Tran looked over the document. "It will do."
Malovo looked at the cameraman and nodded. He pressed a button and a green light came on. "That means go," she whispered to Tran.
Glancing one more time at the paper, Tran looked into the camera. "All thanks are due to Allah. We ask for His help and guidance, and we ask His forgiveness for any sins we commit. I am Azahari Mujahid and stand today with my brothers of the Al-Aqsa Brigade, knowing that tomorrow, if it is Allah's will, we will be martyrs. This is our free decision, and I urge all of you to follow us in jihad."
Most of the rest of the speech contained fragments of verse from the Qur'an. A paragraph extolling the virtues of jihad was followed by another request that God forgive their sins. "We have made bayt al-ridwan," Tran said, noting the oath made on the Qur'an in which the jihadi promises not to waver in his mission. The term was also a reference to a special garden in Paradise reserved for the prophets and martyrs. The speech ended with the refrain they'd heard so many times since arriving at the mosque: "Allah-u-Akbar!"
Ajmaani clapped him on the shoulder. "May Allah be with you. May Allah give you success so that you achieve Paradise."
There was an awkward pause until he realized that she was waiting for a response. He hurriedly looked down at the note and read, "Turn back to the camera."
"No, no," Malovo whispered and leaned forward to point to what he was supposed to say.
"Oh, yes, of course," Tran replied, trying not to laugh for having blown his lines. This all seemed like a school play. "Inshallah, we will meet in Paradise."
Malovo nodded and started to turn to the cameraman, but Tran interrupted with a short speech in Vietnamese. He finished and glanced at the double agent. Angrily, she signaled the cameraman to turn off the machine.
"What did you say?" she demanded.
"The same thing, only in Tagalog, for my people in the Philippines. Many do not speak English."
"That was not authorized."
Tran decided that it was time for the great Tatay the Terrorist to show his stripes. "Mind your place, woman!" he spat. "I am not here for your little plays or insolence. Tomorrow I die in the name of Allah, and it is not for you to tell me how to speak."
Malovo's eyes flashed, but she bowed her head. "I did not mean to offend you."
Tran grunted his acceptance of her apology as the men behind them stood wide-eyed, wondering what to do next. They had never seen Ajmaani humiliated, and they half expected her to kill the little Asian. When she did not, they shrugged and began to leave their spots, but stopped when she snarled at them.
"Remain in your places," she spat. "We have a special send-off for your martyrdom." She nodded to a guard at the back of the room, who opened the door and led a bound and hooded woman into the room.
The woman's hands were oddly clenched and bloody, and blood stained the front of her robe. Her movements were stiff and she was obviously in pain, but she didn't cry out when she was shoved roughly to her knees in front of Jojola.
Malovo pulled the hood from the woman, revealing the bloodstained face of Miriam Khalifa.
When Miriam had left her father's apartment that evening, her heart had felt light—lighter than it had since the day her husband committed suicide. As light as that evening when Jamal had bought her the strawberry ice cream and she knew she would many him.
She attributed the feeling to the sliver of moon that hung above the city, as if Allah had taken a sharp knife and cut a little slit in the fading blue of the sky to reveal a glimpse of Paradise beyond. It was Ramadan, the month in which the Qur'an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.
Ramadan was not a holiday like Christmas with presents and feasting. Muslims were expected to exercise self-control in all areas, including food and drink, sleeping, sex, and even the use of time. For the next thirty days, Muslims around the world would fast from dawn to dusk; the fasting, called sawm, was meant to encourage a feeling of closeness to God as their minds focused on giving thanks, atoning for past sins, and giving alms to the needy.
However, Ramadan had its rewards. To stand in prayer on Lailat ul Qadr, the actual night that the Qur'an was given to Muhammad by Allah, was said to be better than a thousand months of worship. And acts of charity and kindness would be rewarded on Earth and in Paradise.
Miriam had learned her love for Ramadan from her father, who looked forward to the month like a child waiting for a sweet after dinner. To him, Ramadan was more than the holiest month in Islam; it was the month when Muslims sought tawhid, unification with other Muslims, a coming together of their community.
"When Ramadan comes, the gates of Paradise are opened and the gates of Hell are closed, and the devils are put in chains," her father had reminded her that afternoon before he left for the mosque. "Therefore it is easier to do good in this month because the devils are chained in Hell and can't tempt believers."
"But what about Muslims who behave badly during Ramadan?" she'd asked.
"Any evil that men do during Ramadan comes from within; they cannot blame it on Satan or his demons."
This Ramadan, however, had not been a happy one. He would be leaving on the bus that evening with her son for Chicago. "Until the danger has passed," she had said when pleading with him to leave the city.
The old man had started to cry, but she reminded him that as good Muslims they had nothing to fear. "Whatever happens here, we will meet again soon in Paradise."
He'd wiped away the tears. "Look at who is telling me to place my trust in Allah."
While her dad packed, Miriam had gone into her son's bedroom and lay down beside him for a few minutes while he napped. She listened to his heart beating and then put her face into his curly hair. He smelled like a little boy should in the summertime ... warm and dusty with a pinch of bitter sweat and sweet Good Humor ice cream.
She kissed Abdullah's face until he woke up. "Be a good boy, remember your prayers, read the Qur'an every day, and give praise to Allah," she whispered. "Now get up ... You and grandfather Mahmoud are going on an exciting trip!"
When her father arrived back at the apartment, they'd said their goodbyes and she left for the mosque. As she glanced up again at the moon, she became aware of the presence beside her, as well as the scent of roses. "Aalimah," she said with a smile.
"Salaam, my child," Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh greeted her, but with a tinge of sadness in her voice that sent a chill up Miriam's spine.
"What is it, Hazrat? What have you come to tell me?"
"Nothing you do not already know." The rustling of the saint's robes sounded like the leaves in the trees, stirred by a gentle breeze. "You will soon be tested ... your courage and your faith. So I came to be with you and to bring you peace.... Salaam, my child, salaam."
Miriam bowed her head and her pace slowed as hot tears sprang to her eyes. She thought about the life she had wanted to lead—attending college, caring for her father into his old age, raising her son, and bouncing grandchildren on her knees. "My son, Abdullah, he is so young."
"He will be safe with your father and sister. But you are being called upon by Allah to protect the faith. The message of the Prophet is being corrupted by evil men who bring dishonor and a black stain on Islam. Will you answer this call?"
"Inshallah."
"Yes, child, as God wills," Masumeh agreed. "But don't be afraid. I will be with you always, and when the darkness comes, I will be there to take you by the hand and lead you to bayt al-ridwan, where you will sit with me among the prophets and wait for your loved ones to join us."
The two women walked the rest of the way to the mosque in silence. Those who passed saw only Miriam, though she walked as if holding the hand of someone unseen.
When Miriam reached the mosque, one of the imam's bodyguards intercepted her. "The imam wants to see you downstairs." He tried to look her in the eyes but could not hold her gaze.
"I know the way." She went ahead with the guard trailing silently behind. When she came to a door, she looked bac
k at the guard, a question on her face. He nodded and she entered.
It was a small room, bare except for a steel chair, to which the guard bound her wrists and ankles. "Forgive me," he said.
"I would," she said quietly, "but it is Allah from whom you must ask forgiveness."
The door opened and the woman whom Lucy had called Nadya Malovo entered. "Miriam Khalifa," the woman said.
"Here I am."
Before Malovo was finished, the nails had been tom from Miriam's fingers, which had been broken one at a time with pliers; her teeth had been knocked out and the socket around her right eye crushed by a hammer. She'd been burned with an iron and had her hair pulled out by the handful.
Yet Miriam experienced the pain as if from a distance. She heard herself scream, though it seemed another was using her voice. In the company of Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh, she watched as Malovo demanded to know what Jamal had told her of any plans, and who she might have told. But she admitted to nothing more than enjoying carnal pleasures with her "lover" and witnessing a murder that she had not reported to the police.
At last, her tormentor left her in the dark, but not alone. The Aalimah knelt next to her and caressed her battered face. Then the guards came for her, pulling her to her feet and placing the hood over her head. Her injured body begged for release, but her mind knew no pain or fear as she was shoved to her knees and the hood was pulled from her head.
Miriam found herself looking up into the kind brown eyes of the man she knew as John. She saw his eyes harden and realized that he was going to fight for her. Stop him, she prayed to Masumeh. Tell him that I am prepared to be martyred for my faith, but he must live to stop these people.
"Who is she?" Tran demanded.
"Who?" Malovo repeated for the others. "This is the widow of the martyr Muhammad Jamal Khalifa. She has disgraced his memory by consorting with another man, an infidel she mated with in back alleys like a common whore. Her blood is forfeit and will bring Allah's blessing on our plans tomorrow."
The men murmured as Ajmaani spoke and then drew a large knife from beneath her robe. "Silence! The Sheik has approved this sacrifice."
She nodded to the cameraman to begin filming. "Tonight we slaughter the harlot wife of the martyr Muhammad Jamal Khalifa, may Allah be pleased with him, as tomorrow the martyrs of the Al-Aqsa Brigade will slaughter the enemies of Islam."
Jojola looked into the eyes of Miriam Khalifa and prepared to die. He knew by the weight of the AK-47 he held that, like the handgun, there were no bullets in the clip. Still, he thought he could kill Malovo with a blow to the head before the guards cut him down with their guns.
Then a voice entered his head, asking him to stop. A spiritual man who, in the way of his people, believed that spirits inhabited the world, he paid attention. As a child he had learned that some spirits who spoke to people were bad, but many helped the living. Sometimes they appeared as animals, or kachina spirits. Now, the image of a woman dressed in robes, her hair covered by a hajib, her face veiled, came to his mind.
Salaam, John Jojola, the woman said in a language he did not know but understood. Miriam asks you to let her go without fighting. She is prepared for martyrdom in the hope that her one death may prevent thousands, even millions, done in the name of Allah, but not with his blessing.
I can't do that, Jojola replied. I won't see her butchered without a fight.
Please, this is how it must be. She asks that you remember the lessons you taught her from chess. That sometimes one piece must be sacrificed for the good of the many. This is her last request, and she asks that you honor it so that you will live to do as you must tomorrow.
Jojola bowed his head, but then sensed Tran tensing for a fight to the death. "Do nothing," he said in Vietnamese. "This is as it should be."
Tran looked at him, his eyes angry, but after a moment he nodded.
"Is there a problem?" Malovo asked, signaling for the cameraman to stop filming.
"Jihad is not slaughtering helpless women in a basement," Tran replied.
Malovo laughed. "You? The man who sank a ferry full of helpless women and children and then shot them in the water?"
"It was an attack done in front of the world."
Malovo looked at him with scorn. "You have your reasons. I have mine." She signaled the cameraman, who pressed the button; the green light came back on.
Malovo pulled Miriam's head back, exposing her throat. She expected to see fear and waited to hear the young woman beg for her life. But instead, Miriam smiled at her.
"La ilaha illal lah! There is no God but God," Miriam testified calmly, looking into the dark, beautiful eyes of Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh, "and Muhammad is the Messenger of God."
The response enraged Malovo. No one should face such a hideous death so easily. But she'll scream when she feels my knife, the assassin assured herself, and with a quick, violent motion drew the blade across her victim's throat, pleased to feel the hot blood spurt across her hand. But there was no scream, no desperate gurgling as the woman drowned in her blood.
Suddenly afraid, Malovo pushed Miriam forward to die. "Allah-u-Akbar," she cried out, raising the bloody knife over her head. But there was no response from the others.
Miriam felt a burning sensation in her neck. Where are you, Aalimah? I am afraid.
Here I am, child, here I am. The scent of roses filled the air.
Hazrat! It is dark, and I am lost!
Take my hand, Miriam. There ... can you see? It is Ramadan and the gates of Paradise are open!
Yes, yes, now I see. I am not afraid. Allah-u-Akbar ... God is Great!
32
Nadya Malovo looked at the clock radio on the desk, which belonged to her now-former lover. Seven a.m. Another hour before most of the employees who worked in the building would arrive. Plenty of time to get done what she had to do.
She looked out the window onto the immense office complex. Comprising nine main buildings, it covered eighteen acres—about ten city blocks— and had cost a billion dollars to build. The most secure, technologically advanced structures in the world, the buildings had been designed with one purpose in mind: to draw big-money companies from Manhattan into Brooklyn.
It was considered the Fort Knox of office complexes. The entire facility could be cut off from public utilities for weeks and still be fully operational, and its designers believed it could withstand Oklahoma City-style truck bombs. After September 11, 2001, engineers had even determined that, with a certain amount of impact damage and casualties, it could hold up against a direct hit from an airliner. Those who had moved out of Manhattan and into the complex for financial or space reasons prior to 9/11 considered themselves lucky.
It was the home of Brooklyn Polytechnic University, an advanced engineering school, as well as a number of major financial institutions and businesses including Bear Steams, JP Morgan Chase, Empire Blue Cross/Blue Shield, and the Securities Industries Information Corporation. In one of the buildings, the leaders of the financial world would gather in the event of a worldwide disaster. And in fact, on December 31, 1999, they had met there to see if the predictions of the Y2K catastrophe would come to fruition.
However, it was more than an educational and financial nexus. The building in which Malovo stood on Tuesday morning housed several of the most important nerve centers for New York City. These included the headquarters for the New York Fire Department and the New York Police Department 911 call center—every cop car dispatched in the city got the call from that building in Brooklyn.
When The Sheik had first suggested his plan, the biggest obstacle to carrying it out had been a company called Specialized Applications Integrated Corporation (SAIC). A rather benign-sounding name, Malovo thought, for a high-tech security and surveillance company so advanced that it was responsible for the security and surveillance requirements of the Department of Homeland Security, as well as a variety of other government agencies and financial giants.
It had been clear that the potential i
mpact of The Sheik's plan was tremendous. Nothing like it had ever happened before. However, it could only be implemented if Malovo was able to figure out a way around, or through, SAIC, and that presented a huge problem.
The first issue had been solving the problem in time for The Sheik's artificial deadline of the first day of Ramadan. She had argued that the plan should go into effect when it was ready, not a date set months ahead of time for what she considered silly reasons. But The Sheik had insisted that the propaganda benefits of striking on that date were too great to pass up.
She had started by looking for weaknesses in the building's security. Dean Newbury was able to help by providing the architect's blueprints for the building, which were supposed to have been in a safe and inaccessible, as well as names and personal data on SAIC personnel who might have the security clearances she needed.
However, her attempts to breach the corporation had been fruitless. She knew that she was getting a little older and the lines in her face a bit more pronounced, but she liked to think that, given time, no man, and few women, could resist her charms. But time was not something she had a lot of, and the corporation selected its people with care, putting them through rigorous security clearances and keeping them under surveillance. They were real pros with the best technology in the spy and security business; just trying to get close to one of them might have raised suspicions and exposed the plan.
Next, Malovo looked into the building's janitorial services company, a business owned by a Russian immigrant on Atlantic Boulevard near Coney Island. After dating the owner for two weeks, she realized he didn't have the security clearances she needed, so she dropped him.
It looked like they'd have to try a direct assault. Perhaps commandeering an airliner, or a ground attack to force entry. Either one, she told Dean Newbury, was likely to end in failure. "We would need to reach the twentieth floor—up the stairwell or the elevator, all in view of security cameras, I'm sure, and then fight our way past a well-armed, well-trained security force, which would have every advantage."
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