"You're crazy, David," Marlene said. "Who are you to say what God intends?"
"I know what I know, Marlene," Grale said. "We will not try to stop these men."
"Then step aside and let us pass," Marlene replied. "If we succeed then that, too, would be God's will."
Grale shook his head. "I will not allow it. This is the moment the Bible speaks of."
"Then you and your people will die. My son is in there, and I'm going to go get him."
"Did you ever wonder why you named your child Isaac? The child born to be sacrificed to God," Grale shouted. He raised his knife like Abraham at the altar and his eyes flashed insanely. "Leave now, while there is time to enjoy your family and lives before the end of days. But this is my kingdom and it is my will that shall be done."
The small band raised their guns and prepared to be charged by Grale and his people. But Lucy walked up to Grale and slapped him so hard the sound echoed in the cavern and dropped him to a knee in front of her.
"That's my baby brother in there, David," she screamed into his shocked face. "If you don't help, I'll hate you forever." She slapped him again, which knocked him to his hands and knees and set the Mole People to muttering and looking at each other and their downed leader for some sign of what to do.
At first there was no response. Grale's head remained down. Then his thin shoulders started to shake and a strange sound came from him. It took Lucy and the others a minute to realize that it was the sound of laughter.
Grale looked up and rose to his knees with tears streaming down his face. He was laughing so hard that he grabbed his old wound in pain. But the mad light was gone from his eyes. "Oh, God, Lucy," he said. "I tell you we're standing on the edge of the abyss, the end of the world, and you tell me you're going to hate me forever? The irony is just too delicious." He looked around at the Mole People nearest to him, who fidgeted, unsure of whether they were supposed to join in the laughter or kill the up-worlders. "Well, I certainly can't have that weighing over me for all of eternity. Now can I?"
The Mole People decided it was their cue to cheer. "No!"
Grale stood up and turned to Tran and Jojola. "Okay, before Lucy hits me again and removes the teeth I have left, what's the plan?"
A block away and ten minutes later, Al-Sistani stood as near to the bomb as he dared-not wanting to risk radiation poisoning. From above he could hear the thudding of rock bands and the faint cheers of the people gathering on Times Square. He looked at the boy, whom he'd had tied to one of the barrels, and then took a photograph on his digital camera. An award-winner for Al Jazeera, he thought happily. I'm sure his parents will appreciate knowing where their son spent his final moments.
"How are you doing, boy?" he said. "Feel honored that you will be the first to die?"
"Shove it, asshole," Zak replied. "I know why you're doing this."
"Oh?" Al-Sistani smiled. "Tell me."
"Because you're so ugly, the girls you dated wore their veils across their eyes so they wouldn't have to look at your face."
Enraged, Al-Sistani walked over to the boy and picked him up by his hair. The kid hadn't shut up since they'd caught him. At first he'd wondered if the boy had been able to alert the authorities. But after they found the tall, young basketball player-the friend of the recruit, Rashad, lurking in the theater-he realized that the boy had simply followed his friend. Now it didn't matter; the bomb was nearly ready. At eleven thirty he would give a signal to the martyr, who was working on the fuse beneath the scaffolding. The man would then wait for a half hour to allow Al-Sistani's escape, and while every television station in the world was broadcasting the New Year's Eve festivities in New York, the city would die.
"What's the matter, Pizza Face, the truth hurts?" the boy said and kicked him in the shins.
Al-Sistani pulled his gun and was going to shoot the boy.
"Leave him alone!" The challenge came from the basketball player, Khalif, who lay on the ground, tied up next to one of the rows of barrels.
Al-Sistani whirled and walked over to Khalif, whom he kicked in the stomach. "Maybe I should shoot you instead?"
"Allah curse you, you son of a pimp!"
While somewhat tame by American standards, the traditional curse was one of the worst in the Arabic language, akin to saying, "Fuck you." Al-Sistani pointed his gun at Khalif's head and was about to pull the trigger when there was a burst of gunfire immediately behind him. He turned and saw Rashad pointing an assault rifle at the ceiling.
"Khalif, dammit, what the fuck you doing here, dawg?" Rashad said.
"Looking for you, brother."
"Shouldn't have done that…we're about set to blow up the New York Stock Exchange and this whole place is going to come down."
"Is that what you think? Is that what this motherfucker told you? Don't you hear that cheering up above, brother? That's Times Square. They're planning on killing all those people up there."
Rashad, whose hands shook as he pointed the weapon at Al-Sistani, asked, "Is that true? Is that what this is all about? What was all that crap about destroying the economy but not killing people?"
Al-Sistani shrugged. "This will destroy the economy…and kill infidels. But you have proved yourself not worthy of joining our glorious cause." In the blink of an eye, he raised his gun and fired. A small hole appeared in the forehead of Rashad and then a trickle of blood as the young man collapsed to the ground.
"Rashad!" Khalif cried out. "Oh God, you fucking murderer…"
Al-Sistani silenced the young man with a kick to the head. He considered killing him and the boy. Not yet, he thought, they may yet be valuable as hostages. He listened again for the celebrations above and smiled. Firecrackers, he thought. The fools will soon have a much larger explosion to add to their celebration. Then a frown crossed his face. The sounds he thought were firecrackers came from the far end of the tunnel.
Just then one of his men ran up. "We're being attacked," the man yelled.
"Police?" Al-Sistani shouted back, ready to give the order to light the fuse as soon as he had time to get away and then flee.
"No," the man said and laughed. "Not unless the New York police are using old weapons and spears. We think it is that rabble we have seen in the tunnels. The rajim."
"Quit saying that," Al-Sistani said angrily. "They are not rajim, or jinn…they are filthy infidels-murderers and thieves-who live in this cesspit because even other infidels will not tolerate them. Kill them and be done with it, or are you incompetent?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but they do seem to have a few trained men among them," the man reported. "But we still outnumber them and have better weapons. We will deal with them shortly."
Al-Sistani thought about it for a moment. Neither federal agents nor the police were likely to enlist the scum who lived in the sewers and attacked with spears. He looked back at the man working on the fuse. "How much time before you are ready?" he yelled.
"Fifteen minutes," the man shouted back.
Al-Sistani decided to go see what was occurring himself. But first he cut Zak loose from the barrel and dragged him up by his arm.
"Let go of me, you dirtbag," Zak said.
Al-Sistani struck him in the face with the back of his hand. He expected the boy to cry and was surprised when he spit out blood and looked at him coolly. "You'll pay for that." He yanked the boy and began to march with his two bodyguards toward the tunnel entrance. The man who had reported on the battle with the rajim fell in with him.