Chapter 4
“You cannot make me wear this garment. It is a sin against Allah! I will suffer the torments of ignominy as a result, I am certain,” a powerful figure called Murad shouted.
Sameer, the manager of Castle Pizza on Telegraph Avenue in downtown Berkeley, drew Murad in close. He steered the angry man away from nearby customers waiting for pizza.
“It is said in the Qur’an, to use the ways of the devil to deliver his end will bring light to your family. Murad, his blessing of understanding is yours. Please imagine a bubble where you now exist within the heathen’s lair. For our cause, reconsider wearing the garment. These infidel costumes we clothe ourselves in and the sins we commit on behalf of our brothers will all be forgiven. The Messenger, and those who believe with him, strive hard and fight with their wealth and lives in Allah's cause. Alhamdulillah!”
Murad’s arrival two days before was a sign that their cell was now hot, ending years of American living for the select few. Murad had barely rested since the three-day journey from Yemen and he seethed at the sight of the blood red T-shirt with the Castle Pizza mascot, a knight in armor, emblazoned across his chest.
“May the infidel be damned to use a symbol of the invasion of our Holy Land!” Murad’s indignation faded into an expression of resolve and he donned the scarlet uniform for his first delivery run.
In the past three days, Murad’s itinerary deliberately hopscotched from Sana’a to Dublin, Bermuda, and British Columbia, before finally terminating in California by way of Seattle. Murad could have crossed the Canadian border via bus or rental car, but he calculated that this is what the Department of Homeland Security expected after the Boston bombing.
Once, while in immigration holding in Miami airport during another U.S. entry, he overheard a DHS agent jokingly say, “With the way terrorist groups are emerging from so many countries, I’ll be speaking seven languages by the time I retire.”
Murad then thought, No, you coward, you will all be speaking the language of our Prophet Mohammed, fool!
Sameer tried to make light, urging Murad, “Go, play your role, deliver pizza and see the world!”
Sameer knew he must keep Murad awake all day so he could adjust to west coast time as there was much to do in the coming weeks. The intense training, prayer and sacrifice would finally carry them to their promised lives beyond.
He, Hussein and another made up their cell, first coming to California as eighteen-year-old students’ years before the joyous victory in New York. Sameer finished his studies with a bachelor’s degree in business administration and, as instructed from abroad, made connections with the many hawala brokers in the area to access the informal cash transfer system al-Qaeda perfected to prevent federal agents from tracking worldwide financial activity.
During his first few months in the States, Sameer was invited to dinner by a distant uncle living in Orange County. After the meal and before Sameer bid farewell he was handed a bag, and when he stopped for gas on the drive north he found in the satchel more than $500,000 in cash. The funds were remitted to the hawala broker and the value was then concurrently moved from his al-Qaeda leader in Yemen to a wealthy jihadist sympathizer in Egypt. No trace of this money transfer would be discovered by any of the latest NSA technologies as it was completely devoid of any electronic signature.
The stateside cash from donations in the name of secular freedom! Stupid Americans, even with their powerful intelligence methods, they would never overcome the proven and ancient ways of his people.
In the mid ‘90s, Castle Pizza was one of the fastest growing fast food chains near major California universities, so the background check run on Sameer was peripheral and the franchisor was eager to take his cash. Adding the other cell members as employees over the years, Sameer prospered and enjoyed the pleasures of wealth, never fooling his brothers when he would proclaim, “We must blend in with the ways others behave. It would be expected of me to drive a fine automobile.”
Hussein questioned much of this and wondered whether a Porsche Pantera was necessary to meld into American society as he considered how much fruit will await Sameer in his paradise.
The cell knew very well they were one of al-Qaeda’s elite death squads, on par in practice and know-how with the infamous SEAL Team Six who executed their beloved Osama bin Laden. Sameer had a spacious indoor “basketball court” built as an addition to his comfortable home in Sausalito, and once the contractors left they went to work installing soundproofing, bulletproof glass and lined the room with Kevlar wallpaper. Every morning for three hours after prayers, seven days a week, they maintained their physical and mental condition as the sharp edge of the sword in the name of Allah.
As Murad pushed open the door to leave, an older gentleman with a facilities badge tucked into his jacket pocket pulled to enter, throwing Murad off balance. He instantly wished this unbeliever to be the first of the thousands of kafirun he would kill when he delivered his mission of God. Glancing back into the store with eyes of hatred, he met Sameer’s eyes which at once widened and gestured for him to come back in. This made Murad even more furious than he already was!
“Good afternoon Dr. Jarrard, it is very good to see you,” Sameer welcomed from behind the counter
The man who had just entered was Professor Jarrard of Berkeley. Jarrard bled academia and looked every bit the part of a professor and, except for absence of humor, Jarrard’s appearance made you think of Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society.
Pulling on his tidy goatee, Jarrard perked, “Why, ah, how do you know my name?”
Jarrard accepted that he was recognized as a frequent patron of Castle Pizza, but he had always kept to himself, only uttered the required pleasantries, only paid in cash, and never mentioned his name. He believed rather than “an apple a day,” that a salad each afternoon guaranteed good health. And Castle’s mixed salads tasted the best for the price he was willing to pay from the small allowance he placed in his wallet each morning.
“Dr. Jarrard, sir, please, it is my business to know my loyal patrons. I can even tell you what you will order today for your lunch. Hussein, prepare our deluxe house salad for Dr. Jarrard. No olives, red onions thinly sliced, with balsamic dressing.”
Sameer continued to engage Jarrard so Murad might understand why he was summoned back into the store.
“Dr. Jarrard, it has long been my intention to show you my appreciation for your patronage. Today and for the next five visits, your salad is our gift to you.”
With this offer from Sameer, Jarrard dropped all defenses because if there was one thing, and only one, he valued more than the scientific principles guiding his life, it was saving money. If they let him sleep in the lab to avoid rent, utility bills and the like, he would.
“Why this is most generous of you and totally unnecessary. I carry the exact amount for your meals when I walk in the door and it is perfectly fine to pay. Your salads are a good value for the cost.”
With a slight pause he added, “But if you insist, your gesture is welcomed as well as accepted.” It is surely about time, Jarrard thought; my purchases were enough to pay for the Porsche the owner coyly hides behind the restaurant.
Reaching for the white bag containing his salad, he thanked the roomful of men and exited to his twenty-year-old Volvo parked in the lot.
Sameer at once grabbed Murad’s forearm and said, “He is the one. We have copied his CAC, the common access card provided to all government contractors, to allow us entry into his research facility at Photon Corporation. This Jarrard is the director of the project we just recently uncovered when one other careless American, a research student, sat here at this table stupidly discussing the imaging project and the development of a more advanced level of human identification using cameras and images.”
Murad, never patient with the obvious, shot back, “Sameer, you brought me all the way to the belly of our enemy to tell me this! We can already be identified by our eyes, voices, facia
l recognition software, sweat sensors detecting our DNA in airports and who knows what else. My anger is raised and I pray there is more to this guess of yours. If not, I will kill someone before I return to Yemen, I assure you!”
“Murad, we are certain! This is something new. When you return from your pizza delivery, you will listen to the recording of the student’s conversation.”
The other men stood silent, terrified of another of Murad’s outbursts. They all knew of Murad.
In Yemen, he directed the death of his countrymen found unfaithful to the jihad. Murad would have them bound down on their knees; leather hoods, filled with a boiling, sticky mixture of thick oil, would be placed over their heads. For some, when the oil dried as they lay collapsed on the ground, he had the hoods ripped from their heads, pulling off skin, hair and even eyelids. For others, he would cut loose their bound legs and arms, and let them bang their heads against anything they could find in order to stop the maddening pain. Eventually they all prayed for death.
The prayers now rolled quietly from Sameer’s lips. Years of meticulous planning led him to Dr. Jarrard and he was certain the time was right to summon Murad. But nonetheless, he prayed for mercy — and hoped his theory held true.