One Rough Man (11 page)

They held on for four long years, mainly because divorce wasn’t accepted by the in-laws. She made do with the finer things in life, all the while knowing that everyone was laughing at her behind her back. On the surface she had everything a girl could want, or at least anything that could be acquired with cash—cars, trips to St. Lucia, jewelry, you name it. She was only missing the things that money couldn’t buy, like respect. For a Cahill, this was worth more than wealth. She tried hard to get her husband to stop, then tried to adjust her pride to accept her lot, but neither worked.

It finally came to a head when she arrived home to find him in bed with his secretary. Cheating at a sleazy motel was one thing, but doing it in her bed was another. The scene was branded into her soul, still as raw as the day it had happened. The secretary covering up her obviously fake breasts, a small smile on her face, no fucking shame whatsoever. Her husband taking control, not even acting as if he had done anything wrong.

She had begun to pack her bags, telling him that it was finally over. He told her to stop. She told him to screw himself. He slammed her against her dresser and punched her viciously in the stomach, causing her to fall onto the floor. He calmly told her to unpack her things and left the room. She remembered lying on the floor in her own spit and vomit, gasping for air, the fake-tit whore stepping over her with a sheet around her body.

She fled the marriage with the clothes on her back, returning to her mother’s house in McKinney, Texas. The next few weeks were a nightmare. The punch seemed to have done something internally. She had cramps so bad she was left doubled over in pain. Her period came early, and very heavy. She went to the doctor and in the same breath he told her that she had been pregnant—and had had a miscarriage.

Jennifer shook herself. The memories always caused her to sweat, making her heart palpitate.
That fucker . . . I should have . . .
She took three deep breaths.
Quit thinking about it. Think of anything else . . . Think of positive things....

After the miscarriage, her family had been her anchor. She had lost her way, but they didn’t care. They had rallied around her as soon as she had come home. She didn’t tell her family about the miscarriage, fearful of her brothers’ possible retaliation. Sometimes, when the darkness came, she toyed with the idea of letting them in on the secret, knowing they would kill that sorry sack-of-shit with a cheese-grater. Looking back, she was glad she never did, but a part of her waited for the day when she could get retribution. On days like today, when she was left clutching a counter, taking deep breaths to control her fear, she wanted nothing more than to cause him the same agony.

In the end, while it wasn’t a pleasant thought, she knew that the attack was the best thing that could have happened. She had understood that she could never win any legal battles in a system owned lock, stock, and barrel by the family, and that it was the fight alone that they were afraid of. It never entered their minds that something bad would happen to their son. They just didn’t want the embarrassment of the publicity. So, as they had been doing since robber baron times, they bought her off. They gave her an impressive little nest egg of two hundred thousand dollars, telling her never to talk about what had happened. She agreed. She remembered the moment well, thinking she should have crossed her fingers behind her back because if she ever got the opportunity, she would bury the family and sow their graves with salt.

Now, standing in her kitchen a thousand miles away, she had had enough of the hate and fear. Maybe a night out would help. Just because the Windjammer had a bunch of drunken college men didn’t mean they were all like him.

She glanced at her computer screen and noticed she had an e-mail from her uncle. She forgot about the Windjammer.
He’s not supposed to come out of the jungle for at least three days.
Obviously, once again he had failed to find the temple. She smiled to herself, thinking of him hacking his way through the jungle on yet another attempt. No matter how many times he failed, Uncle John remained optimistic. She admired that in him. Then again, she knew she’d find anything her uncle did something to admire. He had gone out on a limb to help her, getting her a fresh start at his own university based solely on the fact that she was his niece, telling white lies that could have cost him tenure. She would never forget that.

She opened the e-mail and saw that it was nonsense. It said nothing at all about his trip, or his return. It was just a few MP3s containing some local music. She found this strange, but not unduly so, as her uncle was always doing goofy stuff.
Last time he came home he gave you a real shrunken skull. Be thankful this is just music.
Whatever had happened, he would give her the full story on his expedition when he got back. She hooked up her MP3 player and began downloading the songs. Her uncle must have thought they were some pretty good tunes if he’d e-mailed them to her instead of just waiting until he returned. With the music downloading, she went to pack an overnight bag.

A
bu Sayyidd was electrified by the story they had heard. “Did you listen to that? The boy found some sort of ancient weapon in the jungle. A weapon that can be used to kill the infidels. What we’ve been sent here to do, we can accomplish in half the time, a month instead of years.”

Abu Bakr wasn’t so sure Sayyidd was right. He was a pragmatic planner, a man who had escaped death precisely because he had predicted and counteracted contingencies before they occurred. This mission had taken close to a year to develop, and he was reluctant to simply throw it away on the story of a native boy.

“Sayyidd, please. We don’t have the time or equipment to go foraging through the forest for some sort of mythical weapon. We don’t even know if that boy was telling the truth. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are.”

Their purpose was to set up a mechanism to infiltrate the United States using the illegal immigrant pipeline already established. Once the cells were in place, they would conduct synchronized acts of terror that would dwarf September 11, 2001. The hope was for a sustainable, repeatable mechanism that would cause the U.S. to crack down harshly on all things Arabic (and even Sikh, Hindu, whatever was seen as “strange”), which would in turn plant a seed of jihad inside the U.S.

Sayyidd persisted. “You heard the description of the death. The weapon is something like the poison weapons we learned about in the camps. Something The Sheik has tried mightily to obtain. We might now have the ability to do what no other has done.”

“What on earth makes you think there’s a weapon in the jungle?” Bakr said. “I’ve heard children with more logical skepticism than you.”

“Have you never heard of the medicines that are found in the rain forest? It’s said to be a wonderland of ancient plants simply waiting to be discovered. What’s the harm of looking? If we find it, we may truly bring the far enemy to his knees! We were chosen for this mission based on our skills and judgment. We need to use both.”

Never having worked with Sayyidd before, only trusting that his superiors had selected the right man, Bakr was suspicious of Sayyidd’s eagerness to abandon all they had worked for up until now. He took a different tack. “Why is your idea, even as fleeting as it is, better than what we’re already doing? The only difference is time, and the fact that the original plan allows multiple blows against our enemy. How will your blow of one time outweigh the ability to strike repeatedly?”

Abu Sayyidd inwardly smiled. He was making headway. He had been thinking about their mission for a long time, and saw the fatal flaw within the jihad as currently waged.

“Tell me, what’s the greatest problem facing the jihad today? Is it truly the far enemy? His transgressions on the land of Mecca and Medina spit in the face of all true Muslims everywhere, yet he is allowed to continue. Why is that? It’s because the true Muslim has been seduced by Satan, choosing Big Macs over the purity of the Quran.

“The average Muslim doesn’t understand the threat of the far enemy. We need the man on the street to take up arms. The grocer, shoe salesman, and barber. If all Muslims would throw one rock, we would succeed. The only way to do this is to show the far enemy’s true colors, to prove that they want to dominate and rule over a Christian empire.”

Al Qaeda’s doctrine, developed by Bin Laden and his leadership, stated that the only way to return to the ways of the Prophet was to destroy the “far enemy” that supported, and in some cases propped up, the godless regimes that had come to power in the nations of the Middle East, the so-called near enemy. The United States was first on the list of the far enemy for its support of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Israel, Egypt, Jordan, and a host of other countries.

Bakr sighed. “Okay. So what. You sound like any imam in our mosques. What’s that got to do with this mystical weapon? How can a single blow get what you want? It takes multiple blows against the far Satan to get him to do anything. The people of the U.S. have no memory. How will you cause this to change?”

Sayyidd held up his hands. “Please. Let me finish. We need to force the United States to attack all of a Muslim faith, without discrimination. To force the average Muslim to take up arms—either for faith or survival. I think we can cause this to happen if we
don’t
attack the far enemy in his homeland. We’ll attack him through his Zionist proxy. If we unleash this weapon against the murderous occupiers of Palestine, we can guarantee that they’ll react in a frenzy. It would be a catalyst of war against their neighbors, which will cause the far enemy to choose between his Zionist son or the pure Muslims. It’s no question who he will side with.”

Abu Bakr was impressed with the logic of Sayyidd, and actually a little surprised, but still didn’t think simply attacking Israel would be enough, even with a weapon of mass destruction. He was intrigued, though, and mulled the idea over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it might succeed, with an additional twist.

“I don’t think the weapon alone would be a sufficient catalyst. We need to ensure the Zionists will attack another. A bomb, no matter how great, may simply cause them to slaughter Palestinians, and that is an old story.”

Baker paced back and forth a minute, then said, “Why not kill two birds with one stone? If we were able to bring about the attack you envision and blame it on the Persians, we could use the United States to eliminate those infidels while accomplishing exactly what you want. The United States has already forgotten about Iraq and begun to rattle their sabers toward Iran. With the Persians constantly talking about driving Israel into the sea and their current nuclear ambitions, it wouldn’t take much evidence to convince the Zionists of their culpability. The attack would cause a major conflict, forcing all to choose sides.”

Abu Sayyidd thought the idea was a good one but impossible to execute.

“But how will we implicate the Persians? We have no contacts with the Shia dogs, and I don’t think they’d volunteer.”

Sayyidd had a point. While Iran did indeed provide support to various terrorist groups, most notably Hezbollah, the regime had little affinity for the Sunni-based Al Qaeda. Bakr knew there were ways around this. “One step at a time. We’re assuming such a weapon exists. I’m not averse to seeing if we can find the weapon, provided it doesn’t jeopardize our long-term efforts. For now, let’s focus on simply getting the weapon. If that fails, we can still continue on our original task. That remains the priority.”

Bakr gave Sayyidd a stern look. “You understand that, correct?”

Pleased at the new path, Sayyidd said, “Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t do anything foolish.”

Abu Bakr went to the back of the room and opened a box. They had brought with them a test case—a collection of items that were not illegal individually but, put together, were sure to be confiscated. If the package made it to the contact inside the U.S., then AQ would continue to the next step with Miguel’s network. Inside the box was a Canon Rebel XTi digital camera, four Garmin 60CS mapping GPSs, four 3M P100 medical respirators, a box of glass test tubes, and two remote control garage door openers. Fairly innocuous items by themselves, but if the box were searched, the items together would trigger a response, which would allow the terrorists to judge the integrity of the smuggling network.

Abu Bakr was disappointed in the packing list. “Where’s the police scanner? The GPS and respirators will be useful for finding the weapon, but we need the police scanner right now.”

“Ahh . . . I did some research on the American laws, and the police scanner we obtained had the ability to scan in the American cell phone spectrum. It’s illegal to import those to America, so I took them out. I didn’t think we’d really be using any of this equipment. It was just to see if the network was good.”

Bakr was flabbergasted. “You took something out of the box because it was illegal? Something that we were illegally trying to smuggle in? What in all that’s holy—”

“Don’t begin to attack me!” Sayyidd said. “We were specifically told not to include illegal items so that if the box was found there would not be a legal reason to pursue its owners. It would simply get confiscated. I didn’t know we would use the equipment.”

Bakr waved his hand. “What’s done is done. I won’t mention it again, but if you wish to proceed on this path we need to find a scanner.”

He pointed to the suitcase holding their laptop computer and Thrane M4 satellite phone. “Get on the Internet and find a local store that sells scanners. One that can scan in the nine-hundred-megahertz range that the cell phones here use. We need to hear what’s being said from inside this room. It’s the only way we can stay ahead of Miguel.”

T
he professor woke up bouncing on the backseat of an old Toyota Land Cruiser, having no idea how long he had been unconscious. He was covered in a musty blanket that stank of horse sweat and moldy hay. He heard the Englishman talking on a cell phone.