Began before 9 - 11. Now it will never get finished...
He sat, staring into his beer as he had for the past hour. Every now and then he’d raise it to his lips and take a small sip, grimacing at the bitter taste as it grew warm. He hadn’t said much, only that he was waiting for two others to arrive, so the waitress left him alone.
It was the flickering lights that got his attention. Car lights bouncing around from bring driven over uneven pavement. He glanced out through the early dusk and over the small body of water that made up the harbor, toward the U.S. Naval Academy on the other side. A long, dilapidated hanger lined the inlet almost directly across from where he sat. Cars, commuters on their way home, congested the south end of the hanger, turning left toward the exit, instead of entering the half-fenced gate and following the road up to the hanger. That is, all but one.
He sat quietly, facing his beer, but his eyes were on the road. He watched until he could tell it wasn’t a car, but some kind of maintenance van, rusted and dirty. It turned along side the hanger, between the water and the building, and slowly made its way down the hanger until it all but disappeared behind a trash bin. He could barely see the rear of the van as it parked and the taillight as it went out. He imagined the creaky door opening and slamming shut as the driver got out and made his way into the hanger. A few minutes later, with darkness fast approaching, he saw light coming from inside the hanger, a sign that someone was in the building.
“Can I get you another Corona, sir?”, the blond waitress asked as she appeared beside the table, “That one must be pretty warm by now.”
“Oh, uhh, no thanks. My friends should be here any minute now. I think I’ll wait until they arrive before I get anything else.”
“Ok. Just give me a call if you need anything.”, she said with a smile and bounced off to serve another table.
He took a look around the restaurant, noticing the high open ceiling and open structure. He had read somewhere that the restaurant had once been used to build boats – PT boats for the Navy if he remembered correctly. How things change…
This time it was the absence of lights that drew his attention back to the Navy grounds. Two vehicles, military ‘hummers’ it looked like, were inching their way toward the place where the old maintenance van had parked. They had no lights on at all and could barely be seen in the quickly forming gloom of evening. He couldn’t believe it. It was true. His contact had been reliable after all. He didn’t believe it possible that a high level defection could occur here, right under the noses of the US Government – hell – even in their own house! He watched as the two hummers parked beside the van.
Picking up his half full bottle of beer, he downed it in one complete gulp. He enjoyed warm beer – reminded him of home, not like the stuff they served here. He dropped a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill onto the table and slowly made his way out of the restaurant and onto the dock front. It was cold out on the water so there weren’t any tourist waiting on the small skiffs, called 'Water Taxis', to haul them around the harbor. He walked slowly toward the huge cabin cruiser that sat outside the door tied up to the dock with a ‘For Sale’ sign tied on the back. He reached over the rail and picked up the bag he had left there two days ago. Not many buyers in the winter.
He carried the bag to the end of the pier all the while watching the windows of the old hanger across the harbor. He gently sat the bag down and opened it, reaching inside to pull out a three-foot long tube with a small handle attached. He flipped up an optical sight, pulled out on the end of the tube and sat the other end on his shoulder. Looking through the sight, he placed the reticle directly on the end of the building where he had been told they would be. He took a deep breath, held it, and gently pulled the trigger, closing his eyes against the flashback. The force of the missile leaving the tube surprised him. It always did.
The SA-7 Grail missile exited the tube at a velocity of nearly twenty meters a second and quickly gained boost. It dipped slightly and then looked for the target it was supposed to be locked on to. The dark, black, coldness of the water fooled it for an instant until its seeker looked up and its electronic brain saw a much warmer target. It struggled to achieve altitude and came within inches of hitting the water before it zoomed up and toward the hanger.
He opened his eyes and saw the missile dip toward the water and immediately thought “wooden bullet.” He was surprised to see it struggle and head upward. He grabbed the second tube from the bag and as fast as he could he set it up and got it on his shoulder, aiming for the hanger.
The first missile got the warm target directly in it’s sight. It needed to clear the top of a roof before it had a clear path, which it did. A fraction of a second later it came in contact with the target, its velocity driving it easily through the copper and plywood outer roof. By the time it had penetrated into the target, its proximity fuse had reached zero and the missile’s warhead exploded.
The force of the explosion created a thunderclap that rolled across the water and back again. Located on the highest ground in the Yard, the "Cathedral of the Navy", The Chapel, had stood since 1904. With its copper dome rising above all other structures in the Yard, it served as a symbol for the academy. Stained glass windows in the transept, memorials to sea heroes of the past, including four designs by L.C. Tiffany. Underneath the chapel was the Crypt of John Paul Jones, reached through entrances on either the right or left sides of the chapel. The top of the chapel, it's copper-topped structure warmed by the heat of the sun, exploded in a terrific fireball. Brick, mortar, and burning wood rained down for a kilometer around the building, some hitting boats docked in the harbor, causing fires. The stained glass windows collapsed into the basement on top of John Paul Jones crypt. The Navy Honor Guard watching the crypt was nearly decapitated by a large chunk of flying Tiffany glass.
“Goddammittohell!!” he shouted as he frantically put the reticle on the rear of the hanger. Already he thought he could see motion around the vehicles. He pulled the trigger, keeping his eyes open this time, knowing the need to guide the missile. The glass wire zinged out from the spool along with the missile. As long as he kept the pipper on the target the missile would track. But now there were people coming out unto the dock. He was noticed. Some were running toward him, grabbing at him. He dropped the tube and made a run toward the far edge of the dock just two feet away. The force of the explosion almost knocked him back onto the dock. He glanced toward the hanger just as he entered the water. All he could see were flames. He hoped they were enough.
********************************************************
The sound from the old black and white television was scratchy and full of static. "You infidel-build piece of crap! Why must we always suffer because of the idiocy of those creatures?" the young Jihad demanded, pointing his rifle at the center of the screen, ready to blow the image of the CNN reporter to meet with Allah early. But to the old man the static fell on deaf ears. He could hear the voice alright. It was the static he had tuned out years ago. Now if he could only do the same thing about the snow in the picture. He reached up and gently took the barrel of the rifle between his withered fingers. "It is their way of controlling us, my son. Or so they think. By injecting static, they think we cannot hear and will turn the fool thing off in desperation. Such fools they be. I hear perfectly. Listen … listen with your head, not your ears, my son. Close your eyes and pay no attention to the noise…"
They were talking about Bin Ladin again, as usual, always Osama bin Laden. The world called him a terrorist, a cold bloodied killer that financed others to kill. Maybe he was. But he could never be as evil as those that took his land as theirs the old man thought. Those that took his daughters as theirs. Those infidels that took what Allah gave them as reward for placing them in such a barren land. The oil wasn't theirs, nor was the money from the oil. But it was ironic, though. The infidels gave him money for the oil, which he used to buy weapons from those same infidels. Then the infidels were placed against a wall and shot with those same weapons because they were stupid.
The picture on the screen was faded and washed out. It showed a slight and bearded bin Ladin sitting cross-legged in a poorly lit tent, supposedly somewhere in Afghanistan. The old man paused in his duties to listen.
"The ruling to kill the Americans and their allies -- civilians and military -- is an individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is possible to do it, in order to liberate the al-Aqsa Mosque and the holy mosque from their grip, and in order for their armies to move out of all the lands of Islam, defeated and unable to threaten any Muslim. This is in accordance with the words of Almighty God, "and fight the pagans all together as they fight you all together," and "fight them until there is no more tumult or oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in God."
This is in addition to the words of Almighty God "And why should ye not fight in the cause of God and of those who, being weak, are ill- treated (and oppressed) -- women and children, whose cry is 'Our Lord, rescue us from this town, whose people are oppressors; and raise for us from thee one who will help!'"
We -- with God's help -- call on every Muslim who believes in God and wishes to be rewarded to comply with God's order to kill the Americans and plunder their money wherever and whenever they find it. We also call on Muslim ulema, leaders, youths, and soldiers to launch the raid on Satan's U.S. troops and the devil's supporters allying with them, and to displace those who are behind them so that they may learn a lesson.
Almighty God said "O ye who believe, give your response to God and His Apostle, when He calleth you to that which will give you life. And know that God cometh between a man and his heart, and that it is He to whom ye shall all be gathered."
Almighty God also says "O ye who believe, what is the matter with you, that when ye are asked to go forth in the cause of God, ye cling so heavily to the earth! Do ye prefer the life of this world to the hereafter? But little is the comfort of this life, as compared with the hereafter. Unless ye go forth, He will punish you with a grievous penalty, and put others in your place; but Him ye would not harm in the least. For God hath power over all things."
Almighty God also says "So lose no heart, nor fall into despair. For ye must gain mastery if ye are true in faith."
"For Allah is Good, Allah is Great." whispered the old man as bin Ladin's image was replaced by the view of he U.S. Marine Embassy in Saudi Arabia. Such destruction, the old man shivered in delight. The image went from the Embassy to the U.S. Naval Academy near Washngton. "CNN has just learned that suspected terrorist financier O. bin Ladin is now behind this latest act of violence. This is the first terrorist attack in the United States or on US soil since the bombing of the United Nations Building in New York. While bin Ladin has helped others with their terrorist activities, this is the first time he has reportedly been personally active in the action. In business news …" The old man rose from his position from in front of the fire, feeling his muscles stretch and pop as they strained to support his slight weight. "I must go now," he told his son as he gathered his tattered robes around him. The night was a harsh mistress, full of mischief and cold. And he had a long journey ahead, one he did not relish. " I do not know when I shall return…"
Farrak eL Shoman had once been a freedom fighter. Still was for that matter, just not on the front line anymore. What he was doing now was even more important than all the people he had killed or been responsible for killing in the name of Allah. The old man had stopped counting the bodies a long time ago. He received no pleasure from boasting his body count the way some of these young rebels did. To him, a body was a means to an end, not something to stand over and gloat. While he had stopped counting, he could still see them, remember them. His first was an airport waiting room. He had given a dark-haired three-year-old American girl a new doll and told here to go play with it at the gate. Even he had been surprised at the force of the explosion the C-4 had made when he pressed the button. The head of the little girl had flown all the way across the concourse and rolled to a stop at his feet; lifeless eyes full of surprise stared up from the stump of the torn and bloody neck. He looked down at the infidel child and kicked the head under a nearby row of seats. Stupid people, he thought. Leave our land. Give back what is Allah's. He had felt no regret. None at all.
eL Shoman ducked under the flap of the sagging old tent and felt the hot sting of the desert wind-blown dirt in his eyes. It was always this way. It always will be, he thought. Looking through the slits of half closed eyes, he shuffled slowly toward the center of the small oasis village; toward the well head located at the center of all oasis villages. A mummified human being, difficult to tell if it were a man or a woman under all the wrinkles, robes, and blowing sand, pulled a bucket from the well. It was less than a quarter full, barely enough to wash the dust from the mouths of the two camels held on a tattered rope to the rear. “Bastards.” eL Shoman muttered under his breath as he slipped silently into the alley between the well and the tent. It wasn’t long ago that the well actually had water in it. A person could get as much water as they wanted and still the level never lowered. Now, the infidel Americans were again cruising up and down the Gulf of Oman, airbases in almost every country in the region, and military personnel in every port. The amount of water they demanded every day! It caused problems for all living things throughout the entire Arab world. Here, the water in the well had dried up almost seven months ago. They had used a series of secret passages to lay pipe to a pumping station some twenty miles away. Now the well had water, but just barely. No one knew the well had failed.
It was that old passage that eL Shoman took now, ducking quickly into what appeared to be a sand pit. It was a tight squeeze even for the scrawny old man. His fingers felt the hard rough walls of the narrow passageway. There was no light but he didn’t hesitate to hurry along the passage. Three hundred and fifty-seven steps later he turned left and stepped into even deeper darkness. He giggled a short laugh of ecstasy. From this moment on, he would cease to exist on the planet above. The passageway sloped steeply downward from here and he did not relish the thought of climbing the passage on his return. “Goddamned satellites and spy planes.”, he muttered. He had no doubt the infidels used them to keep track of him. They even sent messages over the TV directly to him sometimes… saying “We know where you are eL Shoman… we are coming to get you old man…”. But not today. Not today. Like bin Laden, they couldn’t get close enough to him to harm him. He giggled the little laugh again… and now they weren’t going to be able to even find him.
***********************************************************
Jason Pollack turned left from the Woodrow Wilson Bridge onto a side street that proved to be just as crowded and slow as the one he left. “God dammit!”, he muttered as he yanked the Bel Air to the left to avoid hitting a small BMW that had suddenly decided that the whole universe belonged to it. “Idiot!” he was ready to shout at the driver until he realized it wasn’t an accident that he had been cut off so quickly. The little roadster hit its brakes, slowing down to almost an immediate crawl and then accelerated like a bat-out-of-hell around a curve in the street, only to screech to a halt when it met up with the traffic at the next light. With its engine revving, the driver pointed the little car at the right shoulder of the street and smoked the tires jumping around the cars stopped for the light, then turning right with the Z3 almost on two wheels as it straightened up and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.
“No way… you’re not getting away that easily”, thought Pollack as he kicked the accelerator all the way down to the floor. All four jets in the double-pumper Holly four-barrel sucked air and gas into the carburetor, causing the small block Chevy to immediately began to produce the 350 horsepower it was famous for. He spun the huge steering wheel to the right and jammed the shifter into second gear, popping the clutch as he did. The old ’55 Chevy appeared to leap in the air as it jumped out onto the shoulder. He hit the light while it was still red and slid into a slow four-wheel drift around the corner. The BMW was just disappearing into the ornate gates of the west wing entrance of the White House, “I’m going to find you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch… “ Pollack thought as he slowed and reached for his pass. He didn’t normally enter this way, but now was an exception.
The rumble of the old Chevy was almost enough to rattle the windows of the guard station. The guard stood silent and stoic as he rolled his window down, letting in the stifling heat and humidity of a Washington summer. “Yes, sir, may I help you?” asked the guard. Jason presented his pass to the guard and waited for him to make the necessary recognition. “Mr. Pollack, sir… I..I..I.. I didn’t recognize you, sir. The.e.e.e car and all…”
“Not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” Pollack smiled. “But you can tell me who just came through the gate in that red BMW. I want to stop by their office and congratulate them on such a fine job of driving they have done.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know who you just let into the White House parking garage?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean… I mean that they had permission to enter, sir. And I was instructed to see her through immediately sir.”
“Instructions from whom?”
“From him, sir. You know…the President himself came down here about 15 minutes ago and told me personally that someone in a red BWM Z3 would be entering the White House very soon and I was to let them in without delay…”
“And you have no idea who it was…”
“No, sir. I think it was a woman because I could smell perfume when it stopped for the gate to raise…”
“No idea where she was heading inside?”
“No, sir. Possibly his office, since he was waiting for her. By the way sir, he also said that you would be right on her … er … her butt, demanding to know who and where the driver was. He also said he wanted to see you in his office immediately.”
“Me? But I’m not even supposed to be in town this weekend…”
“Just following instructions, sir. Should I ring and let them know you’re on your way in?”
“Naw… I have one short detour to make first.” Jason said as he let the old Chevy rumble slowly through the west gate.
Jason drove slowly through the White House grounds and into the covered entrance of the underground garage, keeping an eye out for the red BMW as he went. He expected to find the limo they assigned him sitting in his parking space. Instead, he found the BMW. Picking up his cell phone he angrily punched in a few numbers and waited for an answer.
“Hello, White House garage, how may I help you?”
“This is National Security Advisor Pollack. Someone is parked in my spot and I would like them towed. Now. I’ll wait while you come get it…”
“Uhhh… Mr. Pollack, sir. I’ve been told to tell you to that if… if… well… I quote ‘If he’s driving that hunk of junk, tell him to park the damned thing in Joint Chief of Staffs spot and get his ass in my office right away.’ unquote.”
“What the hell is this?”, demanded Pollack. “Every damned body knows something I don’t!? I thought the National Security Advisor was kept up on events… well I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on…”
“Me either sir, All I know is what I’m told. Sorry, sir…”
“Not you fault… I need to find out what the hell is going on. Later.”
Jason shifted into reverse and parked the Chevy into the spot marked JSS Only. He closed the door and gently ran a loving hand over the smooth finish of the high-gloss paint on the front fender. “
Hunk of junk my ass.” He thought. ‘I’ve got more into this that they do for that damned Mecerdes limo they gave me. Worth more too. And a hell of a lot more fun to drive.”
He enter the elevator and punched the button for the bottom floor. When the light came on, he shoved his pass into the slot that appeared in the panel. “Thank you, Mr. Pollack.: came the disimbodied voice of the guard in the security station.
“You’re welcome.” He answered, knowing that his voice print had better match or he would not get out of the elevator alive. The elevator began to drop.
“They’re waiting for you in the office, sir.”
“Right. Tell them I’m on my way.”
“They know, sir. They can see you. They’ve been watching ever since you ran that red light, sir.”
“Jesus Christ!”, he muttered low, “They have a camera up my ass?”
“Not your ass buddy boy…” came another voice he recognized immediately, “… I’m not going to tell you where it is… but I know where you’re at and what you’re doing at all times.”
“Mr. President, Sir, I thought I that was my job sir, to know where you are and be able to protect you at all times?” said Jason as he entered the dimly lit inner circle briefing room known as the office. It was buried below the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, one hundred and twenty feet below the street. Its walls were made of twenty-four inch thick, steel wrapped concrete, with the outer surface maintained at a constant temperature to imitate rock. To any sensor, whether air, ground, or space borne, it looked like the rest of the bedrock around it.
“Shit, you couldn’t find you ass if the CIA tagged it, planted a beeper in it, and super-glued it crack first onto your nose.”
Pollack turned to the figure sitting in the dark corner of the room. “If the CIA tagged it, most likely it would be your ass they found, Murphy. Most of the boys over there seem to have their noses so far up that big fat ass of yours that I doubt they could even see past the pimples.”
‘Up yours, Pollock…” came the retort, “If I wanted some crap outta you, I’d…”
“That’s enough, boys. I didn’t call you in here on a Saturday to trade jokes. Mr. Pollack, so glad you could make it in – even though we couldn’t reach you in your limo, and your driver was at a loss to explain why he didn’t seem to know where you were either…” said the President.
When the President speaks, you listen. And Pollack heard him loud and clear. He had known Tad Jaffers since they roomed together in college. Back then he had been TJ, for Theodore Jackson Jaffers. Today, he was Mr. President. While he could read TJ like an open book, he had a much more difficult time reading Mr. President.
“Sorry, sir. It’s not his fault. I took the ’55 out for a spin while he wasn’t looking…”
“That damned car… how long have you had that thing now… 20 years? Ever since high school? I bet it still runs like a top, too.”
“It was our car, sir. She’s weathered the time pretty well…”
“It’s a hunk of junk, that’s what it is.”, a female voice from behind him. “If that thing can’t get out of its own way, why don’t you just have it pulled down to the junkyard and have it crushed into one of those cubes? You can build a pedestal in your living room to put it on and have a monument to your boyhood past.”
“Yes madam. I surely could do that.” Pollack said softly, not recognizing the voice but hearing the deep sarcasm and implied challenge. “But then, If I were to do that, then who’d you run off the road in that little wind-up toy of yours? What is that, by the way, a Toyota or a Hyundai, I can’t tell’em apart anymore.”
“Wind-up toy? You mean my car? Well, well. We’ll just have to try them against one another some time…”
“Yes, we will… but not on city streets like you just did. Next time I catch you driving like that, I’m calling the cops.”
“Catch me!?? You couldn’t catch a cold in that rust heap… why…”
Pollack turned to face his tormenter…”Rust heap!!? Why I otta…” He stopped short and caught his breath. The beauty of the woman in front of him had caught him by surprise. He had expected to find a waspish bitch and instead found a smiling young girl of about twenty-four staring at him with a look of benign amusement on her face.
“Maggie! My god, it’s little Maggie!!” Jason grabbed the young lady by her shoulders and gave her a shake before pulling her to him in a hug. “My god, girl. When did you get in, and why didn’t your uncle,” he glanced at the smiling President, “tell me you were here? I had no idea that was you…”
She laughed, pulling away from his embrace. “I know. That’s what makes it so delightful. Uncle Tad sent me to look for you, and I saw the opportunity to not only tease you, but also to get away form those annoying secret service guys for a few minutes.”
“Mr. President, permission requested to spank this outrageous niece of your, sir,” joked Pollack as he released Maggie to the hands of Jaffers. “Not today, Jason. Besides, Maggie has been out of the academy for almost a year now – she could whip your butt in no time if she wanted to.”
Jason looked at Jaffers curiously. “Maggie has been assigned as Special Liaison between the British Government and this office. As such, she will have access to this room and the people in it, as necessary. In fact, this briefing is hers. You may start any time you wish, Maggie.”
Jason found himself a chair at the end of the long conference table just as the lights in the room dimmed and an image appeared on the screen. He recognized the picture. “Gentlemen, Farrack eL Shoman is missing.” Came Maggie's flat emotionless voice.
Ah damn, thought Jason, not again.
“Have you forgotten what happens when that bastard ‘disappears’?” Murphy spat out like sour milk. ‘We had over two hundred soldiers in those barracks in Saudi Arabia. The UN is still reeling from that attack, and… we’re damned luck that immigration agent in Washington State asked to search a certain car, or we’d all be mourning the loss of LAX and the surrounding area.”
“I know…I know. But we have no proof eL Shoman is responsible for any of those…”
“I thought your people were supposed to be keeping an eye on that lunatic… “
“We are…and do, General. EL Shoman has been relegated to a small village on the outskirts of Islamabad. The soviet government provides them electricity and not much else. The village is populated by a very old Boudine clan. We counted a total of sixty-three inhabitants last month, none younger than fifty-seven. EL Shoman is now an old man that prefers to sit in his (name of a hovel here) and stare at the television – which we control by the way. I understand we sometimes send him messages through the audio channel, although no one believes he can actually hear them.”
“What kind of messages?” Pollack asked.
“Bullshit mostly – things to rattle an old man – like ‘We’re watching you, old man’ or ‘We know who and where you are’ kind of stuff. He has never responded or acted like he even hears the messages. It’s mostly a joke for the technicians manning the transmitter.”
“When did he disappear?” asked the President.
Maggie looked at her uncle and then at the picture starring at them from the wall. “Yesterday afternoon, sir. We last saw him as he moved from his house to the old well head. He was sighted passing the well and entering a narrow alley. He never came out and our sources only found an empty space when they looked for him about two hours later…”
Trying hard not to interrupting Maggie’s response, Jason waited for her to finish. “Do you believe the attack on the Navel Academy today had anything to do with eL Shoman?” It was a question they all were wanting to ask.
“We don’t know,” Maggie sighed, “we don’t think so. It’s not his style to attack such a non-lethal target. His planning seems to be toward a bigger, more spectacular target; one that really demonstrates their cause.”
“But you believe he’s up to something…”
“Absolutely. He is the single most dangerous man they have. Osama bin Laden may be the financier and get all the credit, but General eL Shoman is the brains behind the actions.”
***********************************************************
The old man hesitated as he found his way down the complete darkness of the long tunnel. Feeling along the wall, his fingers found the three almost imperceptible indentions in the rock wall. He stopped and placed his middle, index, and small fingers of bony hands into the recesses and pushed gently. The wall slid open silently, revealing a small room lit by the glow of a solidary candle. He entered quickly and closed the door behind him, less anyone following him get a chance to understand the room. He knew no one was following, but he took no chances.
“Allah is good. Allah is great,” rose the figure from the only item in the room, a barethread cot against one wall.
“Allah is all wise,” replied eL Shoman. He looked at the figure standing across and thought bin Laden had done well, as usual. It looked as if he were staring in a mirror. “Are you ready, sire?” he asked with reverence of the task the other man was undertaking. “Allah willing, I am yours.”
“We wait, one day. And then you must go then, and may Allah be with you.”
El Shoman lay upon the cot as the other left the room and silently closed the door. He snubbed out the candle using his hand, relishing the warmth against his fingers. He lay in the dark and waited, his heart almost bursting.
***********************************************************
The old man turned down the dark passageway in the direction that eL Shoman had come. He moved slowly, feeling his way in the unfamiliar darkness. He struggled up the steep incline and into the dusky light of the early desert nightfall. Insuring no one was watching him, he moved into the alleyway and finally into the courtyard where a nomad rubbing down two camels near the old well seem shocked to see him. He crossed quickly, not speaking, and finally found the house exactly where he knew it would be. A seven-year-old boy met him in the living room, where a television was blasting static and a snowy picture. The boy did not speak to the old man, but led him to a small but extremely neat bedroom in the rear of the (house???). The old man lay in bed while the boy remove his shoes and covered him with a (blanket???). The boy disappeared and came back with a cup, which he presented to the old man. He took it and sipped the strong Arabian coffee, enjoying the thick, burning taste as it settled in his stomach. He handed the empty cup back to the boy, who disappeared only to return a few minutes later with his hands behind his back. “Allah is good.” The boy said. “Allah is great.” came the reply.
The boys hands came up from around his back. He was holding a Glock nine millimeter pistol. He fired once and a small hole appeared in the bridge of the nose of the old man and a red stain a foot across splattered on the wall behind him. He fell back onto the bed, a relaxed look on his face.
The boy looked at him and bent down to give the old man a quick kiss. “You have done my father and Allah well, and so shall I...” he said before he placed the barrel of the Glock in his mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering his own brains over the opposite wall. The television was saying something about ‘we know where you are, Shoman…' as the boys body fell across the body of the old man.
In the cold darkness of the room, eL Shoman lay silently. Not a tear in his eyes; but pride in his heart. You've done well, my son, he thought as he closed his eyes.
***********************************************************
The telephone in the office rang with an urgent rasping twang. The President interrupted the briefing to take the call. He listened for a few minutes without saying a word, while the rest of the people in the room was silent.
“Are you sure? How can you be certain it’s him? Both of them, you say? And you’re absolutely sure of your information? I see. Yes, thank you.” He hung up the phone.
"Shit." is all the President said.
