Friday morning, Mustafa rushed from his second house to Hiawatha Academy. He knew the drop house in south Minneapolis had been compromised. He must move quickly now, before the FBI found out any more about the plot.
Luckily, he had access to information through Zehra Henning. Mustafa paused to think about her. Even though she was an infidel, in a different place and different time, maybe she would have been . . . He dismissed the idea abruptly. She would never submit to him or convert to Islam. But for now, he must keep that channel open and pretend to be fascinated with her.
Henning had become suspicious, it was obvious. Mustafa planned to do anything to keep her trust and fool her until she would be disposed of, like all the rest, as a sacrifice to Allah.
She had called him a few minutes ago with more valuable data. For some reason, Zehra also wanted the exact location of the Hiawatha Aca-demy and the Science Expo. Mustafa assured her he would drive and return her home early. Her brazen questioning bothered him, but he’d been smart enough to placate her. In turn, she’d revealed contacts with the FBI. Mustafa learned they had discovered the southern mosque in Burnsville. If they had not already flooded the area, they would soon. It didn’t make any difference to him; he wouldn’t go back anyway. The end was coming.
Would Zehra inadvertently tell the FBI about the Science Expo and himself? Probably not, because she still didn’t connect him with anything of interest to the FBI. He was safe for now. That was another reason he must keep Henning with him tonight—to control her movements and communications.
It would work perfectly.
He ran over the details. The Science Expo would draw hundreds of people from all over the state to view the projects in the fieldhouse of the academy. Because he’d done so much volunteer work there, he had open access to the facility anytime he needed it. Mustafa had purposely spent time wandering in the basement of the fieldhouse to the point that the maintenance people ignored him.
He pulled his Benz into the faculty parking lot of the school. He got out, locked up, and hurried into the fieldhouse. A few students were in there, putting the final touches on their projects in preparation for the Expo tonight. He waved at one of the other science teachers who was directing the last-minute work.
“Hey, Dr. A. Ready for the crowds? Some of these students will just make it under the wire.”
He nodded at the stupid woman and hurried past her. She deserved to be one of the first to go.
Mustafa walked to the end of the building and let himself through a door that led downstairs to the extensive spaces underneath the fieldhouse. The area was used for storage and contained some of the heating and air conditioning ductwork. He searched for the vents he’d picked out earlier. Even though he’d been over this many times, he would inspect it all again.
He reached a section that was directly below the large area where all the projects were assembled for display. He checked the air vents to make certain they were open and cleared, as he did also with the return vents in the center of the room.
Next, he found the fan attached to the return vents. He flicked it on and went back upstairs. Behind the space used to display the projects, he found the metal vents fastened to the floor. As he worked, the students concentrated on their projects and didn’t pay any attention to him. He flicked a Bic lighter and watched the flame bend down toward the return air vent. Activating the fan would create a negative pressure condition in the room to ensure the process worked efficiently and quickly.
Back in the basement, he shut off the fans and inspected the aerosolization device attached to the inflow air ducts. He also tried those fans by turning them on. They hummed quietly. Mustafa repeated the match test upstairs and found air blowing hard out of the vents along the wall into the big room.
He decided to launch it at seven o’clock—when he’d calculated the maximum number of visitors would be present.
With his skills, Mustafa had personally designed the special equipment that would take the dried samples and vaporize them with just enough moisture to adhere to the respiratory tracts of the boys and every single one of the visitors who would trudge through the projects. He had designed it to release a prescribed amount for two hours—plenty of time and quantity to infect them all easily. And with the high concentrations, the incubation period in the people would be considerably shortened.
He had already taken the vaccine provided with the sample stolen from Vector, although he wasn’t sure it would be effective. Ultimately, only Allah could protect him.
The unsuspecting kafirs would not smell or feel anything until the symptoms showed up in a few days. Even then, it would seem like the flu, and Mustafa doubted any doctor would even consider making a diagnosis for smallpox—at least, not quickly enough.
His groin tightened at the thought of the success of the plot. To further protect himself, he would leave the country to view the carnage from afar. He detested suicide bombers as crude and limited in their effect. His way would shock the entire world. The casualties would be immense and would lead to mass chaos. It would bring about the kingdom of Allah in the heartland of the infidel.
Mustafa stopped on the main floor of the fieldhouse and sat in a high chair next to the heart model he’d helped the boy construct. All the years, the planning, the failures, the double life he had led, the fools he’d had to pretend to enjoy, the enormous risks, all weighed on him. Sweat moistened his forehead. When he reached up to wipe it off, his hand trembled.