Trapping Zero. Джек Марс

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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 would have agreed to it. It required substantial funding, resources that could threaten to bankrupt their resources if it went awry.

      And because of that requirement, Awad knew he would have to ingratiate himself to Hassan bin Abdallah. The duty of burial usually fell to the closest male kin, but Awad could hardly imagine Hassan’s thin, lanky arms managing to dig a hole deep enough. Besides, helping Hassan would give them an opportunity to bond—and to discuss Awad’s plans.

      “Brother Hassan,” said Awad. “I hope that you will honor me by allowing me to help you bury Abdallah.”

      The anemic Hassan gazed back at him and nodded once. Awad could see in the young man’s eyes that he was petrified at the thought of leading the Brotherhood. The two of them broke rank from the three prayer lines to retrieve shovels.

      Once they were out of earshot of the others, bathed in the moonlight of the open courtyard, Hassan cleared his throat and asked, “What is this plan of yours, Awad?”

      Awad bin Saddam held back a grin. “It begins,” he said, “with the kidnapping of three men, tomorrow, not far from here. It ends with a direct attack on the city of New York.” He paused and put a heavy hand on Hassan’s shoulder. “But I cannot orchestrate this alone. I need your help, Hassan.”

      Hassan’s throat flexed, and he nodded.

      “I promise you,” said Awad, “that sin-ravaged nation of greedy apostates will suffer incalculable loss. The Brotherhood will at last be recognized as a force of Islam.”

      And, he kept to himself, the name Awad bin Saddam will find its place in history.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” said Professor Lawson as he paced before a classroom of forty-seven students in Healy Hall of Georgetown University. “What does that mean?”

      “That you don’t realize it’s only April?” joked a brown-haired kid in the first row.

      A few students chuckled. Reid grinned; this was his element, the classroom, and it felt very good to be back. Almost like things were back to normal. “Not quite. That’s actually the first line of a poem that commemorates an important event—or a near-event, if you will—in English history. November fifth, anybody?”

      A young brunette woman a few rows back politely raised her hand and offered, “Guy Fawkes Day?”

      “Yes, thank you.” Reid glanced quickly at his watch. It had become a habit recently, almost an idiosyncratic tic to check the digital display for updates. “Uh, though it’s not celebrated quite as widely as it once was, November fifth marks the day of a failed assassination plot. You’ve all heard the name Guy Fawkes, I’m sure.”

      Heads nodded and murmurs of assent rose from the classroom.

      “Good. So in 1605, Fawkes and twelve other co-conspirators devised a plan to blow up the House of Lords, the upper house of Parliament, during an assembly. But the members of the House of Lords were not their real target; their goal was to assassinate King James I, who was Protestant. Fawkes and his pals wanted to restore a Catholic monarch to the throne.”

      He glanced at his watch again. He didn’t even mean to; it was reflexive.

      “Um…” Reid cleared his throat. “Their plan was quite simple. Over the course of some months, they stowed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in an undercroft—that’s basically a wine cellar—directly under Parliament. Fawkes was the trigger man; he was to light a long fuse and then run like hell to the Thames.”

      “Like a Wile E. Coyote cartoon,” said the comedian in the front.

      “Pretty much,” Reid agreed. “Which is also why their assassination attempt is known as the Gunpowder Plot today. But they never did get to light the fuse. Someone tipped off a member of the House of Lords anonymously, and the undercrofts were searched. The gunpowder and Fawkes were discovered…”

      He glanced at his watch. It showed nothing but the time.

      “And, uh…” Reid chuckled softly at himself. “Sorry, folks, I’m just a little distracted today. Fawkes was discovered, but he refused to give up his co-conspirators—at first. He was sent to the Tower of London, and for three days he was tortured…”

      A vision flashed suddenly through his mind; not a vision so much as a memory, intrusively elbowing and shoving its way into his head at the mention of torture.

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