Memorial Day

Seventy-Four

VIRGINIA

He wanted to kill the scientist, but at the moment did not possess the strength to do so. Al-Yamani was on the couch in the living room resting. The disease was in its final stage. The weakness, fatigue, and nausea were nearly constant. No matter how much water he tried to drink it could not soothe his parched and swollen mouth. His throat ached and his nose, gums, and rectum had begun to bleed. Several open sores were now visible on his forearms, and his top layer of skin had begun to slough off. Part of him, the weak part, wanted to simply fall asleep and never wake up. But that could not be allowed to happen.

For too many nights to remember, a beautiful vision had come to him in his sleep. He always sailed around the same river bend from left to right. The sky was a glorious clear blue, with not a cloud in sight. Boats large and small, some with sails and some with engines, were everywhere. Large groups of people were gathered on the river bank. The mood was festive, and beyond the tree-lined banks he could see the alabaster domes and spires of a great city. The capital of his enemy. That was his destiny. That was why he was fighting to stay alive for just one more day. He wanted to come around that bend in the river, he wanted to look on the unsuspecting faces of the nonbelievers, he wanted to sail right into the very heart of them and ignite a jihad that would show the true believers the path.

Hasan and Khaled would have to be his strength. That was why he had allowed the weak scientist to order them around. When they had finished assembling the weapon, and stored it on the boat, Zubair had made them strip naked in the yard while he hosed them down with water. Using a rake Zubair had then collected their clothes and thrown them behind the garage. Then the little Pakistani had marched them into the house and forced them to take long showers and scrub themselves with soap. Unbeknownst to Zubair, his efforts to prolong the lives of his fellow Muslims would be for nought.

Now his two warriors were walking around the house in the clothes of the seventy-year-old man who had died of a heart attack. The shirt and pants that Hasan had picked fit him reasonably well, but Khaled, who was both taller and more muscular, had been forced to put on a ridiculous track suit that was too short in the arms and legs. The two of them were now in the kitchen gathering some food and water for the trip.

Al-Yamani had seen the newscasts. Mohammed had become extremely concerned when the photo and description of him appeared on the television. The decision to help his old friend was proving to be disastrous. He even went so far as to at one point tell al-Yamani that he had ruined his life. Al-Yamani began to realize that his friend lacked the conviction he'd once had. The final disappointment, though, was yet to come.

Hasan came and told al-Yamani that everything was prepared. Provisions and extra gas were on board and the boat was ready to go. Since no one else was around, al-Yamani asked Hasan to help him stand. When he was on his feet Mohammed entered the room and asked to have a word alone with him. Al-Yamani granted his wish.

Mohammed spoke without looking his old friend in the eye. "I know you have said you would like me to come with you, but I think I would prefer to stay here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Someone needs to stay anyway and watch the woman."

Al-Yamani nodded as if he hadn't thought of that. "What will you say to the police?"

"I will claim ignorance. An old friend called and asked me to meet. As far as all of this other stuff is concerned...I knew nothing."

It was clear to al-Yamani that Mohammed had been thinking about this, but hadn't thought it through well enough. There were certain things he would not be able to explain. Certain things that would put the police back on their trail, and al-Yamani couldn't afford that. They had nearly 200 miles to go, and according to Hasan that would take them approximately fourteen hours.

"I am sorry you will not be accompanying us on the final leg of this mission." Al-Yamani put his hand on his friend's shoulder and the two men walked slowly into the kitchen. The woman had been moved upstairs and was tied up in her bedroom.

"I think I have gone far enough. You will be in my prayers."

"Will you stay the night here?" al-Yamani asked as he very subtly made a gesture to Hasan with his free hand.

"Yes, I think so."

Al-Yamani stopped and faced him. He placed both hands on the man's shoulders and said, "May Allah watch over you." From the corner of his eye he could see Hasan moving.

"And you my..." Mohammed never finished the sentence. Hasan had just plunged one of the long kitchen knives into the older man's back.

Mohammed slid to the floor and died in precisely the same spot that the owner of the house had earlier in the day. Al-Yamani looked at the face of his old friend and shook his head. Even those who had once been brave and great could grow weak. Mohammed was further proof of America's ability to corrupt.

"Go upstairs," al-Yamani said to Hasan, "and kill the woman. Then put the bodies on the boat with the old man. We'll dump them all in the river after we leave."