by Rick Jones
“Not yet, Mr. President. She hasn’t been informed.”
Then from the president: “Keep her safe,” he told everyone. “Who knows what this man’s agenda is. Shari may even be a part of his retaliatory equation, who knows. He tried to kill her once; he may try to do so again.” Then after a short lapse, he added: “All right, gentlemen, let’s move. Get the gears in motion.” After the Oval Office emptied, President Burroughs stared out the window, though his focus and attention lay elsewhere. Mohammad Allawi’s cell operated with high-end sophistication, both operationally and militarily. If they remained faceless, and with their capabilities, the damage they could commit to the nation could be indescribable.
Then he started to bounce the points of his fingertips nervously against his chin to deal with the rising tension.
Chapter Three
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
Six Days Ago, 1106 Hours
When Shari Cohen learned about Mohammad’s Allawi’s escape from the Federal Blacksite Containment Center in Virginia, she sat at her desk appearing small and deflated. She was looking at the framed photos of her family, at her husband and two daughters. Then she recounted the moment when they got into the Escalade when it erupted into a fireball, the vehicle lifting and tumbling in space before it came down hard on its roof. It was a vision that would never leave her, this she knew. A constant nightmare that had been wrought by a man who retained darkness as his soul.
Montrell Thompson. Mohammad Allawi. They were both ‘one’ and the same, with the ‘one’ killing in the name of his God.
She continued to stare at the photos.
They had been gone now for more than two years. The emptiness of her loss, however, never abated or lessened. She simply had to learn how to live with her pain.
Then she looked at an old picture of her grandmother, a black-and-white photo. She was young and beautiful and had a million-dollar smile, right up to the day when her entire family had been carted off to a concentration camp where Josef Mengele determined who lived or died with a flick of his cane. Her grandmother had been chosen to go one way and her family in another, she never saw them again after that fateful day. She, however, had survived the Holocaust and kept the line going, with Shari the youngest of her grandchildren.
Staring at the photos, Shari could feel a sting of tears surfacing. With every painful nuance of suffering, Shari understood her grandmother’s loss on the day they reached Auschwitz, when she saw the smokestacks belching out black plumes of smoke. To lose loved ones so suddenly was an anguish they both shared, only to discover an unquestionable strength they thought they never had.
I will go on.
As tears continued to well along the rims of her eyes, Shari sighed softly. As strong as she was, she could not deny the pain that never dulled. Yet she was resilient and strongly willed to continue and make a difference—to go on as God would have wanted her to.
Then she traced a finger over her grandmother’s image. “I understand,” she said softly. “You and me, Grandmamma, like two peas in a pod, as you always said.” And then a tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trailed slowly down her cheek. A moment later, she completely broke when she focused on the photos of her two children.
My babies!
They were captured and forever stilled in time, both having the smiling faces with the younger of the two having the ‘front-tooth gap.’ They hadn’t even begun to discover the full gifts that life offered, such as being teenagers who would talk for endless hours on the phone with their friends about how ‘cute’ they thought a boy was, or to fall in love and have a family of their own someday. Mohammad Allawi had robbed them of everything.
Then sadness turned to anger. In her heart she could not deny the fact that she wanted Allawi dead, since men of his breed knew nothing about compassion and never would. Their souls were forever stained, she considered, making them too dark even for the ‘Light’ to penetrate.
So, when the director informed her that she would not be heading the hunt for Allawi due to the potential of her emotions compromising her thought process, she became incensed. She even argued heatedly with Johnston to the point where the cords stood out along the sides of her neck in anger, which proved the director’s point.
Though she eventually yielded, she did let Director Johnston know in the same heated manner that she disapproved of the decision, even if that decision came down from the chief executive.
Now here she was, alone, with the blinds drawn to squeeze out any ray of sunshine. She needed this down time in the shadows to grieve and to be angry, as well as to vent her frustrations and sorrows as a means of catharsis.
Mohammad Allawi was out there planning his next move.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Chapter Four
Winchester, Virginia
Same Day, 1343 Hours
In a small town in Virginia inside a nondescript home, Mohammad Allawi had just awoken from a long and necessary sleep. After the waterboarding sessions and periods of sleep deprivation from agents trying to elicit information about his Middle East contacts, he had never cracked, his shell too hard to break. The one who had infiltrated the Blacksite corps of operators known as Miner, was a man by the name of Abdul Najm. He was born in Boston and had numerous prison stints for white-collar crimes involving computers. During his stay at Walpole, he discovered his Muslim faith and became ratified by the principals of the movement. When Allawi had been notified by his Walpole contacts about Najm’s proficiency in cyber operations, Allawi endorsed him as a member of a specialized unit that would work close to the Washington, D.C. area, and participate in projects that would shake the highest political seat in the land to its very core. Feeling pride to be accepted as a major player to one of the most dominant players in the United States, Najm accepted. And when Allawi’s right to a trial was dismissed under the Patriot Act and was summarily removed to a Blacksite, it was Najm who sat at the controller’s module to spearhead a crusade to procure his release.
Ideas germinated, and then they came to light and fruition. Thereafter, Najm created bogus files in detail, while leaving no evidentiary trail to follow. And like a fine artist who used the keyboard instead of a painter’s brush, he captured the life of a person who did not exist and turned him into a living portrait.
After implanting these files into every military, political, medical and educational database, Geoffrey Miner came to life. First, he enlisted in the military and performed all the routines. Then he proffered his doctored data to become a leading candidate at the Federal Blacksite Containment Center, where he eventually secured a low-level position to become Mohammad Allawi’s inside contact. Once the stage was set, it didn’t take long for Najm to access the schematics of the facility to create a plan that would disable the center. What did take time, however, was the development of the cell to respond with military sophistication, which had taken two years of nonstop training.
Allawi, having been informed by Najm that the planning would take time, had delivered on his end and waited with undying patience, knowing that his cell would only have one attempt at this maneuver. Should his unit fail to liberate him if he had argued for a quicker response time, he knew that he would never see daylight again. And since failure was not an option, he had chosen wisely at the insistence of Najm to consider patience as a virtue. When the operation finally did commence, there was no doubt in Mohammad Allawi’s mind that his patience had served them well when Allah watched over his forces during the engagement.
Allahu Akbar!
Appearing unkempt after a long rest, Allawi, whose cheek still bore the creased imprints of the pillow against his face, smiled and embraced Najm. There was nothing more appreciative to Allawi at this moment when the kitchen smelled of eggs. With the sound of sizzling on the stove and the growl of a stomach that had not been filled with decent proteins, Allawi knew that he no longer had to look upon bowls of viscous gruel. Instead, he was
looking at a dish as if it had been prepared by Allah himself. There was a waiting meal for him at the table with three eggs over easy, buttered toast, and a perspiring glass of ice-cold orange juice. Allawi faced Najm, who was holding a spatula, and held his arms out to him in invitation. When Najm fell into Allawi’s embrace, Allawi said, “It’s good to speak to you on this side of the wall, yes?”
After giving Allawi a few pats on the back, he fell away with a smile and responded, “Allah has smiled on us all. The operation went off without a hitch. No losses. We weren’t even contested.”
Allawi took a seat before his meal and grabbed a fork. “That’s because your plan was sound. And patience, as you insisted upon, Najm, the key to winning.”
“My apologies for the suffering you endured, my brother. I believed that it was important that we make absolutely sure that the team was ready militarily.”
“No apologies necessary, Najm. You were right. Is it not better to be prepared than to rush blindly in like a fool? If it had not been for your wise assessment, I may still be inside that hellhole eating slop rather than this fine food you made for me.”
Najm’s smile widened. “It’s just eggs and toast,” he told him. Then he returned to the stove after casting a kitchen towel over his shoulder.
Certain matters no longer appeared trivial to Allawi, who often took many things in the past for granted. Eggs and toast, especially after his diet inside the Blacksite, was something he looked upon as an up market dish from a fancy restaurant, and a meal he would savor with every delectable bite. Not only did it learn patience from Allah, he also learned humility.
Cutting the eggs and watching the yolk drip across the plate, he then grabbed a wedge of toast, dipped it within the creamy yolk, and brought it to his lips. Closing his eyes with relish and chewing slowly, this was his moment of experiencing a small part of Paradise.
After he swallowed, Allawi asked, “And the team?”
“Waiting on your orders, my brother.”
When Allawi had been apprised that a plan was in motion to secure his release from the facility by Najm, all he could dream about were ways to bring America to its knees. With smaller attacks on the Home front to heighten awareness that Americans were not out of the reach of terrorism, he would spark larger strikes against the Great Satan to break its backbone, by undermining its economy. Then Allawi, who sounded off with the vigor of a preacher, said, “We will strike at the heart of all people. A lesson I learned after destroying the family of Special Agent Cohen, since nothing cripples the mind faster than the unexpected deaths of loved ones.” After soaking the yolk with his toast, he asked Najm about the new recruits.
“They’re solid,” he told him. “They’re young and enthusiastic. To follow you is to follow Allah, since you are the conduit between Earth and Paradise.” Allawi nodded at this. This praise from Najm was well-founded, he believed, since his suffering only emboldened his commitment to his God. Then he considered the priest. You should have killed me, he thought. Because in the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, you only made me stronger and I’m about to prove it. “We need to remain low,” he eventually said to Najm. “However, the will of Allah must continue. What I want you to do, Najm, is to orchestrate a meeting with the cell. A place that’s unobtrusive. It’s time that we begin to implement plans to stage an attack against the infidels. Let’s see how powerful their resolve is after I crush the backbone of their government.”
“You have something in mind?”
A wry grin surfaced on Allawi’s face as his eyes began to drift with a dreamy aspect to them. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ve had nothing but time to consider the means that would undermine this nation and bring it to its knees.”
“When do you want the cell to be brought to assembly?”
“Tonight,” he answered. “At ten o’clock. Is that enough time for you to contact the members and find an appropriate venue?”
“Plenty,” Najm answered.
“Then see it done.” After getting up from his seat, Allawi placed a hand on Najm’s shoulder and said, “Allah has chosen wisely when He picked you to serve by my side, my brother. You have never disappointed me. In fact, you’ve exceeded expectations. Allah certainly favors you as He does me. So, when the time comes, remember that your life in Paradise will be one of great rewards.”
Najm showed his pride by raising his chin. “It’s an honor, Mohammad, to serve as one of Allah’s greatest soldiers.”
Allawi’s smile remained, his unrelenting and cynical grin. Though he had not been canonized as a prophet, he did value the idea that he was an important tool in the scheme of all things with Allah his guide. “Tonight then,” he said to Najm.
“Prepare the conference. And tell them that a war is about to be waged against the
Great Satan.”
“Allahu Akbar,” said Najm.
“Allahu Akbar,” was the response.
Chapter Five
Warehouse District
Outside of Richmond, Virginia
In a decrepit lot of abandoned buildings not too far from the historical district of Shockoe, Mohammad Allawi was serving as the centerpiece to an organization that prided itself on committing mass mayhem in the name of their God. His people, however, revered and saw their actions as one that followed the path of the ‘Light.’ Interpretations of the Koran suggested that such movements were justifiable, if they promoted ‘oneness’ under the waving banner of Allah. In the minds of those who romanced such events, they also saw themselves as the crusaders of our time—the same way Christian soldiers had spread Christianity by the sword during the medieval period.
In the center of a room that was surrounded by peeling walls and ceilings that threatened to cave, Mohammad Allawi was caught in the glow of light from lanterns. The lighting was poor and feeble, which caused ghoulish shadows to dance along Allawi’s features whenever he moved animatedly to emphasize his point.
His cell remained rapt and clung to every word, every syllable, and he made them believe that Allah was the Almighty Power who guided them all. Rhetoric. It was a driving and powerful force that coerced thinking. And Mohammad Allawi was gifted with a golden tongue. His dialogue was stirring and electrifying. They were, after all, the chosen ones who would usher in the ‘New Age of Enlightenment.’ They were the ones who had been chosen by Allah, the seeds of a new generation that was on the brink of establishing a ‘Brave New World.’
Eyes detonated with passion.
Hearts threatened to misfire in their chests from too much excitement.
And the desires to shed blood in the name of Allah became paramount.
“And we will commence our operation against the infidels a week from today,”
Allawi went on after pumping a fist. “The actions I have outlined to you on this eve has also been proposed to me by Allah. This is the beginning of the Great Satan’s end.”
And then from Allawi: “Go home, my brothers, and prepare yourselves. Others will continue to join our quest. And remember, when our time comes, every man who stands before me also stands within the sight of Allah. And those who stand within the sight of Allah is guaranteed Paradise.”
As the session wound down to the final moments that were closing in on midnight, Allawi knew that he had won over the league. His words, his speech, he gave them all meaning and hope, something that had been lacking in all their lives, and gave them purpose.
After everyone left the abandoned building with blossoming hearts and newfound vigor, Najm stayed by Allawi’s side.
“I think tonight went rather well,” Najm told him.
“Did you expect anything less?”
Najm gave him a one-sided smile. “Of course not.”
“But there is something additional I want you to do, Najm. Something of great importance.”
“Of course.”
Allawi left Najm’s side to sit along the edge of an old desk where he folded his arms. “I want you to locate the whereabouts of Special Agen
t Shari Cohen,” he told him. “I have unfinished business with her.”
“You’re going to kill her?”
“Among other things. But I want to show the powers that be that their most valuable people are also a means for a targeted killing. And no one, no matter how esteemed they may be, is going to be immune.”
Najm, however, knew better. Allawi may have some basis for terminating Shari Cohen for the reason he stated, but he also knew that he wanted her dead on a personal level, as well. Especially when she was the one who directed the raid against Allawi’s brother who’d been killed, as well as to initiate the hunt that ended up with Allawi’s incarceration. “Of course,” he finally said.
“I assume that you have the necessary properties to see our mission through?”
“We’ve been carefully stockpiling the explosives over the past two years through several reliable channels using couriers and burners. We’ve also stayed away from the use of chat rooms or any social engineering sites.”
After a short pause, Allawi added, “That’s good, Najm. And together, my brother, along with all our brothers, we will begin to weaken the knees of Lady Liberty and show this nation the power of Allah, as well as to the world. We will rejuvenate the hearts of those who have lost their footing in the strongholds of Syria. And we will bring cause against the Asian nations as well. Recruitment will once again escalate to unprecedented heights, Najm, and it all begins with us.”
“It does,” Najm concurred.
Then: “Take me home, Najm. I’m still weary. Two years inside a Blacksite has whittled me down a bit. But I’ll rebound. In the meantime, you will be my proxy until I can fully engage myself in war.”