Farris didn’t really care that everyone would know he was the killer. Actually, he was rather proud of himself. The Mawlawi had praised his valor and applauded his decisive action. Farris had already acquired the knowledge and equipment he needed from the professor, the Mawlawi had said. Farris’s hidden presence in mainstream America was no longer required. From this day forward, his service to Allah would take a new form — one that would take full advantage of his lab skills, and would have an immediate and decisive impact on the Great Satan.
Farris was excited about his new opportunity.
Parked near the end of the driveway, he checked his web connection. The information had downloaded as promised. There was a lot to read. He skimmed for the high points.
Farris should expect to find three ‘colleagues’ at the safe house. They would not be Muslim. They served Allah’s will as unwitting soldiers in the Jihad.
Farris had been given complete background information on each of them. All of it was stored, encrypted of course, on his laptop hard drive. He would learn and memorize every detail about his three colleagues later. For now, he had read enough to know how to interact with them without upsetting the council’s plans.
Two of his coworkers had come to Minnesota from a remote compound in Idaho. The Idaho group was a collection of posse comitatus types, mixed with all manner of vigilantes and government haters. The two here at the farm were of the government hating variety. They held no particular religious prejudices and no strong racial convictions.
They had been told that Farris was an American Indian who had a gripe with the government over tribal land. Al Qaeda saw no benefit in disclosing his Arab connection when it was not necessary to do so.
The third member of the group would be a local of Ottawa County. He would know the plan completely, and also of Al Qaeda’s role. And he would know that Farris was Arab, though he would go along with the American Indian cover story for the benefit of the government haters.
Farris proceeded slowly up the narrow dirt road. A deep ravine paralleled the rutted road tracks to the right. Farris glanced backward as he drove. The curvature of the hills and the thick growth of sumac, prickly ash, bur oak, and box elder trees, totally obscured his view of, and presumably from, the public roadway.
Ahead, dense and unkempt vegetation encroached on the driveway, hiding it completely from the morning sun’s rays. Even from inside the car, Farris could smell the fresh moistness of the leafy trees and the dew dampened undergrowth. He thought this remote valley an excellent hiding place.
Proceeding farther up the drive, Farris could see some buildings ahead.
The safe house itself was not much to behold. An 1800s-era, two story farm house with peeling white clapboard siding and dark green trim, it seemed to tilt a bit to one side. The roof ridge displayed a clearly discernable sway back.
Most of the outbuildings were similarly dilapidated — some in a near state of collapse. The exceptions were what Farris assumed to be the former milk house, and two open-sided structures beyond the milk house that were partially blocked from his view.
The milk house appeared to have benefited from some recent reconstruction. The concrete block sides looked substantially repaired. There was a new metal door and the galvanized metal roof shone bright silver. The two open-sided structures looked entirely new.
Farris continued forward into the graveled driveway turn- around. There were no signs of his colleagues. He saw no people and no vehicles. His superiors had prepared him for this eventuality.
He pulled into the turn-around, stopped the car, and put it in park. With all four windows rolled down and the engine off, he honked the horn three times, paused a few seconds, then honked twice more. Now he waited, seated in the car with his hands in plain sight at the top of the steering wheel.
Before long, there was movement to his right. A red-bearded man emerged from behind a barn-red granary building. Drawing on his extensive cultural training, Farris thought the man looked like the Brawny lumberjack. He was muscular and pretty big — maybe six one or six two, probably 220 pounds — much larger than Farris.
Following closely behind the man was a blond woman. Farris figured her for maybe forty years old, five foot six, and a fairly flabby one hundred eighty pounds. Her face would probably have been attractive without the extra weight.
The two stood motionless about thirty feet from Farris’s car.
"Are you Mr. Eagle Claw?" the man called tentatively.
"Yes, sir," Farris replied, with equal trepidation.
His name for the rest of his stay in Ottawa County was to be Farris Eagle Claw, member of the Northern Cheyenne Indian tribe. Farris had asked whether his first name should also be altered. But the council had assured him there was no need, so ‘Farris’ it remained.
"Okay if I get out of the car?" Farris asked through the open windows.
The couple moved closer. Though the woman was still a bit behind the man, they both looked more relaxed.
"Sure. Let’s get acquainted," the man said.
He sounded harmless enough.
Farris got out of the aging white Ford, stepped around the front, and offered his hand toward the man.
They shook. The man had a strong grip. He smiled at Farris, displaying uneven, tobacco stained teeth.
"Urland Umber, and this is my wife, Brenda." He gestured over his shoulder with his left thumb as he introduced her.
"Farris Eagle Claw," said Farris, thinking the name sounded absurd.
Now Brenda stepped alongside her husband.
"How!" she said, raising her left hand as if signaling a right turn on a bicycle.
Farris was not quite sure what to do. His indoctrination to western culture had not included viewing 1940s westerns.
He extended his hand toward Brenda. "And how are you, as well?"
Brenda shook with her right hand as she slowly lowered her left, pretending she had never made the ridiculous gesture.
"Pleased to meet you," she said.
Brenda was bursting to say more.
"I just want you to know how much we respect you Indians and all that you’ve done for this country. You were the first revolutionaries. And you’re still standin’ up to Uncle Sam. Fightin’ for casinos and independence and all."
She displayed a genuinely warm and admiring smile.
Great! How should Farris respond to that statement?
"Why, thank you, madam," he managed. "We Indians try to do our best. After all, we cannot let the folks in Washington run things."
This was a strange conversation.
"That’s for damn sure," Urland joined in. "Politicians and judges been runnin’ this country into the ground for over 200 years. Time we took it back for ourselves."
Urland obviously had no appreciation of what ‘take it back for ourselves’ would mean to an American Indian, if he were actually speaking to one.
Farris maintained his pleasant facial expression. Underneath it though, he was deeply concerned. Could these be his colleagues? Not only infidels — but idiots? No wonder it hadn’t been necessary to change his name. These dolts wouldn’t know Arab from Algonquin.
May Allah save him!
As Urland moved alongside the car, he noticed the boxes of lab equipment in the back seat. "I’ll give you a hand with these," he said, reaching through the back window.
"Stop! Please!" The was a note of urgency in Farris’s voice.
Urland looked chastised. He removed his hands from the car. "What’d I do?"
"Sorry," Farris said. "Very sensitive. Very dangerous. Please do not touch the boxes. You know I am a chemist, right?"