Underneath the table, Adriana could feel her legs begin to tremble. ‘You’re correct, Victor. There are terrible choices ahead for us. Quite terrible. But there are choices, nonetheless. One choice is to do nothing, and hope that our border security and other forces intercept the attack teams. The other choice is not to wait on hope. It’s to act, and I’m sorry, but that’s the only choice I think is available.’
She was about to continue speaking when the lights flickered.
Flickered again.
And then there was a loud thump, coming from above.
And in a moment, Monty and Brian were standing up, their hands now gripping pistols.
The trembling in Adrianna’s legs increased.
CHAPTER TEN
Hamad Suseel tried to ease the pain in his gut and the anxiety in his heart with the soothing thought that in a very few moments one of two wonderful things was about to occur. The first was that he was finally going to begin his jihad against the unbelievers, and if all went well he would be on his way home before the evening was out, thinking about the victory that he had achieved. And the second was that he was going to begin his jihad against the unbelievers, and if all didn’t go well he would still enter Paradise and meet his mother and father and older brother, and feel joy at such a reunion.
He drove his rental car carefully into the lot of what was called an office park. There were buildings of stone and glass, plain cubes that showed no beauty, no design. Not even that mongrel in this mongrel country, Frank Lloyd Wright, would have enjoyed seeing these pieces of crap built on such rich land. As a younger man, Hamad had dreamed of being an engineer or an architect, learning to construct better homes than those concrete pieces of shit that the UN built for his family and others outside Jenin, but the education he dreamed about never happened, of course. His education involved the endless intifadah, stealing copper wire and other metals for money, throwing rocks and paving stones at Israeli armored cars and tanks, and going to bed hungry at night while his father dozed in the corner and spoke dreamily during the day of the family farm that had been lost, back in 1948.
There was an old black-and-white photo of the family farm, creased and faded, which was passed around family gatherings, like one of the relics the Christians loved to possess and collect, and Hamad never had any patience for this reminiscing. Remembering past glories was the sign of losers. Like the Greeks recalling their ancient knowledge and the Italians their ancient empire, many of his family members and others were content to sit still and moan about their misfortune at the hands of the Jews and the British and the Americans.
But not Hamad. And especially not after that night when an American-built helicopter — an Apache Longbow, built in Kentucky — had been aiming for some visiting Iranian mullah in a Mercedes, traveling down one of the narrow and dingy streets of his village, and the first missile had missed the speeding car and had gone instead into one of those concrete cubes put up by the UN, hiring out corrupt contractors who poured cheap concrete and not enough reinforcing bars, so that when the missile exploded the two stories pancaked into a heap of dust and debris, crushing the bodies of his mother and father and older brother.
No, not after that night. After that night, Hamad cared about one and one thing only: to do whatever was necessary so that in a very short time what was left of America would have its people dreaming about and remembering their past glories, their past achievements, before the righteous in the world had risen up and had ground them into dust.
There. An empty space. He parked his rental car, felt his hands shake for just a moment as he switched off the engine. Where to put the keys? In his pocket? Or leave them in the car? What made the best sense?
He looked at the keys, proud now that his hand was still, like the disciplined warrior he was. The keys went back into the ignition. He would leave the car unlocked. He stepped out into the cool morning air on this Christian Sabbath day and went into the rear of the car. He was wearing a light blue jumpsuit with the name Hank embroidered in red thread over the left breast, and over the right breast was a badge that said Colonial Flowers. He felt slightly disgusted at having to be dressed like a common trader. His intelligence, his dedication, his skills deserved better than this. But then he remembered how it had begun, back near Jenin, when the Sudanese had talked to him.
The Sudanese had been tall and very black, the blackest man that Hamad Suseel had ever seen. But he was a fellow believer and had come to spend some time in their village, speaking to the elders and the members of the brotherhood — the fighters, the holy warriors — and it was during these times when Hamad had sat alone in the corner, not saying a word, just watching. It had been a month since his family had been murdered by the Jews and the Americans, and never in his life had he been so cold. Even in the warmest nights he needed two or three blankets, for the coldness in his heart would cause him to shiver.
The Sudanese, with his piercing dark eyes, seemed to have noticed his quiet nature during the meetings, for on the third night he had spoken to him alone. The conversation had been quick and to the point.
Al-es salaam,’ the Sudanese had said.
‘And the blessings of God be upon you,’ Hamad had replied.
‘I know what happened to your mother and father and brother. For that you have my sympathy.’
‘You are too kind.’
The Sudanese had cocked his head for a moment. ‘I am told that during the month since the attacks, you have not fought back. Why is that? Are you waiting for the right moment?’
Hamad clenched his fists, standing in the dark alley that stank of garbage and the open sewer. Why, he had thought, why had it come to us that cities in other countries — and on their flickering television, they all knew what other cities looked like, even if they could not actually smell them -never had this kind of stink, this kind of filth, this kind of grinding day-to-day oppression from invaders with clean uniforms and good meals and warm homes to go to at night?
‘No,’ he had said. ‘I am waiting for the right target.’
The Sudanese had nodded at that. ‘Go on, my friend. I would like to know what you mean by a “right target”.’
Then it came out, in a torrent.
‘What use is this kind of fighting?’ Hamad had said. ‘Our brave boys and girls wear martyrdom belts, they go into pizza shops and buses and playgrounds and kill themselves and other boys and girls, and sometimes old men and old women too. Oh, such glory, such honor, such bravery! For generations their actions will be celebrated in song and verse, like those of the blessed Saladin!’ he added in a mocking tone. And he wondered if he had spoken too harshly, but the Sudanese seemed to appreciate what he had said.
‘Yes, yes,’ the black man had said. ‘I agree.’
Hamad had then said, ‘The bombs, the shootings, the rock-throwing — what does it accomplish? It makes us bitter. It makes us beggars to the world, asking for scraps of money and support, for bags of rice and beans from the UN, for occasional kind words from the French and the Russians and the Americans. And for what? The Jews have gotten stronger, we have gotten weaker, and when we are not ignored, we are laughed at. Laughed at!’
The Sudanese had said, ‘And? What is to be done, then?’
Hamad had said, ‘What is to be done is to strike hard, and to strike hard at the heart. That is what must be done. To wait patiently, to plan, to think ahead…and that is what I have been doing these past days, as I continue to mourn my mother and father and brother. I am planning to kill some big shot, some important American. They come here, every now and then. All puffed up and proud. The head of the CIA. The Secretary of State. The Secretary of Defense. Somehow…somehow, I will find out when such a man or woman is coming here, and then I will kill them. By a bomb in the street. Or from the air. Or from a bomb around my own waist. Whatever it takes. And no doubt I will die in the process, but justice will be done.’