Inside Threat

by Jason Elam; Steve Yohn

  After his time in the hospital and in solitary, he truly was on his own. The BGF didn’t want anything to do with him, and he obviously wasn’t going to the Aryans or the Mexican gangs. It was then the Muslim brotherhood reached out to him. They were the ones who took him in, gave him a home, and covered his back.

  As he spent time with them, he learned that while there were rules, they were rules with a purpose. Not only did they exist to please Allah, but they also were there to please the guards and the prison officials. And pleasing others meant one word—freedom!

  If you please Allah, you are free from the cares of this world and the next. You serve him well in this life, he will reward you in the next.

  If you play the game and please the prison toads, you get freedom of another kind. You leave their little hellhole, you leave their watchful eyes, and you receive freedom to do what Allah calls you to do.

  So, he threw himself in completely with Jam’iyyat Ul-Islam Is-Saheeh. The Assembly of Authentic Islam gave him purpose he had never felt before, and finally he found himself really wanting to belong—to be part of something bigger.

  And as he listened to the leaders, his hatred for America and Israel grew. But his patience and self-control grew in the same measure. Two and a half years later, he was paroled. And this time when he walked out those gates, there was a JIS car waiting for him.

  For the past six months, he had been living in Oakland rent-free in a small apartment that sat adjacent to a JIS mosque. His days were spent in study or listening to the imam. His nights were spent fervently praying for the opportunity to be used by Allah.

  His time finally came three days ago, when the imam called him into his office following the Dhuhr prayer. Ammar Kazerooni offered Donnell some lunch, but he declined. Even though he had thirty-five years under his belt—and countless parole hearings—this was probably the most nervous he had ever been in a meeting. It was the first time the imam had ever called him into his office. The news had to be important.

  “Are you ready to fight for Allah?” Kazerooni had asked.

  “I’m ready to die for Allah!”

  “Are you? Are you sure?”

  “I will do anything for my God,” Donnell insisted.

  “Anything?”

  “Anything!”

  Kazerooni stared at Donnell awhile, as if trying to decide if he could trust him with an important piece of information.

  “I promise you, Mullah, whatever you say, I will do. Let me prove it to you.”

  After a few more moments, Kazerooni said, “I believe you, Donnell. I believe you will do whatever Allah calls you to do.”

  Just hearing those words sent Donnell’s heart soaring. In that moment, he knew that even if he was called to assassinate the president himself, he would find a way to do it.

  “What I’m about to tell you is very secret. No one must know. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kazerooni lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Something big is about to happen. I can’t tell you what. I can’t tell you where. I can’t even tell you when. But just know it will be big. And we have been asked to help.”

  “Anything, Mullah. I’ll do anything.”

  “I know you will. We have been asked to create a diversion of sorts. You know of the attacks that have been taking place around the country?”

  Donnell nodded. Of course he knew. He had heard them from the imam’s own mouth during services and had laughed and rejoiced with each blow struck against the enemy.

  “The purpose of these attacks is to draw attention away from the big event. Sometimes if there are enough flies swarming your face, you don’t see the bull behind them. We have been asked to be one of these flies. Do you understand, Donnell?”

  Donnell felt he knew where this was leading, and he could hardly contain his excitement. “Yes! Yes, I do. By making smaller attacks, we will draw manpower and other resources away from the agencies who are tasked to monitor anti-American activities. That way they will be looking the other way when the big punch comes.”

  Kazerooni smiled. “Exactly! And I have chosen to give you the privilege of carrying out this attack. By agreeing, you will not only gain honor and praise in this life but a martyr’s welcome in heaven.”

  “Just tell me! Whatever it is, I’ll do!”

  That conversation had led to Donnell’s being here, outside this building, watching the last of the procrastinators enter through the glass double doors. The clock on the dash said 8:25. He took one last deep drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray.

  He stepped out of the car and moved to the trunk, popping it open with his key fob. He slid two .45s into the rear of his waistband and filled the pockets of his windbreaker with six more clips. He would have felt better with an automatic weapon, but getting one into this meeting undetected would potentially have been difficult. Instead, I’m going to have to kill them the old-fashioned way—one at a time.

  He hoisted a gym bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the building. Just outside the front door stood a white board:

  North Bay Patriots

  Tonight, 8–9:30 p.m.

  All are Welcome!!

  You may want to rethink that last line, Donnell thought as he pulled open the door. Across the entryway through another set of closed doors, he could hear someone speaking. He was saying something about taking back America and the evils of Washington. “Evils of Washington,” huh? Maybe we have something in common after all, he thought with a smile.

  Stepping to the right side of the outer doors, he set down the gym bag. From inside, he removed a hammer and one small nail. With one practiced swing, he embedded the nail about a third of the way into the wall six inches up from the floor.

  He replaced the hammer and moved the bag back to the other side of the doors. Once the bag was down again, he fished out from its corner a small tab with a round hole punched in it. Attached to it was a thin wire that fed out as he walked back toward the nail. He slipped the tab over the nail and returned to the bag. Reaching in, he flipped a toggle, then zipped the bag back up.

  A little surprise for anyone trying to run away. Or for any first responders who might think about coming to help.

  He faced the inner doors. Taking a deep breath, he prayed, “O Allah, you gave me back my life when I had thrown it away. And now, in reverent gratitude, I give it back to you. You are great, O my God!”

  He pulled both doors open and stepped in. The room was filled with over a hundred people. All were facing a man behind a podium with an American eagle emblem on it. Perfect!

  Reaching with both hands behind his back, he grasped the two .45s and pulled them out. But before they had cleared his back, a woman in a seat next to him cried out, “Gun!”

  Surprised, Donnell hesitated a moment, and that moment was all it took for him to lose his advantage. Instantly, ten, fifteen, twenty—more than he could count—people stood up, guns drawn, facing him.

  Shouts of “Put the gun down!” and “Drop it!” mixed with the screams of those nearest him. There was chaos all around him. Instinctively, his hands went up over his head, and he saw some of the men begin to approach him.

  But then he remembered why he was here. There is no honor in being arrested! There is no honor in saving your life! I’m here to become shaheed! I never planned on getting out of here alive to begin with! To your glory, Allah!

  With a cry, he brought his guns back down. But before he could get a shot off, the air filled with the sound of gunfire. All over his body he felt impacts, and he flew back through the doors.

  Panic filled him. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. He didn’t know how many times he had been shot, but he knew he was in major trouble. He couldn’t move his left side, and the room was spinning around him. In that moment, the most basic of instincts kicked in—survival. I’ve got to get out of here!

  He could hear shouting and commotion just behind the doors. Half ru
nning, half stumbling, he made for the exit.

  Gotta get through! Gotta get home!

  He punched the crash bar on the front doors just as the first of his pursuers slammed through the doors behind him. None of them lived to know what hit them.

  Tuesday, September 13, 11:15 p.m. EDT

  Washington, DC

  Majid Alavi murmured a greeting to the man guarding the warehouse door, then slipped out into the warm night. He was leaving a very unpleasant meeting. They had just heard of the botched attack in California, and Saifullah was fuming.

  “That’s what we get for trusting the JIS! Prison rats! Gutter trash!”

  “But we still accomplished our purpose,” Alavi had protested. “Many more people focused on that incident.”

  “Bah! Quit defending them! They gave all of Islam a black eye with their incompetence! Our goal with this whole operation is to wreak as much devastation and carnage as we possibly can. This fool squandered his opportunity.”

  Outside, Alavi breathed deeply, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. Although it was a fairly large warehouse, it wasn’t big enough to mask the smell of twenty-four hot, tense, sweaty men, and the old odors of gas and grease that had absorbed into the cement floor over the years just thickened the atmosphere that much more.

  As number two, he was one of the few allowed outside. For all others, stepping a foot through the door meant severe punishment. Saifullah had made it clear how dangerous it would be to have fifteen or twenty men standing outside an abandoned warehouse smoking and shooting the breeze.

  “That’s how people get seen. That’s how plans fall apart. All we need is one drive-by police cruiser, one helicopter flyover, one drunk bum looking for a reward, and our mission is done,” the old man had chided them.

  Alavi tucked himself into the blackness next to an empty Dumpster and sat on the ground. The metal was warm against his back, and an ancient sour smell lightly tainted the air. Even so, it was still better than being inside.

  The night sky was clear and dark—no moon, and only the brightest of stars breaking through the ambient light of the city. He pulled an apple out of one pocket, pulled a knife out of the other, and sliced off a piece, which he ate off the side of the blade.

  The darkness just before Ramadan, he mused. The blackest night of the year.

  Alavi’s father used to tell him how this particular night symbolized the darkness of the world prior to the first revelation to the prophet Muhammad. No one knew the truth. Sinfulness and idolatry filled the earth. It was a night to remember what we once were—and who we might still be without Allah’s message to his creation.

  But then, when the sun set the next evening, everything would change. The moon would begin to make its appearance again. Light would be restored to the darkness, because this was the day that the great angel Jibril gave the first words of the Koran to Muhammad.

  “That is why Ramadan is the holiest of all the months, Majid,” his father had said on one of the dark Mishawaka nights of Alavi’s childhood. “That is why we dedicate ourselves to prayer and fasting for that period. You see, tomorrow night the first crescent of the moon will show, reminding us that the true light of Allah’s revelation has entered the world. That is why we hold the symbol of the crescent so dear. It is our reminder of Allah’s wonderful gift to us.”

  Alavi carved another piece of the apple and snapped a bite from it. His dad had seemed so strong back then—invincible. And he seemed to know everything. So many nights they would sit on the back porch with all the lights off. He would lean against his father’s chest and listen to story after story. But then . . .

  No, that’s for another time. Now is the time to remember the good—to hold tight to the love and laughter of my family.

  As Alavi turned the apple in his hand, he felt a soft spot just beneath the skin. With a quick pull of the blade, he removed it and flicked it to the pavement.

  “Why is the Koran so special?” he remembered asking. Then, trying to mask the hurt and shame in his voice, he added, “My friend Mike from school says that his dad said that the Bible is God’s only word, and that the Koran is just a bunch of nonsense.”

  His dad’s chest had tensed briefly, then eased back to its usual solid softness.

  “Mike’s dad is simply ignorant. Do you remember what I told you was the difference between ignorance and stupidity?”

  “Ignorance means you don’t know. Stupidity means you don’t know and you don’t care that you don’t know.”

  “Exactly. Mike’s dad is probably not meaning to be cruel. He is just deceived—ignorant. The Bible is truly a good book full of God’s revelation. It has the messages to Adam, the Suhuf Ibrahim, the Tawrat of Moses, the Zabur of David, and the Injil of Jesus. All full of wisdom. All useful tools in submission. But the revelation to Muhammad—oh, what a glorious gift it is! It is the culmination of all other revelations! It is Allah’s perfect message!”

  “And since it was first given in Ramadan, we give that month over to fasting and to prayer to better understand what Allah has told us,” the young Majid had said, repeating what he’d learned at the mosque.

  “You’re a smart boy,” his dad had responded, giving him a squeeze. “So we can’t get angry at Mike or his father. Instead, we should feel pity for them, since they don’t know the wonderful gift Allah has given to the world.”

  What warmth, what security Alavi had felt when that arm wrapped around him and held him tight. But those days were gone now. In the time leading up to the move to Dearborn, his dad had changed. He had become defeated. The man who had once stood proud and had walked with purpose now had shoulders that slumped as he shuffled around the house.

  Why? Alavi threw the apple across the wide parking lot. It skittered over the asphalt until, with a metallic shudder, it came to an abrupt stop against a chain-link fence. He wiped his knife on the leg of his pants, folded it up, and returned it to his pocket. Why did you let them beat you, Dad? Why did you just take it? Why didn’t you fight back?

  Tears formed in his eyes, and his throat constricted. But just as quickly, he forced the emotions back down.

  I understand. You couldn’t. It just wasn’t you. But don’t worry; the next generation of Alavis has reached its time. I will avenge you and restore honor to our name. I will fight the war you couldn’t fight. I will cause pride to well up in your heart, Dad, the way you once caused it to well up in mine.

  He took one last look at the night sky, then stood, stretched, and began a slow walk to the door.

  Tomorrow night the crescent will appear, and Ramadan will begin. Then, the next morning, after the Suhoor meal, the fasting will commence. Only this fast will be different from any other. This fast will not be spent in quiet study. No, this year I will fast with action. It will be a fast of service. It will be a fast of violence and vengeance. It will be a fast leading to death—most likely my own, but most definitely that of many others. It will be a fast of jihad.

  Wednesday, September 14, 2:45 p.m. EDT

  Washington, DC

  Khadi Faroughi took a deep breath. She had no idea what to expect when the door opened. Had it been long enough that the welcome she received would be forced, with wide smiles, stiff hugs, and overblown greetings—“Wow, Khadi, it’s sooooo great to see you! You’re looking sooooo good!”—that would quickly fade into an awkward silence?

  Who said, “You can never go home again”? she asked herself. Wasn’t it Thomas Wolfe? I’ll ask Scott, the human encyclopedia. Without a doubt, he’ll know. Speaking of . . .

  She looked at the familiar glossy black door again, one she was in the peculiar role of having to knock on, something she’d never done in the past. How many times had she barged through that door on some sort of mission—analysts or ops team in tow?

  This is my element, my habitat. Now I’m standing on the outside looking in like an old man who desperately wants to walk through the house he grew up in but is too timid to leave the car. She was tempted by a mo
mentary impulse to punch her old code into the touch pad, just to see if it would work.

  So much was riding on this moment—her future, her happiness, her life’s purpose. I honestly can’t imagine spending the rest of my life protecting Mr. Opportunity and other amoral, self-important political hacks like him. That decision is already made. I’m out of there! But is this really the best alternative? Am I just running back to what’s familiar?

  Remember how much this job takes out of you. Remember the hours. This place takes over your whole life. That’s one of the reasons I left to begin with. What will happen with Jonathan? I might as well say good-bye to any future with him if I return here.

  But do I really care?

  She stared at the door for a time, trying to keep back the name that was forcing itself into her thoughts. Finally, she gave in. And what about Riley? What would he think? Would he see this as some feeble attempt to try to get closer to him?

  Ultimately, though, does it really matter? After the way I treated him on Monday’s call, the whole Riley issue is probably moot anyway.

  She set her heavy shoulder bag on the floor and looked at it with a twinge of embarrassment. It was full of presents for the analysts who were waiting beyond the door in the Room of Understanding—little things from special moments or inside jokes. Suddenly, the goofs that seemed so fun at the store now seemed foolish, like she was trying too hard. Tears welled in her eyes as she pictured the fake smiles the trinkets would bring, the rolled eyes that would be exchanged as soon as she turned away.

  What have I given up? What was I thinking? These people were my family! You can’t just walk away from family! But that’s exactly what I did. And now I want to come back like some prodigal who realized that life isn’t all that good away from home.

  What makes me think Scott will even take me? Sure, he’s made lighthearted offers in the past, but was he just being nice, encouraging me? Like when you invite someone to come to a concert with you when you know full well they’ll be out of town. The last thing you expect is for them to actually take you up on your offer.