The Jews had humiliated his country four separate times, in the process killing his eldest brother, Ibrahim, in the Sinai while he’d been driving a Soviet T-62 tank. He didn’t remember Ibrahim. He’d been far too young then, and only had photographs to give him an idea of what he’d looked like, though his mother still wept for his memory. He’d died trying to finish the job these Germans had started, only to fail, killed by a cannon shot from an American M60A1 main battle tank at the battle of the Chinese farm. It was the Americans who protected the Jews. America was ruled by its Jews. That was why they supplied his enemies with weapons, fed them with intelligence information, and loved killing Arabs.
But the Germans’ failure at their task hadn’t tamed their arrogance. Just redirected it. He could see it on the streetcar, the brief sideways looks, the way old women scuttled a few steps away from where he stood. Someone would probably wipe down the overhead bar with disinfectant after he got off, Anas grumbled to himself. By the Prophet, these were unpleasant people.
The ride took another seven minutes exactly, and it was time to get off, at Dom Strasse. From there, it was a one-block walk. Along the way, he saw more of the glances, the hostility in the eyes, or, even worse, the eyes that took note of his presence and just passed on, as though having seen a stray dog. It would have been satisfying to take some action here in Germany—right here in Munich! —but his orders were specific.
His destination was a coffee shop. Fa’ad Rahman Yasin was already there, dressed casually, like a working man. There were many like him in this cafe.
“Salaam aleikum,” Atef said in greeting. Peace be unto you.
“Aleikum salaam,” Fa’ad said in return. “The pastry here is excellent.”
“Yes,” Atef agreed, speaking softly in Arabic. “So, what is new, my friend?”
“Our people are pleased with last week. We have shaken the Americans badly,” Fa’ad said.
“Not enough for them to disown the Israelis. They love the Jews more than their own children. Mark my words on this. And they will lash out at us.”
“How?” Fa’ad demanded. “Lash out, yes, at whomever their spy agencies know about, but that will only inflame the faithful and drive more to our cause. No, our organization they do not know about. They do not even know our name.” This was because their organization did not really have a name. “Organization” was merely a descriptive word for their association of the Faithful.
“I hope you are correct. So, do I have more orders?”
“You have done well—three of the men you recruited chose martyrdom in America.”
“Three?” Atef was agreeably surprised. “They died well, I trust?”
“They died in Allah’s Holy Name. That should be good enough. So, do you have any more recruits ready for us?”
Atef sipped his coffee. “Not quite, but I have two leaning in our direction. This is not easy, as you know. Even the most faithful wish to enjoy the fruits of a good life.” As he was doing himself, of course.
“You have done well for us, Anas. Better to be sure than to be overly demanding of them. Take your time. We can be patient”
“How patient?” Atef wanted to know.
“We have additional plans for America, to sting them worse. This time we killed hundreds. The next time, we shall kill thousands,” Fa’ad promised, with a sparkle in his eye.
“How, exactly?” Atef asked immediately. He could have been—should have been—a plans officer. His engineering education made him ideal for such things. Didn’t they know that? There were people in the organization who thought with their balls instead of their brains.
“That I am not at liberty to say, my friend.” Because he didn’t know, Fa’ad Rahman Yasin did not say. He wasn’t sufficiently trusted by those higher in the organization, which would have outraged him had he known it.
The son of a whore probably doesn’t know himself, Atef thought at the same time.
“We approach the hour of prayer, my friend,” Anas Ali Atef said, checking his watch. “Come with me. My mosque is only ten minutes away.” It would soon be time for the Salat. It was a test for his colleague, to make sure that he was truly faithful.
“As you say.” Both rose and walked to the streetcar, which fifteen minutes later stopped a block from the mosque.
“HEADS UP, Aldo,” Dominic said. They’d been checking out the neighborhood, really just to get a feel for the area, but there was their friend, walking down the street with what had to be a friend of his own.
“Who’s wog number two, I wonder?” Brian said.
“Nobody we know, and we can’t freelance. You packin’?” Dominic asked.
“Bet your bippy, bro. You?”
“Hang a big roger on that,” Dominic answered. Their target was about thirty yards off, walking right at them, probably heading to the mosque, which was half a block behind them. “What do you think?”
“Wave off, better to bag him on the way out.”
“Okay.” And both turned right to look into the window of a hat shop. They heard—they damned near felt—him pass by. “How long you suppose it’ll take?”
“Damned if I know, man, I haven’t been to church myself in a couple of months.”
“Super,” Brian growled. “My own brother’s an apostate.”
Dominic stifled a laugh. “You always were the altar boy in the family.”
SURE ENOUGH, Atef and his friend walked in. It was time for daily prayers, the Salat, the second of Islam’s Five Pillars. They would bend and kneel, facing Mecca, whispering favored phrases from the Holy Koran, affirming their faith as they did so. On entering the building, they removed their shoes, and, to Yasin’s surprise, this mosque suffered from a German influence. There were individualized cubbyholes in the wall of the atrium for their shoes, all of them properly numbered, to prevent confusion . . . or theft. That was a rare offense indeed in any Muslim country, because the Islamic penalty for thievery was very harsh, and to do so in Allah’s Own House would have been a deliberate offense to God Himself. They then entered the mosque proper and made their obeisance to Allah.
It didn’t take long, and with it came a kind of refreshment for Atef’s soul, as he reaffirmed his religious beliefs. Then it was over. He and his friend made their way back to the atrium, collected their shoes, and walked outside.
They weren’t the first out the large doors, and the others had served to alert the two Americans. It was really a question of which way they’d go. Dominic was watching the street, looking for a police or intelligence officer, but didn’t see any. He was betting that their subject would head toward his apartment. Brian took the other direction. It looked as though forty or so people had gone in for prayers. Coming out, they scattered to the four winds, singly or in small groups. Two got into the fronts of taxicabs—presumably their own—and drove off to catch fares. That did not include any of their coreligionists, who were probably working-class schlubs who walked or took public transportation. It hardly made them seem villainous to the twins, both of whom closed in, but neither too fast nor two obviously. Then the subject and his pal came out.
They turned left, directly toward Dominic, thirty yards away.
From his perspective, Brian saw it all. Dominic removed the gold pen from the inside pocket of his not-quite-a-suit jacket, furtively twisting the tip to arm it, hen holding it in his right hand like an ice pick. He was heading on a close reciprocal course to the subject . . .
It was, perversely, a thing of beauty to watch. Just six feet away, Dominic appeared to trip over something, and fell right into the Atef guy. Brian didn’t even see the stick. Atef went down with his brother, and that would have covered the discomfort of the stab. Atef’s pal helped both of them up. Dominic made his apology and headed on his way, with Brian following the target. He hadn’t seen Sali check out, and so this was interesting in a grim sort of way. The subject walked about fifty feet, then stopped in his tracks. He must have said something, because his friend turned as though to ask a question, just in time to see Atef fall down. One arm came up to protect his face from the fall, but then the entire body went limp.
The second man was clearly dumbfounded by what he saw. He bent down to see what was wrong, first in puzzlement, then in concern, and then in panic, rolling the body over and speaking loudly to his fallen friend. Brian passed them about then. Atef’s face was as composed and unmoving as a doll’s. The guy’s brain was active, but he couldn’t even open his eyes. Brian stood there for a minute, then wandered off, without looking back, but he gestured to a German passerby to provide assistance, which the German did, reaching into his coat and pulling out a cell phone. He’d probably call for an ambulance. Brian walked to the next intersection and turned to observe, checking his watch. The ambulance was there in six and a half minutes. The Germans really were well organized. The responding fireman/paramedic checked the pulse, looked up in surprise, and then with alarm. His coworker on command pulled a box from inside the vehicle, and, as Brian watched, Atef was intubated and bagged. The two firemen were well trained, clearly going through a process they’d practiced in the station and had probably used on the street many times. In their urgency, they did not move Atef into the ambulance, but instead treated him as best they could on the spot.