Mustafa Aadheen closed his leather-bound copy of the Qur’an. He rose from his knees, completed his prayers, and removed the worn, tan cotton robe. Underneath, he wore a blue Hugo Boss suit with a crisp white shirt open at the collar. He adjusted his shoulders and shot out his arms to bring the French cuffs out to the proper length beyond the arms of the suit.
Several years earlier, as part of the plan, he had successfully embedded himself in the Minnesota company called Health Technologies. He worked there as Michael Ammar, a genetic scientist—a perfect cover for his real work. After his prayers, he prepared to leave for that office and the company’s labs.
Today, his immediate problem was lack of information. Since the launch date was set for two weeks from now, Mustafa worried about the last-minute details. Years of planning and struggle and establishing networks of believers would finally pay off. As Mustafa had anticipated, El-Amin had been arrested and accused of killing the young boy. Certainly, he wouldn’t reveal anything, but Mustafa still worried. He needed information about the case. Would law enforcement uncover anything damaging to the cause?
As a boy in Egypt, Mustafa had been tapped early for his brilliant mind. Chosen to attend Cairo University two years before normal admissions, he’d graduated number two in his class in science. A graduate program that led to a doctorate in genetic molecular biology at Oxford in Great Britain completed his training—on the outside. Groups in Egypt
—some would call them extremist—had recruited him. They weren’t extremist to Mustafa. Instead, they promised action in reprisal for what had happened to his grandparents and his people at the hands of oppressors.
Finally, Mustafa could take that action himself.
He’d come into the US years ago, in preparation for executing the plan. The United States wanted to attract highly-educated foreigners, so they allowed many in under H1-B visas for specialty occupations and advanced education. Mustafa laughed to himself at the stupid politicians who ranted about “building a wall.” Here he was—the biggest threat ever to the country—admitted easily.
The scream of boiling water in the teapot startled him. He moved to the kitchen and poured hot water over loose black tea leaves. He watched them swirl in the water, coloring it immediately. He added two heaping scoops of sugar, stirred that, and sat back in a hard chair by the window. Mustafa had a few minutes before leaving for the labs.
He and his brotherhood saw the opportunity to strike at the West in a fashion more devastating than anything ever done before. Let others set off bombs in restaurants or subways. Some could open fire in a nightclub. None of these events were coordinated, and besides, what did they accomplish? A few kafirs died, but a week later everyone forgot about it. Instead, something bold, dangerous, must be done to really make a change.
The al-Qaeda attack on the World Trade Center had first given Mustafa and his brotherhood the inspiration of what could be done. Not the destruction itself, but the ensuing panic. What if he could do something even worse, more widespread, and unstoppable that would lead to panic on a nationwide scale? Americans had received a hint of what widespread panic was like after the attack on the towers. If that could be multiplied, it would grow like nuclear fission, propelled forward to a massive explosion in chaos and death.
Mustafa set down his cooling teacup and realized that he was breathing fast. The dreaming always made him excited. But now, the dreams were very close to happening. That was why he worried about all the details that must occur before the launch, and it was also why he needed to know what was going on in El-Amin’s case.
Finishing the last of his tea, Mustafa cleaned up the few dishes in the kitchen and left for work. In Egypt, he had lived a frugal life. But here in America, he pampered himself. He slid into the new BMW 3 Series car. It was red to match the color of Egypt’s flag. He justified the car as part of his cover. A scientist of his stature would not drive a used Kia.
He’d been blessed by Allah; certainly the mission would be a success for the glory of Allah and the Prophet.
Mustafa drove toward Health Tech and opened the windows to feel the cool damp air stream over him. The company had also, unwittingly, given him the location for the execution of the plot: Hiawatha Academy, the school where he volunteered as a science teacher to high school children. Health Tech supported many schools by encouraging its employees to volunteer their time. In two weeks, the state-wide Science Expo would occur, hosted by Mustafa’s school in their giant fieldhouse, usually dedicated to the ridiculous sport of hockey. For the expo, it would be cleared out in order to accommodate thousands of students and their parents. They would become sacrificial lambs for Allah in order to spread His Will.
He had volunteered to help the students prepare their projects—giving him access to all areas of the school.
Mustafa weaved his way skillfully through heavy traffic on his way to the labs. All around him, drivers strained to go faster, most of them talking or texting on cell phones while they drove. Probably communicating about banal subjects like shopping or the insatiable lust for Americans to watch sports of any kind. Not that many of them participated. Most sat on couches before obscenely large TVs and drank beer. In his disgust, Mustafa forced himself to work hard in the gym to keep himself in good shape. He slipped through the traffic knots after a lifetime of driving in Cairo—one of the most crowded cities in the world.
As he neared the company, he marveled at how far he’d come in his life. After he was born in Alexandria, Egypt, his parents had tried to flee from the oppressive British to the Netherlands. They never made it. Instead, they tried to hide in the dense population of Cairo—something that was easy to do for the most part. But for Mustafa, the move left him without friends. He missed the dark blue of the Mediterranean Sea that he could see every day from his window in Alexandria. In Cairo, all he could see was brown sand of the deserts and yellow skies from the pollution that covered the city like an upside-down bowl. Mustafa then started university. Up to that point, he’d been lackadaisical about his Muslim faith. His one friend had encouraged him to attend mosque on Fridays. The community had reached out to Mustafa and relieved his loneliness. More than that, they’d challenged him to find a mission that pleased Allah. Something that would free him and his family from the yoke of the West.
The memory of his grandparents’ deaths made that easy.
In an attempted uprising against the hated British after World War II, his family had gathered near the sea in Alexandria for a protest. As carelessly as brushing off the sand from their boots, the British soldiers had massacred hundreds of protesters. Most of Mustafa’s family had escaped, except for his grandparents.
He pulled into the employee parking lot at Health Technologies. He circled to a side entrance, felt the warming air around him, and entered. He nodded to the stupid secretary he shared with another scientist before going into his office.
His desk was clear of everything except a laptop computer. The walls were bare. There were no personal mementos or photos. One plaque hung next to the door. It was an award from Health Tech for the successful development of a genome that had led to a lucrative patent for the company. They’d made millions off the patent; Mustafa had received a fake gold plaque.
He looked outside. In the middle of a sinfully huge expanse of grassy lawn, a fountain shot water high into the air. In the morning sun, it looked like thousands of sparkling diamonds. It reminded him of the photos he’d seen of his dead grandparents. Thousands of pieces of glass shone on the ground next to their bodies where plate glass windows had shattered under the hail of British bullets. Their blood—his blood—stained the gray dust beneath them.
He could never forgive.
Mustafa jerked around to a knock on the door behind him. Another scientist, John Posten, had the office next to his. He grinned at Mustafa. “Hey, Michael, you stud. How many women you score this weekend?” He waited and when Mustafa didn’t respond, Posten continued, “You’re so good looking and beefed up. What’s your secret?
”
“Lots of exercise. Good food, you know.”
Posten looked down at the tub around his waist. “Yeah, gotta work on that myself. Get your prayers in this morning?”
A hot flush of blood shot into Mustafa’s face. The rage always started with a shaking in his legs. Why didn’t Allah strike these foolish kafirs dead on the spot? He hoped the fat one standing before him would be the first to die. Mustafa fought to appear calm. “Of course. Five times a day. You should try praying more yourself.”
Posten’s mouth curled down. “Yeah, s’pose it wouldn’t hurt. ’Course, I’m a lapsed Catholic. My religion doesn’t motivate me to do much of anything.” He turned toward the hall. “Hey, got time for a muffin?”
“No, thanks. Too much work. I’m leaving for Egypt in a few days.”
“Again? How come you get all the cool assignments? What’re you doing this time?”
“Since I’m originally Egyptian and I speak Arabic, the company wants me to expand our contacts in the Middle East. I’m presenting another paper. It’s called ‘Use of the IL-4 Gene to Produce Interleukin-4.’”
“Cool stuff. You know it better than anyone. Okay, don’t let your meat loaf, you stud.” He laughed hard enough that his belly jiggled. Posten started out the door but stopped. He turned back to Mustafa. “Hey, you’re going to the company party, right?”
“Of course.”
Mustafa watched him waddle out the door. Sitting at his desk, he checked his corporate emails. Among the usual camel dung, he saw an invitation to employees from the supervisor of internal operations, Donald Henning. Mustafa had met him a few times. Bland, dull guy with unusually heavy eyebrows. Apparently, he was organizing the company party. Mustafa deleted it. Then a thought popped into his head. Wasn’t that name the same as one of the lawyers in the El-Amin case?
He twisted around to his briefcase and grabbed the Star Tribune, the metro newspaper. There was a story about the El-Amin case. It told of the new lawyer, a public defender named Zehra Henning, who was representing the defendant. Mustafa looked at the photo in the paper. She was dark, even looked Semitic in a way. Heavy eyebrows? Could she be related to Donald? If so, was this a way for Mustafa to get information about the case?
It was worth the effort; he’d certainly go to the company party and seek out Donald Henning. If the lawyer was his daughter—Mustafa smiled at the serendipity of the situation. He knew his good looks attracted women. She’d be easy to fool.
Mustafa slapped his palm on the desk in triumph. Allah always provided a watering hole in the desert. The camels would never die. He retrieved the email and keyed a quick response to Donald: I’ll be there.