Patient Zero

Chapter Ninety-Two

El Mujahid / The Motorways Motel / July 4

THE FIGHTER SAT on the edge of the motel bed in cotton trousers and a tank top that showed off his huge shoulders, bull neck, and the corded muscles of his arms. He had removed his bandage to let his guests inspect his face and the slash mark was a livid red line surrounded by green and purple bruises.

The two men seated on the couch stared at him. Ahmed, Amirah’s brother, was on the left, his face showing concern for his brother-in-law. Next to him was a young black man with wire-framed glasses and a knit kufi on his close-cropped hair. His name was Saleem Mohammad but was born as John Norman twenty-six years ago in West Philadelphia. He was a graduate of Temple University’s MFA theater program where he specialized in stage makeup and costume design. For two years after graduation he worked on and off Broadway, but eighteen months ago he met an African-American mullah who introduced him first to the teachings of Muhammad and, later, to the more radical teachings of El Mujahid. Saleem had been totally captivated and over the months moved smoothly from a study of the Koran to a more specialized study of fundamentalist politics. Years of repressed anger bubbled up and came to a boil when he saw the tapes of El Mujahid’s diatribes on Western interference in Middle East culture and religion. Unlike many of his fellow converts to the faith, Saleem was thoroughly primed to accept the belief that extreme measures were sometimes necessary in order to protect the followers of the one true God. Saleem looked like an artist, which he certainly was, but in his chest beat the heart of a soldier of the Faith.

Sitting there on the couch, he looked very young to El Mujahid, but the Fighter could see familiar fires burning in Saleem’s eyes. It pleased him. The Fighter was amused by the young man, but he also felt proud of him, of his depth of conviction. For nearly an hour they had discussed scriptures and had all prayed together. Now, their prayer mats rolled up, they sat and talked. El Mujahid had taken off his shirt and bandages to let Saleem take a close look.

“Can you do it?” the Fighter asked.

“Yes. What you want is easy. I mean, there’s nothing to it.” Saleem looked at Ahmed. “I thought you said you wanted me to do something difficult?”

Ahmed shook his head. “I said I wanted you to do something important.”

“It needs to hide everything,” said El Mujahid, “the cut, the bruising.”

Saleem smiled earnestly. “Give me an hour and I can guarantee you that no one will recognize you or see that injury. I have everything I need at my apartment.”

“That’s excellent.”

They agreed on a time for Saleem to return and the young man left, looking a little starstruck at having been in the presence of El Mujahid. One of Ahmed’s agents tailed him surreptitiously though both he and El Mujahid were convinced of Saleem’s dedication to the cause. When he was gone, the Fighter pulled on a shirt and buttoned it up.

“By now Gault knows that I’ve eluded his assassins and that we have the trigger device,” El Mujahid said. “If he was man enough to grow a beard Gault would be pulling it out by now. He must be very confused over what has happened.” He paused. “Where is the shipment from Amirah?”

“Andrea installed it over a week ago, and it is very cleverly hidden. No one will detect it,” Ahmed said, referring to his American girlfriend, a woman he’d converted to their brand of Islam a few years ago. He gestured to a suitcase that he’d brought with him.

“Which version did Amirah send? I tried Generation Seven on a village and it was impressive.”

“Generation Ten.”

“Ten?” gasped the Fighter. “You mean Generation Seven-”

Ahmed grinned and shook his head. “My sister is ambitious and her anger toward the Western Satan is very great. She did not say much in her coded message, but she said that this will sweep America like the breath of God.”

El Mujahid murmured a prayer.

Ahmed nodded to the suitcase. “Your clothes, identification, weapons everything is there. Once Saleem performs his magic tricks then you will be able to walk among them and not be suspected. Everything is in place, my brother, and Andrea will be on site to make sure that it all goes smoothly.” He paused and gave his lips another nervous lick. “There is one more thing. My sister sent something for us. She shipped it using Gault’s own pipeline and it was delivered via international hazardous materials courier to a hospital in Trenton, New Jersey, late yesterday. The accompanying papers and forms were flawless so that no eyebrows were raised. My sister is very clever.”

“That she is. What did she send?”

Ahmed smiled. “Well on the package it said that it was samples for bacteriological research. Something to do with plant blight. And in truth that’s what most of the contents were, heading from one of Gault’s labs in India to a research facility here in the States, but of the twenty-four vials of infectious materials there were two that contained something quite different.” He paused and repeated that. “Quite different, Allah be praised.”

“Tell me ”

“She sent Generation Twelve of the Seif al Din.”

“Do we need more? I thought-”

Ahmed shook his head. “This is not a weapon, my brother. If Generation Ten is the Sword, then Generation Twelve is the shield.”

The Fighter looked confused, and then as understanding blossomed a great mass of pent-up tension left his body in a long exhale. “Allah be praised, all blessings to His name.”

Ahmed reached out and squeezed El Mujahid’s arm. “She did it!” he said in an excited whisper. “We have an antidote. Amirah did what no one else has been able to do she created a cure for the disease. We can release it as planned and then only the godless Americans will die but we-we, my brother-will survive!”

The room swam around him and El Mujahid slid from his chair onto his knees. For weeks now he had been mentally and spiritually preparing himself for what he believed was a suicide mission. He had accepted the will of Allah that he should die from the Seif al Din as he released it on the Americans. It was so small a price to pay to deliver a killing stroke unlike anything ever inflicted on an enemy. Total annihilation of the Americans and an ocean between the wasteland that North America would become and the rest of the world. But now now!

He lowered his reeling head to the floor and gave praise to Allah, weeping with joy, weeping with the knowledge that the one true God had chosen to spare him and to let him continue to fight for His truth here on Earth. Paradise was a wonderful promise, but El Mujahid was a fighter and had regretted leaving the battle with so much to be done.

Tears sprang into Ahmed’s eyes as well and he knelt down next to his brother-in-law, his friend, and together they prayed, both of them knowing that it would all work now, that nothing could stop the Seif al Din.

Nothing.