Trapping Zero. Джек Марс
To anyone outside the Brotherhood, the compound was merely a commune of orthodox Shiites; raids and forced inspections of the property had yielded nothing. Their caches were well hidden.
The old man had seen personally to their survival, spending his own fortune in service of the perpetuation of their ideology. But now, bin Mohammed was dead.
Awad stood stoically beside the slab that held the old man’s ashen corpse. Bin Mohammed’s four wives had already given ghusl, washing his body three times before shrouding him in white. His eyes were closed peacefully, his hands crossed on his chest, right over left. There was not a mark or scratch on him; for the last six years he had lived and died in the compound, not outside its walls. He had not been killed by mortar fire or drone strikes as so many other mujahideen had.
“How?” Awad asked in Arabic. “How did he die?”
“He had a seizure in the night,” said Tarek. The shorter man stood on the opposite side of the stone slab, facing Awad. Many in the Brotherhood considered Tarek to be the second in command to bin Mohammed, but Awad knew his capacity had been little more than messenger and caretaker as the old man’s health declined. “The seizure brought on a heart attack. It was instant; he did not suffer.”
Awad laid a hand on the old man’s unmoving chest. Bin Mohammed had taught him much, not only of belief but also of the world, its many plights, and what it meant to lead.
And he, Awad, saw before him not just a corpse but an opportunity. Three nights earlier Allah had gifted him with a dream, though now it was difficult to call it just that. It was prognostic. In it he saw bin Mohammed’s death, and a voice told him that he would rise up and lead the Brotherhood. The voice, he was certain, had belonged to the Prophet, speaking on behalf of the One True God.
“Hassan is on a munitions raid,” Tarek said quietly. “He does not yet know that his father has passed. He returns today; soon he will know the mantle of leading the Brotherhood falls to him—”
“Hassan is weak,” Awad said suddenly, more harshly than he intended. “As bin Mohammed’s health declined, Hassan did nothing to keep us from weakening commensurately.”
“But…” Tarek hesitated; he was well aware of Awad’s flaring temper. “The duties of leadership fall to the eldest son—”
“This is not a dynasty,” Awad contended.
“Then who…?” Tarek trailed off as he realized what Awad was suggesting.
The younger man narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He did not need to; a glare was more than enough of a threat. Awad was young, not yet even thirty, but he was tall and strong, his jaw as rigid and unyielding as his belief. Few would speak against him.
“Bin Mohammed wanted me to lead,” Awad told Tarek. “He said so himself.” That was not entirely true; the old man had said on several occasions that he saw the potential for greatness in Awad, and that he was a natural leader of men. Awad interpreted the statements as a declaration of the old man’s intentions.
“He said nothing of the sort to me,” Tarek dared to say, however quietly he uttered it. His gaze was cast downward, not meeting Awad’s dark eyes.
“Because he knew you are weak as well,” Awad challenged. “Tell me, Tarek, how long has it been since you ventured outside these walls? How long have you lived off the charity and safety of bin Mohammed, unconcerned with bullets and bombs?” Awad leaned forward, over the old man’s body, as he quietly added, “How long do you think you would last with only the clothes on your back when I take power and cast you out?”
Tarek’s lower lip moved, but no sound escaped his throat. Awad smirked; the short, jowled Tarek was afraid.
“Go on,” Awad prodded. “Speak your mind.”
“How long…” Tarek gulped. “How long do you think you will last within these walls without the funding of Hassan bin Abdallah? We will be in the same position. Just different places.”
Awad grinned. “Yes. You are astute, Tarek. But I have a solution.” He leaned over the slab and lowered his voice. “Corroborate my claim.”
Tarek looked up sharply, surprised by Awad’s words.
“Tell them you heard what I heard,” he continued. “Tell them that Abdallah bin Mohammed named me leader in the wake of his passing, and I swear that you will always have a place in the Brotherhood. We will reclaim our strength. We will make our name known. And the will of Allah, peace be upon Him, will be done.”
Before Tarek could reply, a sentry shouted across the courtyard. Two men heaved open the heavy iron gates just in time for two trucks to rumble through, the treads of their tires thick with wet sand and mud from recent rain.
Eight men emerged—all that had left had returned—but even from his vantage point Awad could tell that the raid had gone poorly. There were no munitions gained.
Of the eight, one stepped forward, his eyes wide in shock as he stared at the stone slab between Awad and Tarek. Hassan bin Abdallah bin Mohammed was thirty-four years old, but he still had the gaunt aspect of a teenager, his cheeks shallow and his beard patchy.
A soft moan escaped Hassan’s lips as he recognized the figure lying still on the slab. He ran to it, his shoes kicking up sand behind him. Awad and Tarek stepped back, giving him space as Hassan flung himself over the body of his father and sobbed loudly.
Weak. Awad sneered at the scene before him. Taking over the Brotherhood will be easy.
That evening in the courtyard, the Brotherhood performed the Salat-al-Janazah, the funeral prayers for Abdallah bin Mohammed. Each person present knelt in three rows facing Mecca, with his son Hassan closest to his body and his wives tailing the end of the third row.
Awad knew that immediately following the rites, the body would be interred; Muslim tradition dictated that a body be buried as soon as possible following death. He was the first to rise from prayer, and he summoned his most fervent voice as he spoke. “My brothers,” he began. “It is with great sorrow that we commit Abdallah bin Mohammed to the earth.”
All eyes turned his way, some in confusion at his sudden disruption, but no one rose or spoke against him.
“Six years have passed since the hypocrisy of Hamas saw us exiled from Gaza,” Awad continued. “Six years we have been banished to the desert, living off the charity of bin Mohammed, scavenging and raiding what we can. Six years now we have lived a lie and dwelled in the shadows of Hamas. Of Al-Qaeda. Of ISIS. Of Amun.”
He paused as he met each pair of eyes in turn. “No more. No more will the Brotherhood hide. I have devised a plan and before Abdallah’s death, I detailed my plan to him and received his blessing. We, brothers, will enact this plan and assert our faith. We will perish the heretics, and the entire world will know the Brotherhood. I promise you.”
Many, even most heads nodded in the courtyard. One man stood up, a tough and somewhat cynical brother called Usama. “And what is this plan, Awad?” he asked, his voice challenging. “What great plot do you have in mind?”
Awad smiled. “We are going to orchestrate the most holy jihad ever committed on American soil. One that will make Al-Qaeda’s attack on New York fruitless.”
“How?” Usama demanded. “How will we accomplish this?”
“All will be revealed,” Awad said patiently. “But not this night. This is an evening for reverence.”
Awad did have a plan. It was one that had been building in his mind for some time now. He knew it was possible; he had spoken with the Libyan, and had learned of the Israeli journalists, and of the congressional attaché from New York who would soon be in Baghdad. It was serendipitous, the way in which everything had seemed to fallen in place—including the death of Abdallah. Awad had even gone so far as to broker a preliminary agreement with the arms dealer who had access to the necessary equipment for the attack on the US city, but he had lied about sharing it with Abdallah. The old man was a leader, a friend and a benefactor to the Brotherhood—and for that Awad was grateful—but he never