At the appointed hour, Mohammed and Khebat appeared at the mosque. They entered discreetly through a side door and were greeted by the same welcoming party they had encountered last time, though they were anything but welcoming. These were the same muscled laborers who’d escorted them last time. Knowing what was expected of them, Mohammed and Khebat turned their backs on the men and extended their hands behind them. It was not a comfortable position. Mohammed well knew that some men in this same position lost their heads.
The roommates were hooded, flex cuffed, and shuffled into a waiting van. They did not talk between themselves and they did not ask questions, knowing that any discussion would only result in being violently clouted on the head. Although Mohammed still had a sore spot from the last time, at least his brains had not been boiled.
When the hoods were stripped from their heads, the pair found themselves again facing the same grim row of men as last time. Miran appeared to be the most sinister of the group. Mohammed wasn’t certain whether it was because of the expression he wore or because of the things he had seen him do. That very recollection, the memory of the boiling oil, forced Mohammed to scan frantically for a table and a kettle of oil, which thankfully he did not see. No matter. If Miran wanted to make him suffer, Mohammed was certain he had a full palette of techniques at his disposal.
Miran smiled at Mohammed's moment of panic, knowing full well where the young man’s racing mind was taking him. It pleased Miran. To see fear in front of him was the reward of a job well done.
"Your concern pleases me," Miran said. "It indicates that you fully understand the gravity of our situation."
Mohammed nodded. "Indeed I do. We've been working hard."
Miran chuckled. “Your idea of hard work is relative. I don't know where you came from before this so I don't know if you've ever really tasted hard work. I do know many of our brothers would argue that sitting in a warm, dry apartment playing on a computer all day is not the most demanding of labors."
Mohammed bowed his head. "I intended no disrespect to my brothers. All labor honors Allah. I only meant to imply that Khebat and I have worked intently on what we last discussed."
"Then tell me, what is this flash mob?" Miran asked.
Mohammed raised his eyes from the floor to the terrifying man. He did not like looking upon him, yet he was afraid of appearing disrespectful by not meeting the man's eyes. Mohammed related the story of seeing the flash mob in the crowded square and what his research had subsequently revealed.
"And you see an avenue for doing something similar in America?" Miran asked.
“Yes, but with a profoundly different goal in mind,” Mohammed replied.
“I assumed,” Miran chuckled. “You have made progress?”
Mohammed nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. I have been grooming an individual I think could be the one."
Miran looked doubtful. "I am not willing to approve such an operation until I'm fully convinced you can make this game into a weapon. How do you intend to do that?"
Mohammed hesitated. While he did not have every aspect fully thought out, he had explored avenues for how it might work. His mind raced, desperately trying to pull the pieces into place so he could present his ideas in a coherent manner.
"In the flash mob I saw in the Hauptwache, the crowd eagerly did what they had been instructed to do. They saw participation as its own reward. They assembled without question and completely carried out the instructions of whomever planned the event, which I'm assuming was the man doing the marriage proposal."
"I'm not certain you could weaponize a random assembly of people," Miran said. "If there was anything in the instructions that even sounded remotely dangerous or threatening the recipients of the message would just go to the police."
"My plan would be based on the participants unknowingly acting on our behalf. It would be a ruse. They would think they were doing one thing while actually doing another."
Miran raised a wicked eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the idea. "Explain how you might do that. What sort of ruse could be used?"
Mohammed was thinking on his feet now, figuring things out as he went. He had not been this far in his thinking before but now it was coming to him. The plan was coalescing in his head here under heat and pressure, like a diamond forming from coal.
"In the same way in which the man presented the ring box to his beloved I want to convince strangers to present wrapped gifts to other strangers."
"You have my attention," Miran said.
"Have you ever heard the expression random acts of kindness?" Mohammed asked.
Miran shrugged. "I have heard it. I have also heard of random acts of violence."
"Imagine the two as one," Mohammed said. "Imagine a group of people brought to a crowded square and told they will be provided a mystery gift to give to a random stranger whom they think is deserving of a gift. Imagine an army of strangers who then give those gifts to other strangers within the same crowded square."
Miran could not help but begin to smile, his eyes alight with the evil implications. The ferocity. The cruelty.
"Then boom," Miran finished, splaying his fingers in a semblance of an explosion.
It was Mohammed's turn to smile, both at Miran's eagerness and at his relief that he had come up with a plan that at least intrigued the leadership. "Yes, boom. An explosive device in each gift, set to detonate simultaneously."
Miran stood from his chair and went to Mohammed, standing toe to toe with the man and staring him in the eye. Mohammed’s smile evaporated and fear overtook him at the sheer proximity of the dangerous man. He felt the reaction in his bowels, the deep fear that this man might kill him at any moment, perhaps not needing him now that Mohammed had spilled his idea. Yet Miran reached out and heartily patted Khebat on the shoulder.
"I think your idea is brilliant. Nothing strikes terror deeper in the heart of citizens than the fear one of their own people may be turned against them."
Mohammed nodded. “So you wish me to continue building an ally in America? Mohammed asked
Miran nodded. "Yes. But you have to convince me that this plan of yours has merit."
"How?"
“By conducting one of your flash mobs here in Frankfurt,” Miran said.
Mohammed's face darkened. "I can do that but I do have concerns. We will lose the element of surprise. The unique nature of this attack will be revealed.”
Miran looked seriously at the younger man. "I think it may take longer than you expect for the story behind the attack to emerge. I think we can strike again before the method behind it is revealed. By that time, I will have you out of the country."
Mohammed's mind raced, picturing being forced to return to his war-torn nation, returning to desperation and poverty. "Where will I go?" Mohammed finally worked up the nerve to ask.
"Why, to America, my brother. So you can run your operation from a closer proximity."
Mohammed was speechless. Miran patted him on the shoulder again. "You have done well. These men will return you to the mosque. I will send a man to your apartment tomorrow and you will tell him what you need. The attack in Frankfurt needs to take place within the next week. During that time you will continue to work on the American. Launching the same operation in the United States will take much more money, much more logistical support, and much more risk. I need to see if this can work before I'm willing to take the risk."
"I understand," Mohammed said. “May I ask one thing?”
Miran nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead."
“If my American is reluctant, perhaps an offer of money would help him make up his mind. Am I free to offer that?"
Miran shrugged. "Of course, because he will never live long enough to spend it."