Joint Task Force #2: America (5 page)

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 handkerchief 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.”

“That’s the part of the story I don’t care for.”

Abdo nodded. “It is the part I don’t like either, but a part that I do not worry about occurring in this day and age. The Americans would never do what is needed to stop those who willingly give their lives for their religion.”

The shooting stopped. His bodyguards returned from their duties. No way could he allow the Africans to talk as soon as they reached home or one of those hovels converted to serve alcohol. It was in their best interests to have no witness left behind who could tell the Americans what was coming.

On the stern of the ship, the Jihadists clapped in appreciation to the executioners as they hoisted their weapons and spread out along the dock beside the ship.

“Single up all lines,” came the shout from the bridge. Leaning out from the edge of the bridge wing, a thin dark man, wearing a dingy Greek Navy cap with dirty
embroidered gold leaves on its brim, held a bullhorn to his lips. On board the ship, two men stood at each of the eight lines holding the ship to the pier. On the pier, the bodyguards lifted the top line off the bollards and dropped it. The seamen, hand over hand, rapidly pulled the lines aboard the ship.