And it had only begun.
The message from A1 Islam in Philadelphiastan was simple: "I await the call to arms."
"Patience," typed the Deaf Mullah. "Patience."
"When will I die with the dignity I deserve?" asked Patrick O'Shaughnessy O'Mecca in Washingtonstan.
"When Allah wills the time is correct," returned the Deaf Mullah.
There was no contact from Ibrahim Lincoln in Chicagostan, who was to have martyred himself by now. But he was often late, working the night shift as he did. Nor did Mohamet Ali in Bostonstan sign on at the ordained hour.
Time passed as the Deaf Mullah sat before his personal computer. It dragged.
At length, the computer dinged and the electronic muezzin called him to prayer.
Shifting to his prayer rug, he faced Mecca and indulged in contemplation and the evening prayer.
When he was done, the beard of the Deaf Mullah bristled at the absence of contact from many of his messengers.
After such a day of triumph, where were they? he thought bitterly. Were they men—or women afraid of what had been unleashed in Allah's name?
A message popped onto the screen from Abd Al- hazred. It was tagged, Difficulties.
Punching it up, the Deaf Mullah read with dark, eager eyes.
"Mohamet in Boston martyred himself," the message began.
"How can that be?" the Deaf Mullah typed back. "It was not yet ordained."
"The criminal FBI found him out, and to avoid capture he martyred himself. It is on all the newses."
"The only news that matters comes from Allah, on whom all blessings are meet," typed the Deaf Mullah furiously.
"Are we discovered?"
"How could that be?" returned the Deaf Mullah.
"I see no word from many of our brethren."
"They are late. But they will post at the appointed hour,
But the hours passed, and there was no word from the missing. This was grave, the Deaf Mullah thought. This was very grave.
He considered. It was approaching the hour that the first demand was to be made. This demand had yet to be decided upon.
Perhaps the demand would be freedom for the missing, if they had fallen into godless hands.
No, that would indicate weakness, as well as show that the small group of martyrs were important in and of themselves. Better the infidel nation believe they had captured but a small number of a great many.
Then what demand would be made? What was worthy in the eyes of Allah?
The Deaf Mullah stared into the growing green screen of his Gates of Paradise network with its electronic minarets, praying to Allah to provide guidance.
It must be something that would be easy for the infidel to accede to. A political victory, not a military one. One that would show the Islamic world it was possible to foil the Great Satan, America.
As if in answer, a message popped onto the screen from Sid el-Cid, truly Siddiq el-Siddiq, and the heading was The Hypocrite Ghula Has Come!
A thin smile split the frizzled beard of the Deaf Mullah. Yes, this was the victory required.
Leaning into his keyboard, he began typing the demand that with the touch of a button would be automatically faxed to the FBI in Washingtonstan, as well as to all major news organs.
By midnight it would be the topic of "Nightmirror."
And this was only the end of the first day of the war against the infidel nation.
Chapter 23
The fax rolled out of a machine in the Pennsylvania Avenue headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C., and sat unnoticed in the tray of a plain paper Sharp faxphone as the director of the FBI tried to figure out what the hell was going on in his district offices.
"Who gave the order to arrest that subject in Boston?" he demanded of the agent in charge of the Boston branch of the FBI.
"Sir, we received a transmission this evening to pick up the subject, Mohamet Ali."
"This Mohamet Ali is spelled differently, sir."
"Who authorized that pickup order?"
"An ASAC named Smith, out of your office."
"First name?" asked the director, thinking assistant special agents in charge were as numerous as VPs at IBM.
"I'm looking at the transmittal order now, and there's no first name. Just a squiggle."
"What kind of a squiggle? Is it an initial? Can you make out an initial?"
"No, it's just a—squiggle."
"Can you make out any letter? Does the squiggle end on a recognizable letter?" "Not that I can recognize."
"We have a dead postal worker on our hands, the major media outlets want to know why this man was picked up, I'm hearing from other branches that we have better than a half-dozen postal workers in custody and no one can tell me why."
"You should ask this Smith, sir."
"Which Smith? Do you have an idea how many Smiths there are down here?"
"We have a few here in Boston, too."
"All press releases and other public statements must be cleared through my office. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Mr. Director."
The director of the FBI hung up the telephone and asked himself how this was possible. At the CIA, rogue elements pulled this kind of shit all the time. Not at the Bureau. It just wasn't done.
Fortunately only the Boston incident had made news and only because the arresting agents had bungled the job. Whatever it was.
The intercom buzzed.
"St. Louis office for you, Director."
"Put him through."
"This is St. Louis Bureau Chief McBain, Mr. Director. Am I to understand we are to hold this suspect indefinitely?"
"I'm not telling you to do that," the director snapped.
"Do we release him?''
"No, don't do that, either. That was an off-the- record suggestion, by the way."
"I don't understand. What was the purpose of picking up this individual?" "As soon as I have that nailed down, you'll receive further instructions," the director growled.
"I have orders to pick up and hold a USPS employee named Sal Adin for interrogation. What I need to know is who is to interrogate this subject and on what matter?"
"He's a postal worker, isn't he?"
"A letter carrier."
"We have mailmen going postal all across the country," the director bit out. "That's reason enough for now. Just keep the bastard on ice until I have further instructions for you."
"Yes, Mr. Director."
The director of the FBI slammed down the phone, wondering if the head of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had anything to do with this PR disaster.
A moment later, he forgot all about ATF.
"This just came in," said his secretary, dropping a sheet of paper on his desk. "It looks important."
The director picked up the sheet and scanned it briefly. It had been a long day, so he didn't really take in the sense of the test at first, just the disconnected words themselves.
He had to read it a second time before the cobwebs melted from his fatigued brain.
"Oh, my God! "he said.
W. had computer taps on all levels of official Washington. If a fax came into the FBI, CIA, NSA or any of a number of official U.S. agencies, the transmission was intercepted and a duplicate fax was created in Smith's vast CURE data base.
Smith had his graphics program up and running and was meticulously filling in the blank areas of the FBI Joe Camel Wanted poster with an ad for Camel cigarettes. At first the brown cartoon face looked ridiculous. Then Smith ordered the automatic morphing program to anthropomorphize the image.