The Brotherhood Conspiracy (30 page)

“In a peaceful Islam, coexistence is not a dichotomy,” said Gherazim. There was urgency to his voice, but also a confident assurance that appeared to calm much of the assembly’s anxiety. “Sadly, for the true followers of Islam, our
faith—the words and spirit of our prophet, Muhammed, the revelation of the truth of Allah—has been abducted and held captive by a minority of extremists. These disciples of violence represent the smallest segment of Islam but, because of their addiction to the heresy of terror, they receive almost all of the attention and define our faith to the world—a critical misunderstanding.

“The Christian Bible contains a great deal of violence—violent warfare, violent family confrontations in the Old Testament. And the violent words of Jesus himself: ‘Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division . . . They will be divided, father against son and son against father . . . If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters . . . he cannot be my disciple.’ The book of Revelation tells of Jesus coming back to destroy the world and three-quarters of its inhabitants.”

Gherazim looked across the room at the now bewildered faces turned in his direction.

“Why, then, is Christianity considered, in the main, a religion of peace? A religion of love?” he asked. “Because its believers are no longer driven by a desire to violently destroy all who fail to embrace their faith—as they were a thousand years ago—but by a confident expression of their doctrine, ‘the meek shall inherit the earth.’

“I ask you, my brothers, what should be the confident expression of Islam? What is the desire of our God, Allah, the most high? What is the message of our prophet, Muhammed? Words of peace?

“‘And those who believe and do good are made to enter gardens, beneath which rivers flow, to abide in them by their Lord’s permission; their greeting therein is, Peace.’

“‘And spend in the way of Allah and cast not yourselves to perdition with your own hands, and do good; surely Allah loves the doers of good.’

“Or,” said Gherazim, “is the message of our Prophet these words of warfare and violence: ‘And kill them wherever you find them, and drive them out from whence they drove you out, and persecution is severer than slaughter, and do not fight with them at the Sacred Mosque until they fight with you in it, but if they do fight you, then slay them; such is the recompense of the unbelievers.

“‘And Nuh said: My Lord! leave not upon the land any dweller from among the unbelievers.

“‘Surely we have prepared for the unbelievers chains and shackles and a burning fire.’

“In whatever way you count your calendar, the modern world moves forward while many of the voices of Islam are determined to keep our religion a captive of the Dark Ages, in the womb of a hatred first conceived ten centuries ago. How can the modern world accept a religion that stones young women to death, cuts off the hands of thieves, and sentences children to a life of ignorance and bigotry? Even worse . . . that straps explosives to the bodies of our children and sends them to their death in the name of God?

“Brothers—” Gherazim leaned against the podium—“I beseech you. Please, let us take up the call of Allah to love and do good works. Let us pick up the Islamic standard—not just peaceful coexistence, but willing acceptance of all other faiths. Let us make the choice to step boldly into a future in which Islam embraces peace and reforms itself from within, purging itself of a misguided doctrine that corrupts the true faith of every Muslim. Let us not only renounce terror, let us also reform our doctrine and remove all traces of the dark age of jihad and the fanaticism it foments.”

He took a deep breath to quiet his nerves and gauge his reception. His pulse thumped like the drums of war. The parliamentary hall remained silent.

“Brothers, next week I will convene here in Amman a colloquy of Muslim clerics, men—like me—who believe the moment is here, is critical, for us to firmly establish peace-loving, inclusive Islam in the twenty-first century. I pray that Allah will lead you to join us.”

As Gherazim stepped away from the podium, applause spattered the hall like the first heavy drops of a summer squall, but it failed to build and faded to an awkward silence.

“Heretic!” someone shouted from the back.

“May Allah curse your children,” rumbled another.

It would be a long road.

New York City

It hung in the air between them, this overstuffed brown manila envelope with the gilded seal of the U.S. State Department at the top left corner. Reynolds held it out, but Tom was reluctant to touch it, as if it carried a virus that would take his life. Reynolds had made the trip to Riverdale to deliver the package, and the president’s briefing.

“The war has been joined on one side for a long time, Tom,” said Reynolds,
dropping his arm to his side. “We’ve just not been willing to admit it. Now, we have tangible, visible evidence of boots-on-the-ground warfare. Muslim boots against Muslim governments, yes, but the rebellions of the Arab Spring—in Tunisia, Yemen, Bahrain, Egypt, Syria—are not rebellions
against
Islam. They are
for
Islam, mostly against governments that had the audacity, the courage, to build relationships and alliances with the West. Make no mistake. These rebellions in the Middle East and Northern Africa are not rebellions in the true sense of the word. They are coups. Overthrows of legitimate governments by a hidden, nefarious military power. A growing military power that has one clearly stated goal—the destruction of all modern Western governments and cultures and the imposition of Islamic rule throughout the world. We once feared world dominance by Communism, by its nuclear weapons. What will we face, what will we fear, when radical Islam controls nuclear weapons?

Bohannon grimaced. “Sounds like we need a miracle.”

”It’s coming down to survival—whether our way of life will survive. In ten years, what will our world look like? Shoot—right now, we don’t know what our world is going to look like ten days from now. Everything changed with Osama bin Laden’s death. Tomorrow, everything could change again.”

Reynolds held out the large manila envelope one more time. “This is no time for soul-searching, Tom. There is a new leader in the East and he is calling for a Holy War that could destroy the world as we know it. We don’t even know who he is. But we’ve got to stop him.”

1937

Kazimain, Iraq

Thick, red-black blood pulsed from his neck and mixed with the ocher grit of dust and sand.

Beyond the surprise that his disciple could be treacherous and murderous, and the embarrassment that his nephews would see him lying dead in the street, Ayatollah Haydar al-Sadr was frightened. Not of death. Death comes to all. And, even though he was only forty-six, death came for him now.

No, the ayatollah was frightened for his two nephews. True, they were sons of Shi’a imams, descendants who could trace their lineage directly back to Muhammad. But they were not ready. Their young minds were still grasping to
understand truth. Sayeed seemed to understand. But Moussa . . . ah, Moussa was another matter.

So sad to die before Moussa had understanding.

Haydar al-Sadr turned his face to the merciless, burning Iraqi sun—and felt no heat. Only sticky goo as it spread around his face.

Moussa al-Sadr looked down at the pool of blood surrounding his uncle’s kaffiyeh, fouling his beard, staining his black kaftan. Then he looked once more in the direction of the fleeing assassin.

Moussa fixed his eyes on the murderer’s back, now slipping into the shadows of their Islamist school building. With the recklessness of a ten-year-old—his skirts raised—he ran to the far side of the school. He pulled a small dagger from his waistband, extended his turban-covered head around the corner, and scanned the area.

There was no one in sight.

Nine-year-old Sayeed sank to his knees, soaking his kaftan in his uncle’s blood. His thin, short arms reached out and cradled his uncle’s head.

Haydar’s eyes searched for the sun, then turned to Sayeed. “God is good, my nephew. His word is true. God loves all men. Remember that. Will you . . . will you, Sayeed? Will you remember?”

Moussa al-Sadr edged along the back wall of the school, the dagger hanging at his side. At the next corner he heard deep, rasping breaths. He looked around the edge.

The assassin stood with his back flat against the mud wall of the school. His eyes were wide in surprise. His neck was opened wide in a false grin, springs of blood pouring from the deep slice that curved from ear to ear. Only the muscular left arm of Jafar, the ayatollah’s faithful servant, held the assassin fast against the wall.

Sayeed took his hand and brushed the coarse sand from the side of his uncle’s face. Blood smeared from his fingers, the smear blotched and spotted where Sayeed’s tears found his uncle’s face. “Yes, my uncle. I will never forget. I will never forget you. I will never forget God’s goodness.”

Haydar’s eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. A halting gasp, a shiver in his shoulders. And his spirit left a now limp, lifeless body.

Sayeed pulled his uncle closer, hugging the man to his chest. His weeping was silent.