The Mawlawi sighed, placing his head in his hands. He spoke to the floor.
"Limited? I am not pleased with ‘limited,’ Rashid. In what way are they limited?"
"Mawlawi. To be blunt, they are rather… stupid."
The Mawlawi raised his head and glared at Rashid.
"Mawlawi. Allow me to explain. They are stupid like sheep. They blindly accept our money and follow our commands. Their role not require mental ability — merely a strong back and a willingness to do as we say."
The Mawlawi’s cold eyes pierced the darkness, but he said nothing.
Rashid squirmed. After a few moments, he spoke again.
"Mawlawi. You know that we require more than one person to mount this attack. These people represent our best options."
A tense silence filled the room once more. The Mawlawi breathed deeply once more, then spoke.
"The involvement of these infidel imbeciles causes me great concern, Rashid. How can you be confident they will fulfill our purposes without revealing our plans to the American dogs?"
Rashid squared his shoulders and spoke with all the conviction he could muster.
"Mawlawi. In all truth, their stupidity is an asset. They are not smart enough to question commands, or to inquire as to purposes. From their demeanor, one would not think them anarchists at all. There is no hint of rebellion in them. It is my belief… I am confident… they are like sheep. They follow the flock.
"I assure you, Mawlawi. These two will suffice."
The Mawlawi looked tired, unconvinced, and dismayed at Rashid’s report. But he possessed a wisdom born of experience. He had been fighting this war as long as he could remember. He knew that compromise and adaptation were parts of real world Jihad.
Many times, the Mawlawi had prayed for additional soldiers to execute this particular plan — true followers of the Prophet to carry out this mission. Allah had provided no one else. These infidels would have to do. The Mawlawi slowly exhaled a final breath before continuing.
"Very well, Rashid. If you are positive we have no other fighters in the area, we will proceed with your personnel."
Rashid needed to speak once more.
"Mawlawi?"
"Yes, Rashid. What other good news do you have for me?"
"Mawlawi, I would be remiss if I failed to mention one other operative in the target’s vicinity — an intelligent and skilled young chemist named Farris Ahmed. He sends us regular technical reports. We are saving his expertise for future undertakings. I do not believe it would be most effective for our long term cause to unveil his presence as part of this operation."
"Thank you for your thoroughness on this point at least, Rashid. If this young chemist is as valuable as you say, there seems no need to waste his skills performing manual labor now. Is there anything further, Rashid?"
"No Mawlawi." Rashid bowed his head. "Thank you, Mawlawi."
The meeting was over.
The Mawlawi stood. He would bestow a benediction upon the assembled faithful.
Raising his right hand, he said: "May the strength of Allah go with you and his blessings be upon you all."
CHAPTER 3
It was the day after the meeting in Gunner’s office. My wife, Beth, and I were enjoying a sunrise breakfast on our front screen porch at 1011 Jefferson Avenue. Bacon, eggs, and toast, with fresh orange slices and coffee. Beth was the cook. I often tried, but seldom succeeded. My heart just wasn’t in it.
Jefferson Avenue is a peaceful street, lined with historic homes and sheltered by mature oaks and maples. In the summer, the trees form a fragrant canopy over both avenue and sidewalks. In fall, they release a swirling sea of red, yellow and brown leaves — the kind kids like to rake into piles and jump in. Automobile traffic on Jefferson is close to nonexistent. Pedestrians enjoy walking its shaded length, strolling among the calming aroma of freshly mown lawns. Neighbors push strollers or pull wagons past our home, waving and calling "Hello" as we return smiled greetings from the porch.
"Any big plans today?" I asked Beth as we ate.
"The gals are getting together at Hanisch’s Bakery for coffee at 10:00. Then I hope to check the product levels at my art retailers."
Beth has adjusted well to life in Red Wing. So well, in fact, that locals would never guess that, in addition to her top notch artistic talents, she also possesses high level government security clearance and unique technological skills. In fact, her computer expertise is so highly regarded in Washington that, between beading, sewing and painting, Beth frequently accedes to desperate CIA requests for her encryption/decryption services. To state it plainly… Beth is one of the U.S. Government’s best code crackers.
"How about you?" Beth asked.
"Nothing special." I finished a last bite of toast. "Gotta get going, though. Miles to go before I sleep. No rest for the wicked. Etcetera, etcetera."
Beth knows me better than I know myself, and tolerates my idiosyncrasies — like this morning’s hasty departure from breakfast.
"Don’t overdo, Babe," she said.
"Never."
I gave Beth a quick kiss, then steered my dark grey Honda Pilot down the vacant, early morning streets of Red Wing to Becker Law Office, arriving at the door a few minutes after six o’clock.
One of my preferred professional strategies was doing my legal work outside of normal working hours. Prior experience informed that, if I arrived at the office before clients and secretaries knew I was there, I could accomplish quite a lot without interruption.
By the time my legal secretary, Karen, showed up at 9:00 a.m., I had worked my way through substantial stacks of client files accumulated from the previous day and had already decided that my work day at the law office was finished. I wanted to know more about the death of Professor Westerman.
I was also concerned about young Mr. Ahmed. The uneasy feeling hadn’t left my gut. And no one in law enforcement had, as yet, displayed any concern over possible terrorism.
My intercom beeped. It was Karen. "Will you be taking any appointments this afternoon, Beck?"
"Sorry, Karen. Can’t do it today. Full calendar."
I glanced down at the same blank calendar page that Karen was no doubt observing. "Last minute. Meetings all day outside the office. Forgot to get it on the calendar. Sorry again."
"When shall I say you will return calls — tonight after midnight? Or tomorrow before breakfast?"
Did I detect a touch of sarcasm?
"Let’s just go for, ‘I’ll tell him you called.’ Does that work for you, Karen?"
"Your wish is my command. Could I get a few signatures from you though, before your… ah… meetings?"
"Sure thing. I’ll swing by your desk on my way out."
The intercom clicked off.
So as not to appear too sluggardly, I hung around my office with the door closed listening to jazz and reading online newspapers for another couple hours. When the time felt right, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the door and headed for Karen’s desk, a spring in my step.
A pile of correspondence and a number of bank checks awaited my signature. I worked my way efficiently through the stacks, signing without reading.
I inquired to whom the checks I had just signed were payable. Being satisfied with the responses, I thanked Karen for her good work.
Then I doffed my imaginary hat in her direction and ducked out.