Abdul Rashid’s cell phone vibrated again. He held it up so the man sitting across from him could see it.
Rashid was in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a handsome, angular face. He was lean and stood about six feet tall. He had green eyes, an unusual feature that marked his mixed Arab descent. “The longer we ignore him, the more dangerous this gets.”
The man gave a dismissive, backhanded wave.
“That’s your answer?” asked Rashid. “Are you serious? You know what? Fuck you, Marwan.”
Rashid stood up from his cushion and threw his cell phone at the man.
Marwan Jarrah, a man in his late fifties with gray hair and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, dodged the phone and smiled. He loved the younger man’s passion. Rashid had more than earned the right to be so outspoken. He was one of the very few true believers who could effortlessly stroll among the infidels without raising their suspicion. His methods of waging jihad were often unorthodox, but they were also brilliant. It was why Jarrah kept him close. It was also why Jarrah tolerated Rashid’s impulsiveness and foul language.
Blessed with a Caucasian father and an Egyptian mother, Abdul Rashid possessed a mixed set of features. Those features were such that Westerners never saw him as an Arab, or as being distinctly Muslim. To them he appeared perfectly American, while to Muslims he looked Arab. Such was the magic gift of his parents’ combined DNA.
With family scattered across the Muslim world, he had a backstopped cover for the extensive trips abroad where he studied in some of the most rigorous and extensive mujahideen camps. Marwan had personally witnessed him gun down two Jordanians who had tried to double-cross them in Iraq. Though they had known each other for only a couple of years, he was proud to call Rashid his brother, even though he was more like a son. The man’s experience and skills were beyond question. So talented was he, and so beloved, that he was referred to in Arabic as Shahab-a bright star that illuminates the heavens.
As talented as he was, though, he often could be obsessive about details and got angered when others didn’t listen to him or follow his plans. Marwan attempted to calm him down. “The man doesn’t know enough to be a danger.”
“Give me my phone back so I can throw it at you again.”
“You worry too much, Shahab.”
“It’s my job to worry,” said Rashid as he walked behind his boss’s desk, parted the blinds, and looked out the office window over the showroom floor. “You should worry too.”
“Why?” said the older man with another wave of his hand. “You worry enough for both of us. Everything will be fine. We are in no danger. We will send Mohammed Nasiri back to Pakistan.”
“We can’t send him back to Pakistan now. The police are looking for him. His name is going to be on the no-fly list.”
“Then we’ll kill him.”
It was a choice made as casually as someone ordering off a menu.
“Wow, Marwan. You really wrestled with that decision, didn’t you?”
“Mohammed Nasiri will be a martyr for the cause of Allah. That is all that matters.”
“Did you ever stop to think,” asked Rashid, “that maybe Allah values success more than martyrdom?”
Jarrah smiled again. “Are you about to give me another lecture on our duties to Islam?”
“Consider it a lesson in management economics. We have a project to complete. This project must be completed on time. We have limited resources. If we remove Nasiri from the production line, we will miss our deadline.”
“Not if you take his place.”
Rashid was shocked and didn’t even try to hide it. “I can’t believe it. You want me to be a Shahid? After all that we have been through, you’re asking me to martyr myself?”
“It would put to rest all of the questions about whether or not we can really trust you.”
“Yeah, permanently. I’d rather you continue to doubt my loyalty.”
Jarrah laughed. “We both know you’re much too valuable to become a martyr. Besides, I’d be lost without your company.”
“What you’d be lost without is my ability to move amongst our enemies.”
“You have been a great blessing to us,” the older man said as he raised a finger in caution, “but never underestimate our opponents. You must never believe yourself completely beyond their grasp. When that happens, you will get careless. And when you get careless, that is when you will start making mistakes.”
“Which brings us right back to Nasiri.”
Jarrah sighed. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to bring him in; protect him. He made a mistake, but I don’t want the rest of us to suffer because of it.”
The older man began to speak, but Rashid held up his hand. “Wait, Marwan. Hear me out. Nasiri has been loyal to the cause. He will do whatever we tell him to do. He can still be useful. In fact, we may even find a completely different use for him.”
That remark piqued Jarrah’s interest. “A different use? What are you thinking of?”
“The police want him for his hit-and-run accident. Maybe we can use that to our advantage. We may be able to use him as a decoy of some sort.”
“That is interesting.”
“I haven’t figured the whole thing out, but I know that we can’t use him for anything if he’s dead.”
“You’re too soft,” said the older man, baiting him.
This time, Rashid laughed. “Listen, if I can’t figure out a use for him, I’ll kill him myself.”
“Fine. Next issue. Where are we going to keep him?”
“Give me my phone back first.”
“Why?” asked Jarrah. “Are you going to throw it at me again?”
“No. I don’t want you to throw it at me.”