Ravi had been definite. America must be attacked, because they will take notice of nothing else. Americans react badly to loss of life, and they really hate loss of assets and loss of money. They are not true warriors, though they have highly efficient armed services and a truly devastating arsenal of high-tech weaponry.
But they will be brought down: perhaps not defeated, but forced to retreat behind their own borders, leaving the Muslims to create a new empire stretching from the Horn of Africa to the Atlantic. That remained Ravi’s dream and the dream of the ayatollahs, and the imams, and all the holy men.
That is the will of Allah, and that is the stated opinion throughout the Koran… Death to the infidel. And right here she, Shakira, was, sitting with one of them, the matriarch of the family of the man most feared by the Middle East’s jihadists-Admiral Arnold Morgan.
Yes, she would carry out her mission. She would inform Ravi of precisely where he could locate the admiral. And although she would not wish personal harm to Emily Gallagher, neither would she forget her purpose in this life. Which was to carry out the will of Allah… Allah is great.
She glanced at her watch. It was time for prayers. Which way was Mecca? To the east, out across the river. And Shakira turned toward the window, feeling, unaccountably, the deep comradeship and belief of the Muslim world holding her within its cocoon. Allah, she knew, would forgive her for failing to pray this morning, sitting here with this infidel, so long as she was carrying out His work.
“A penny for your thoughts, Carla,” said Emily. “What about some more coffee, and one of these cookies?”
“Oh, gosh, thank you,” she replied. “I think I was daydreaming. This is such a comfortable house.”
No sooner had the word “cookie” been uttered than Charlie came thundering toward them from four rooms away.
Shakira took charge. She stood up and said, “CHARLIE. SIT DOWN.” Charlie sat. “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Charlie wagged his tail in anticipation. “But if you jump on me, or your mistress, and spill coffee, you’re not getting anything.”
Charlie, who plainly understood English, looked inordinately sad, cocking his head to one side in that timeless stricken pose of the retriever, which suggested that he had been given nothing to eat for at least a year. Shakira’s heart melted. And she gave him a cookie. Charlie crunched it instantly, swallowed the lot, and readopted the stricken pose.
“I’d better take you out,” said Carla, who then turned to Emily and said, “It looks a little like rain. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll just take him to the river? Back in forty-five minutes.”
As she gathered up the dog leash and clipped it on, Mrs. Gallagher looked at her quizzically. She had noticed, as educated people often will, one tiny slip in Carla’s diction; the mistake of a foreign person. She had said, “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Not, correctly, “I will give you one little piece.” Future conditional.
It was not much, but Mrs. Gallagher could not help wondering if Carla had perhaps had one foreign parent, or had been brought up somewhere else with English as her second language. One thing she did know, however, was that “I give you one little piece” was not the diction of a proper American national.
It was, of course, in the great scheme of things, completely irrelevant. Shakira Rashood had already accomplished her mission on behalf of the fanatical warriors of Hamas. And she had completed it right here in Brockhurst, courtesy of Emily Gallagher.
The Ritz Hotel, check-in Tuesday morning July 31, until Thursday morning August 2. Admiral and Mrs. Arnold Morgan. No problem.
Outside on the street, Shakira walked briskly, all the way along to the bend in the river, where she entered the little park that Charlie loved and stared across to the far bank, easterly.
The park was deserted, and she began to whisper-
Allahu akbar…
Ash hadu an la ilaha Allah…
Ash hadu an-an Muhammadar rasulul-lah…
La ilaha ill Allah…
No one could hear. Except for Charlie. And even he did not understand that.
It was, of course, the 1,400-year-old prayer of devotion from the Koran:
God is most great.
I bear witness there is none worthy of worship but God. I bear witness that Mohammed is the Prophet of God.
There is no Deity but God.
She unclipped Charlie and stood for a few moments. Then she quoted, quietly in English, direct from the Koran, the words of Allah as stated by the Prophet: Remember me. I shall remember you! Thank me. Do not be ungrateful to me. You who believe, seek help through patience and prayer.
At this point, Charlie charged straight into the Rappahannock, and Shakira ran to the bank, shouting at him in words that may not have been entirely understood by the Prophet. But they were understood by Charlie, who charged back out again, shook himself, absurdly, all over Shakira’s jeans, and then went back into the river again.
Finally he came out, shook himself again, and allowed himself to be clipped back onto the leash and walked home. He was, however, such a wreck with river water and mud that Shakira took him to the garden hose, washed him, and left him outside to dry.
Emily came out and said, “I suppose he ran into the river again, Carla. I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble. Are you staying for lunch?”
The familiarity between them was now complete. And Shakira felt almost sad that soon she would leave and never again see this calm, pretty American house. And she found herself wondering if she and Ravi would be happy here together. But that was impossible, and Carla politely declined lunch and said she would see Emily in the evening at the hotel.
Somewhat wistfully, she walked back to the center of town, where Fausi had the car waiting, to drive her to a lonely spot down on the estuary of the river, where she could make contact on her cell phone with the High Command of Hamas.
She had already chosen the place. A near-deserted beach down near Grey’s Point, ten miles south of Brockhurst. The land was flat. The road was hardly used, and indeed petered out into a sandy track as it neared the water. She would stand right there and make the satellite call on one of the most expensive phones of its type in the world, with the American T-Mobile service. No mistakes for the 21st-century terrorist.
Fausi dropped her off at the point where the beach road dissolved into sand. Shakira walked for a couple of hundred yards down to the water, then began punching in the numbers for the house where Hamas kept a 24-hour communications center, and where she hoped Ravi would be, to know she was safe.
The house was situated south of Tel Aviv because the Gaza phone system was so unreliable. Israel itself has always been rather shaky at telecommunications, but it was a whole lot better than Gaza.
Shakira dialed the country code-011-972-then three for the area south of Tel Aviv, then the secret number. There was no reply until an answering machine clicked in. Shakira spoke in her well-practiced operative’s voice, much the same as Ramon Salman had done from Boston to Syria almost six months before: Virginia calling-the Ritz Hotel, London, Tuesday, January 31, to Thursday, February 2. Not another word. No clues, no indications, nothing to reveal Shakira’s personal plans, nothing to identify the target. Plus the usual Hamas code for months-six forward-thus July becomes January, and August turns into February.
If there had been a wiretap on the Hamas phone south of Tel Aviv, that message would have revealed only inaccurate information. But there was no tap. And that message almost caused the roof to fall in, so incendiary were its ramifications.