After they were gone, Harold Smith faced the woman called Abeer Ghula.
"You are not my blond infidel," she said petulantly.
"I am FBI Agent Smith."
"You are too stringy for my tastes. But if I am sufficiently bored, I may allow you to pleasure me in unexpected ways."
"I am married," Smith said uncomfortably.
"I am not afraid of the menage a trois. Are you?"
Harold Smith swallowed and tried to block the unwanted images from his mind. He felt as though he were being scrutinized by a hungry bird of prey.
Chapter 32
The director of the FBI was dictating a memo explicitly denying the existence of a Violent Postal Worker Task Force when his secretary informed him that an urgent call was coming out of Toledo.
The director looked surprised. He was unaware of a Toledo office. "I'll take it."
The voice on the line was tense. ' "This is SAC Rush. Toledo. We've secured the mosque."
"Mosque?"
"The al-Bahlawan Mosque. No one can go in or come out."
"What mosque? What are you talking about?"
"Operation Sound Surround."
"I authorized no such damn mission! Where are you? What mosque? What is this about?"
"Orders came out of your office, by telex."
The FBI director groaned. "Don't tell me. An assistant special agent named Smith."
"That's right. Smith."
The director leaned into the phone. "You wouldn't have a first name, would you?"
"One moment." When the SAC's voice came back on the line, it was to the accompaniment of a rustle of paper. "It's just a squiggle. I can't even make out the first initial." "Brief me from the top," the director said resignedly.
"We've secured all approaches to the suspected HQ of the Messengers of Muhammad."
"And it's a mosque, you say?"
"Biggest one I've ever seen. Got two tall minarets that look like rockets ready for launching."
"Do nothing."
"Our orders were to hold secure until instructed otherwise."
"We can't have another Waco here. That's job one."
"We all understand that, sir. This is Ohio."
"Just hold on, I'll be back to you."
Hanging up, the FBI director called the President of the United States.
"Sir, I have good news and, I'm afraid, bad news, as well."
"Go ahead," the hoarse voice of the Chief Executive said.
"The Bureau may have found the headquarters of the Messengers of Muhammad jihad group."
"Where is it? Iran? Iraq? Libya?"
"Toledo, Ohio. There's a mosque out there as big as a circus tent, and we believe the conspirators are bunkered inside."
"Is that the good news or the bad?" the President wondered aloud.
"We have the place surrounded."
"Is ATF there?"
"They aren't in the loop."
"At all costs, keep them out," the President said savagely. "And whatever you do, don't do a damn thing. I'll get back with you," he added, his voice sounding as if the lining of his throat was coming up through his clenched teeth.
The President of the United States called Harold Smith, and it took an entire three rings before Smith's exasperated voice said, "Yes, Mr. President?"
"Do you know anything about a mosque being surrounded by the FBI?"
"It was my doing."
"Do you have any idea how this will play in the media?"
"Not if we contain the situation before the Messengers of Muhammad strike again."
"But a mosque. It's a house of worship. If anything goes wrong, the entire Muslim world will be inflamed like one gigantic, angry boil. We're just getting the Israelis and the Palestinians to simmer down."
"We have to think of U.S. security first, Mr. President," Harold Smith said stiffly. "These jihad groups operate under the command of religious leaders seeking religious goals, and to a significant degree are sheltered by U.S. laws protecting freedom of worship. That can only be dealt with through extraconstitutional means."
"What the hell do these people want?"
"To establish a global Islamic theocracy by converting the entire world to their faith by force of arms and terror." .
"They're using our constitutional freedoms to take them away from us?" the President blurted out.
"It is for exactly such conscienceless predators that my organization was created."
In the background, a pouty voice said, "I want my blond infidel. I can taste his salty juices in the mouth of my face and my other mouth, which only he will be allowed to devour."
"Who was that?" the President asked.
"Abeer Ghula."
"You have her there with you?"
"No, in a secure room in the World Trade Center."
"Is this line secure?"
"It's a scrambled cellular patch-through from the dedicated line."
"Oh. I wondered why it took you three rings."
"Mr. President, I have just dispatched my people to the al-Bahlawan Mosque. If our intelligence is correct, we will find the mastermind behind this jihad group within."
"Then what?"
"My people will penetrate it and come out unseen. After a while, the FBI will be withdrawn. And the bodies of the conspirators will be discovered by the appropriate parties. Dead of natural causes."
"Sounds foolproof."
"Nothing is foolproof, Mr. President."
"They saved my presidential butt once. I trust them to close this out quietly and with absolute deniability,"
"That is their function," said Harold Smith.
"Good. Gotta go. I got a grips-and-grins function in the Rose Garden, and it'll be the perfect opportunity to assure the voters we're working the problem to a successful wrap-up."
The line terminated, and Harold Smith went into the bathroom to check on the condition of Abeer Ghula, the most hated woman in the Muslim world.
He was relieved to find her hanging from the shower curtain just as he'd left her. Her gold eyes glared at him venomously.
"When you are agreeable to behaving properly, I will cut you down," Smith told her.
Smith stepped back just ahead of a naked kicking foot and decided the time was not yet right to untie her wrists.
The president was in the Rose Garden when the fax was handed to him.
The portable presidential podium had been set up and he was standing before it waiting for the grinning ghouls—as he was calling the White House press corps this week—to settle down so he could begin.
The President glanced at the fax. It was from the FBI and read, "Purported communique received from M.O.M. via fax at 11:11 today. No verification."
The President figured "no verification" meant it was not important. He was here to reassure the nation, not pass on new threats, so he didn't read the text of the communique.
Clearing his throat, he began to speak. "I just want to say a few words to reassure Americans everywhere that the nation is secure, the post office functions as it should and the FBI is working diligently to get to the bottom of yesterday's terrible events."
There. Short, concise and guaranteed not to be misquoted or misconstrued by the press.
Then came the barrage of questions.
"Mr. President, is it true you have ordered a postal holiday—effectively shutting down the mail?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then why has mail delivery virtually ground to a halt?"
"No follow-up questions today," the presidential press secretary inserted. "You know the rules."
"Mr. President, some airlines are refusing to transport mail for fear of mail bombs. Will you order them to reverse their decisions in the national interest?"
"Thaf s under advisement," said the President, who was hearing this for the first time.
The verbal tennis balls kept coming, and the President lobbed them back with ease and aplomb. This was going to look great
on the evening news.
"Mr. President, word is coming out of Justice that the so-called Messengers of Muhammad have threatened to launch what they claim is a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah at an unidentified target on U.S. soil. What can you tell us about this report?" The President experienced a frozen moment in time. Off to one side, his press secretary was surreptitiously pointing to the fax lying on the podium.
"Let me refresh my memory," the Chief Executive said quickly.
Scanning the unread text of the FBI fax, his eyes widened.
The reasonable demandment of the Messengers of Muhammad not having been met by the godless of America, we have no choice but to announce this day the existence of the dread Islamic bomb. This bomb had been installed in a missile unlike any the Western world has before seen. And the name of this missile is the Fist of Allah. It is to be launched on this day at a target unknown to the Infidel Nation, for the purpose of destroying it utterly, thereby showing the Western world that Islam is as powerful as the pagan science of the West.
Ma sha'Allah!
The President actually paled three shades of color on national television. Every viewer with good color balance saw it. They also heard the White House press corps lob question after question the President could not convincingly answer, and they saw that, too.
"I want ail Americans to know that, while we cannot accept this threat at face value, neither do we dismiss it out of hand. That would be unwise. We have no hard intelligence confirming the existence of any so- called Islamic bomb. But I have ordered our early- warning missile-defense systems on the highest state of alert possible as a precaution."
Then the President stalked off to give the order, hoping he was in time to do exactly that.
Harold Smith was hacking through the original FBI reports of the arrest of the Deaf Mullah in the Abu al-Kalbin Mosque in Jersey City in the aftermath of the failed terror spree of three years ago when his computer alerted him of incoming mission-critical intelligence.
A fax intercept popped up at the touch of a key.
Smith read the Messengers of Muhammad warning of a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah, and in one reading reached a firm conclusion.
There was no such missile, unless it was a war- surplus Scud. And for a short-range Scud missile to reach the continental U.S., it would have to be
launched from either Canada or Mexico, neither prospect very likely.
As for the Islamic bomb, it was also doubtful. M.O.M., most of its messengers of terror in FBI custody, was attempting to ratchet up the level of fear and anxiety among the American populace. Whether it worked or not depended upon how the media treated the story.
Smith went back to the FBI computer files, his gray
face frowning. The Deaf Mullah was in federal prison,
yet his followers were making no attempts to liberate him.
There had to be an explanation.
And Harold Smith was determined to find it.
Chapter 33
The clerk at the car-rental agency in the Toledo airport proudly informed Remo Williams that his car was equipped with the latest satellite navigational system for his convenience.
"Just give me directions," said Remo.
"The Groundstar system will get you to your destination without fail or the rental is free," the clerk chirped.
"I like directions. They save me time and trouble and keep me from breaking things," said Remo, snapping in half with his thumb the pen he'd just used to sign the rental agreement. A squirt of ink speckled the clerk's white shirtfront.
Taking the hint, the clerk opened his mouth to offer clear directions when the Master of Sinanju piped up.
"I will be the navigator."
"You can't handle a navigational computer," Remo said quickly.
"A child could do it," the clerk insisted.
"You stay out of this," Remo snapped.
"I will navigate," Chiun repeated. "I have watched Smith work his oracle machine. It is very simple."
Remo rolled his eyes and hoped for the best.
Twenty minutes later they were on the banks of the Maumee River, south of Lake Erie, and Remo was saying, "We're lost."
"We are not lost," said Chiun, tapping the computer screen with his jade nail protector. "See? This is the strange lake."
"Lake Erie is not green," said Remo. "And the state of Ohio is not blue."
"The color does not matter. This is Lake Erie, and this red spot is us. For it moves when we do."
"So where are we?" asked Remo with more patience than he felt.
"In a place called Havana."
"Havana, Cuba?"
"It only says 'Havana.'"
Remo looked at the screen. "That green 'lake' is the island of Cuba, Little Father. We are not anywhere near it."
"These machines do not lie."
"We'll ask at the next gas station," growled Remo.
"You would take the word of a smelly purveyor of chemicals to that of the Master of Sinanju?" Chiun asked indignantly.
"I'd like to wrap this up. According to the radio, militia crazies are trying to lynch letter carriers in Montana and Arizona. People are locking their doors when they see a mailman. They're grounding commercial flights everywhere because the mail goes by plane and nobody wants to lose a 747 to a letter bomb. Not to mention the fact that the mail has ground to a dead halt because postal employees everywhere are all singing 'The Serotonin Song.'"
"It is good when lowly messengers enjoy their toil."
On the Ohio Turnpike, a bus came barreling up on them at a high rate of speed, and Remo looked into his rearview mirror.
He did a double take. "Chiun. Look behind us."
Chiun turned in his seat. "I see an angry bus."
"Look at the guy inside," Remo suggested.
"I see a red-haired Egyptian."
"I mean the other guy. Tell me that isn't Joe Camel."
"That is not Joe Camel. But it is. Who could mistake that nose?"
"What the hell is he doing driving a bus out here?" asked Remo.
"He is trying to ran us off the road, of course."
In a moment he nearly did.
The bus bore down like a silver juggernaut, horn blaring. Remo eased back on the gas, hoping to slow the bus down.
"He is not slowing. He is speeding up," warned Chiun.
Then the bus surged ahead, intent upon knocking them out of its path.
Remo cut to the shoulder of the road, bounced and came to a jolting stop. The rear tires spun in soft soil. Remo got out, cursing as the exhaust of the speeding bus filled the air.
Reaching under the rear bumper, Remo suddenly straightened. The car's rear end came out of the ditch, and Remo walked it over to hard asphalt, making it look easy. It was not a feat of strength so much as one of absolute physical harmony. Sinanju enabled one to harness one's mind and body so fully that any superhuman capability was within Remo's reach, no matter how extreme.
Getting behind the wheel, he heard the Master of Sinanju give the good news.
"We are back in Ohio. The computer has assured me of this. If we follow the yellow line, we will reach our destination."
"Count on us reaching our destination by following the big silver bus," growled Remo, throwing the car into gear.
Matt Brophy, FBI swat tactical commander, was confident he had the al-Bahlawan Mosque secured against invasion or egress. His black-clad forces had mustered a ring of Light Armored Vehicles around the gleaming mosque, whose opalescent dome changed hue as the sun climbed the Ohio sky.
No one in their right mind would try to get into the mosque now. Not with it surrounded by heavily armed FBI agents.
To get in was to be trapped.
And those trapped inside were not coming out. Not that Brophy was calling for that. He wasn't calling for anything. He was standing pat, as instructed. The last place he wanted to land was before an angry Congress. Or in a locked room with the a
ttorney general of the United States, who, it was said, could break a man's back with a hard, steely glare, not to mention bust his career all to pieces.
Prepared for any contingency from within, the last thing Brophy expected was a hurtling bus from without.
The bus came roaring up the Ohio Turnpike and then down onto Route 75. Then it screamed onto the mosque access road.
Brophy took one look, and his heart stopped beating.
"Incoming bus!" someone yelled.
"Anybody see any markings? Postal service. .. anything?" Brophy demanded.
No one did.
"How about explosives?"
"No," a countersniper called after consulting his scope.
"Could it be a bus bomb?" someone asked.
The thought alone was enough to freeze the blood.
And there was no time to think it through.
So, when the bus roared straight at them, Matt Brophy ordered the blocking FBI armored vehicles to pull apart which they did in the nick of time.
The bus roared through the impenetrable FBI cordon and lumbered up to a big portal. It went through the door, breaking it down like so much old cake frosting. One slim minaret listed alarmingly. The other only quivered.
The bus did not explode.
That was the good news.
The bad was that the cordon had been broken, and no one knew by whom or, more importantly, why.
There was nothing to do but wait for the next development and hope this was not the last day of their FBI careers.
The summons cameby cell phone.
It was Yusef Gamal's turn at the wheel of the practice missile. So Jihad Jones took the call.
"Yes, yes?" he said. "Yes, yes. Yes, yes!"
Then Jihad Jones hung up the cell phone.
"Yes?" Yusef said.
"It is Sargon. The criminal FBI has surrounded the mosque."
"Imbeciles! Have they learned nothing from Waco or Ruby Ridge? What are our instructions?"
"The Fist of Allah is to be launched immediately."
"But where is it?"
"We are told to return to the mosque with all speed and at all costs."
"Then it is the ordained hour for you and I, my brother."
"Do not call me your brother. I am not your brother."
"We are cousins, then."
"You are driving this practice missile now. Therefore, I will pilot the true Fist of Allah."
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