CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lamont's arm stuck out at an odd angle, locked in a rigid cast. Ronnie's left hand was bandaged. Selena and Stephanie sat to his right.
"We know more than we did." Nick paused. "The man who attacked us in Mali was one of the assassins. Somehow it's related to Bausari and that cave. But al-Bausari is Sunni. The assassins are fanatics and Shia. They wouldn't work together."
"Why did he come after you?" Ronnie asked.
"He was in the library and saw Selena reading that manuscript."
"I'd like to know what was in that cave." Stephanie adjusted the pistol and pager at her waist.
"It must be a relic of Muhammad. A genuine relic could inflame Islam in the wrong hands. A sign of credibility, if you like. And now Bausari has it."
Selena crossed her legs, trying to get comfortable. "What worries me is it could be the sign the assassins have been waiting for all these centuries. It might be why they've come out in the open again. If it's really them."
"What kind of sign?"
"How's your apocalypse knowledge, Lamont?"
"Like in the Bible?"
"Right. In the Bible, you get all kinds of signs like earthquakes and plagues and famine and war that foreshadow the end. Like the world has right now. Then God sounds the Last Judgement and that's it. In Islam, it's similar but different, especially with the Shia theology."
"How so?"
"Those signs mean the Mahdi will appear, the Islamic messiah, to call in the Faithful. Christ reappears and converts all the Christians to the true faith of Islam. Anyone who doesn't convert is finished. Then Islam rules supreme."
Lamont rubbed the heavy cast on his arm. "Damn thing itches. Okay, but so what?"
"Anyone who doesn't convert is put to the sword. Do you know the seven pillars of Shia Islam?"
"No."
"They're pretty good, actually. The first six are about purity, prayer, charity, fasting, pilgrimage and a sense of oneness with God. It's the seventh pillar that can make trouble."
"Which is?"
"Jihad. Struggle. There are two interpretations of that. One is peaceful, the idea that jihad means struggling for a better life, a spiritual life, building the community, things like that. That's how most of Islam thinks of it. The other meaning is confronting enemies of the faith. All bets are off for the non-believer. Anything is justified. The non-believers can be killed."
"What are you getting at?"
"If someone who believes in Jihad as a call to holy war finds a sign that the Mahdi is about to return, and if that person has some kind of organization behind him…"
Everyone was silent for a moment.
Nick scratched his ear. "If it's a sign, we have to know what it is."
Selena brushed a hair from her brow. "I've got a feeling we'll find out soon enough."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The room was just another room on a ship. The ocean was visible through the porthole, an anonymous expanse of water. It could be anywhere in the world. There was nothing in the room to identify it. Al-Bausari sat cross legged on a low cushion, magnificent in his white robe and full beard. He wore a green turban, marking him as hajji, one who had made the journey to Mecca required of all the Faithful at least once in their lifetime. Behind him was a banner in Arabic, white letters on a green background.
ويوم المحاكمة قريبا
"Is all ready, Ghalib?"
"Yes, Teacher."
"Bring me the box."
Aban waited behind the camera as Ghalib reverently placed a wooden box at al-Bausari's feet. The wood was dark with the passing of the centuries. It was about three feet long, carved with scenes of Paradise, fruits and trees, vines and rivers.
The box from the cave. The Relic of the Prophet.
Al-Bausari nodded at Aban and the tape began recording. When they reached land, the tape would find it's way to Al-Jazeera and to the many websites preaching Jihad against the West.
"Praise God, the Day of Judgement is near. I have been given the sign. I bring His warning to the world."
Those words alone would guarantee rapt attention. Al-Bausari bent forward and opened the box and took out the relic and held it high.
Aban and Gahlib knelt and bowed their heads to the floor. The camera continued to roll as al-Bausari spoke.
Later he sat in a straight wooden chair as Ghalib prepared him for the next phase of their mission. He tried not to look at the hair falling around his feet. His face felt naked and strange without his beard. He’d begun that beard on the day his mind opened to the truth.
He’d been nineteen years old, a second year student studying law at Al-Azar University in Cairo. One day outside the lecture hall his professor called out to him to wait. Mullah Gamal Hasani was noted for his harsh rhetoric advocating strict Islamic law in Egypt. Everyone knew the secret police watched him.
Al-Bausari had been nervous. The Mullah was an intimidating man, but Hasani’s voice was quiet, inviting.
"I have been watching you in class, Jibril. You are not like most of the others. You pay close attention and you study hard."
"Yes, Teacher. I want to understand."
Hasani nodded. "Those who seek understanding are blessed. Allah calls to all of us, but few listen. It is almost time for the prayer. Come with me to the mosque and we will pray together."
That had been the beginning. Hasani had taken him under his wing, guided him as they studied the Book, helped Bausari see the true meaning of the Prophet’s writings, helped him see the threat to Islam poised by the West. Hasani had become a second father to him. Then one day Hasani disappeared as he walked to the mosque. Students said two men took him to a car and drove away. It was only God's will that Bausari was not with him. A week later it was reported Hasani had died of a heart attack.
On that day Bausari committed himself to the path of Jihad. Holy war.
"I am almost done, Teacher." The words startled Jibril out of his memories.
With a final flourish, Ghalib made the last cut. Bausari stood, brushing hair from his lap. The western clothes he wore were uncomfortable. The pants chafed. The shirt felt stiff and hot. The shoes were instruments of torture on his feet.
Bausari looked in a mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back at him. His hair was black again, with just a touch of gray, cut in a modern, western style. If he didn’t know who he looked like, neither would the Americans. They would never believe he would dare enter their country. If they did, they would look for the man famous for his white robes, green turban and magnificent beard.
Allah would forgive him. It was permitted to cut one’s hair in the cause of holy war against the infidel. Anything was permitted. It was something the people of the decadent western democracies still could not grasp or understand. That lack of understanding would hasten their destruction and the rise of the new Caliphate.
The slow journey across the Atlantic was nearly over. Bausari and Ghalib went on deck and walked past stacked cargo containers to the bow. For a few moments they watched the coast of Mexico coming closer on the horizon. In the distance a tall, snow capped peak rose against brilliant blue sky. The sun beat against Bausari’s newly minted face.
"When do we arrive?" Bausari ran his good hand over his newly shaven jaw.
"We reach Vera Cruz this afternoon. Then it is eleven kilometers upriver to Tuxpan. Overland transport awaits us there. We unload tonight. God willing, we will head north tomorrow morning."
"Our brothers in Mexico City have been informed of our arrival?"
"Yes, Teacher. There is much joy, there. They are eager for your blessing."
"It is Allah who blesses, not I."
"Yes, Teacher. But you are His instrument."
Al-Bausari walked back to one of the containers and patted the side. "Here is Allah’s blessing, Ghalib, the real instrument of His victory."