just because someone slaps a cross on their uniform doesn’t mean they’re on God’s team. The difference between you guys and us is that we condemn those who do evil in the name of our God.” Riley shifted in his chair to try to get the blood flowing into his legs again. Some words that Pastor Tim had told him a few months ago flooded into his mind, and he said, “We’re not trying to force people into some sharia thing. We’re not the ones holding the swords anymore. We’re trying to do what we should have been doing all along—sacrificing ourselves to show people a better way. That’s what Jesus did.”

Hakeem laughed mockingly as he paced around the room. “‘That’s what Jesus did’—oh, please. There you go again with your ‘sacrificial Jesus’ talk. Did you know that Surah 4 of the Koran makes it perfectly clear that Jesus was not the person crucified on the cross? He was simply a prophet like Moses or Abraham. But you Christians have taken this holy man and turned Him into a god. That is the ultimate blasphemy!”

Riley’s temper got the best of him again. “Buddy, your whole life is a blasphemy right now! And just because you point to some Surah, am I supposed to believe it’s true? I can point to Philippians 2 and John 19 and 20 that make it clear that Jesus is God and that He died and that He rose again! But what good would it do? No doubt you’ll write off those Scriptures just as quickly as I’ll write off yours!”

Hakeem circled around, yanked Riley’s head back by the hair, and got right in his face. “Yes, I’ll write off your Scriptures! I write off anything that is blasphemous! And saying there is more than one god is a blasphemy worthy of death! THERE IS NO GOD BUT ALLAH!”

“Take your hands off me,” Riley said slowly, his eyes burning into Hakeem’s. The standoff was broken when Hakeem gave Riley’s forehead a final push and then walked back to the window.

Riley struggled to control his anger with little success. With each word he spoke, his volume increased. “I’m not getting into some ‘Who is God?’ argument with you, Sal, because it won’t get us anywhere! If I say Jesus, the Father, and the Holy Spirit make up one God, you’re still going to hear three gods. So, where do we go from there? And as for your version of Allah—you can keep him! My God lays down His life; your Allah blows up stadiums!”

The fervor of Riley’s words echoed off the cement walls. Dust floated around the room’s single lightbulb, which hung above their heads.

Hakeem leaned in close to Riley again. “Okay, just for the sake of argument, let’s assume that what you say is true. Then you serve a god who lets people kick Him when He’s down. Is that really the kind of god you want? As for me, I would rather go it on my own than serve such a wounded puppy of a god. Allah is strong! You know what strength is?” Hakeem placed his fist in front of Riley’s face. “This! This is strength!”

Riley waited for Hakeem to remove his hand before he answered. “Unfortunately, like everything else, you’ve got your definition of strength all backward. It takes a lot more strength to turn the other cheek than it does to strike back. It takes a lot more courage to try to save your enemy than it does to kill him. And it takes a lot more character to forgive than it does to seek revenge.”

Hakeem sat down and slid his reversed chair forward until it was inches away from Riley’s. He leaned his head forward. “And what about me, Riley? Do you forgive me? And before you answer, let me tell you a little secret: I’m not done yet. I’ve got one more big party to crash. So, what do you say, pal? Is all forgiven?”

The smell of Hakeem’s coffee-laden breath added to the repulsiveness of the choice that stood before Riley. He lowered his head. Lord, every fiber of my being wants to crush this man’s nose with my forehead. But I remember You forgiving the people who crucified You even while You were still hanging on the cross. Help me to do the right thing.

Slowly, Riley lifted his gaze to meet Hakeem’s. “Sal, I forgive you; I truly do. You are a sick, brainwashed man who doesn’t have the moral understanding to know that what he’s doing is so very wrong. But know this: just because I forgive you doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do everything I can to stop you before you hurt anyone else—even if that means putting a bullet in you.”

At the last phrase, something registered in Hakeem’s eyes—maybe fear, maybe uncertainty. But just that quickly it was gone.

Hakeem burst into laughter as he stood. “Exactly what I would have expected you to say.” He walked over to the window again and looked out. The cry of a gull echoed in the silent room. “Riley, your friends have taken our leader and my mentor, al-’Aqran. You are going to be told to make a video to your people suggesting a prisoner swap. Say what you are asked to say. Then, when the video is complete, you are going to be asked by the men holding you for information about your friends’ whereabouts and about how many and how well equipped they are. Tell them what they want to know.”

Hakeem stepped in front of Riley and looked down at him. “Before tomorrow is over, I will have left Italy to go play my endgame. When I’m gone, I can no longer protect you. I know you. I know your stubbornness. But I advise you to do what they ask of you. Because of my status as a hero, I still hold some sway over them. I can ask them to spare your life, and they will grant me that wish. However, anything short of killing you will be fair game.” Hakeem squatted down in front of Riley. “Please, Pach, spare yourself the pain. They’re going to break you eventually anyway.”

Riley’s mouth rose into a weak smile. “Tell your boys that I’ll make their video. But as far as telling them anything about my team . . . well, like you said, I guess I’m just a stubborn man.”

Hakeem shook his head, then popped up. “So be it.” He spun and walked toward the door. When his hand touched the handle, he turned around. “Good-bye, Riley. It has truly been an honor knowing you.”

With that, he pulled the door open and exited into the hall. Before the door had a chance to close, a hand stopped it. As it pushed back open, four men wearing black nylon masks came in. One man was carrying a video camera on a tripod. Another man had several sheets of paper, presumably a script for Riley. The third man held a small generator with two protruding cables that ended in copper clips. The fourth man brought in an old, scratched aluminum Louisville Slugger.

The man with the script picked up the chair Hakeem had been sitting in and brought it near where the camera was being set up. He sat down and began shuffling through the papers. When he got them into the proper order, he looked up and said in a heavily accented voice, “Well, Mr. Covington, shall we begin?”

Tuesday, January 20

Bari, Italy

Scott watched as Jim Hicks cleared wood shavings out of the hole he was boring in the kitchen table with his knife. Hicks was on a secure satellite phone conversation with Secretary of Homeland Security Moss, and with every minute that passed, the hole got deeper.

“Yes, but . . . Yes, I know, sir. . . . Well, when you send teams internationally to steal people and blow things up, chances are pretty good that you will have international incidents. . . . No, sir, I am not mocking you, but . . . You’ve got to be kidding! There’s no way we can shut down the operation now! Covington is still out there, and we’ve got to find him. That’s not something we can do stateside. . . . No, I am not telling you what to—wait, you know what? Yes, I am telling you what to do, and I’m telling you what I am going to do. We are absolutely not leaving here without Riley Covington. So get that out of your mind! Also, I expect you to do everything in your power to retrieve Billy Murphy’s body from the Italian authorities. Do you understand? . . . Well, sir, you can do whatever you want to me when I get back stateside. For now, I expect you to do exactly what I’ve asked. I believe our conversation is over!”

Hicks pressed the End button on the phone with one hand and brought the knife down into the table with the other. “Pompous, stuffed-shirt, windbag, fancy tie–wearing, good-for-nothing . . .”

“So, how’d it go?” Scott asked with a smile.

“The idiot wants to shut us down! Can you believe it? He sends us out, but the moment things get a little bit messy, he wants to cut and run. When I get back, I’ve got a good mind to—”