Wednesday, September 14, 6:20 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Majid Alavi eased the white utility van through the open warehouse doors, then watched in the rearview mirror as they closed behind him. Suddenly, there was a thump on the side of the van. He spun around. Then another, and another. Soon it sounded like a storm of hard, meaty hailstones was raining blow after blow on the side panels.

Then a chant began outside. Alavi chuckled as he made out the syllables—Mc-Don-Alds, Mc-Don-Alds, Mc-Don-Alds. He glanced to where Ubaida Saliba was crouched with a hand on the door handle. Alavi nodded, and Saliba slid back the door.

A cheer rose from the dancing, chanting warriors.

“Form up,” Saliba called out. Immediately, the men formed a line, albeit with plenty of good-natured jostling and gibing.

Alavi unbuckled his seat belt and joined Saliba. As the men stepped forward one by one, Alavi handed each a bag containing a quarter-pounder and a large fries, while Saliba pulled a large Coke from one of the six full cardboard drink carriers he had been frenetically trying to keep from tipping over.

For most of the return ride from the last McDonalds—they had gone to four, so as not to raise suspicion by ordering twenty-four identical value meals from one location—their conversation had been reduced to “Slow down!” “I am going slow!” “Go slower!” “Any slower and I’ll be going backwards!” “Just slow down!”

“Allah bless you,” Saliba said to each man as they took their meals. Alavi remained silent, watching the gleeful expressions on the faces of these chosen few who had existed the last few days primarily on cheeses and vegetables.

Ramadan would officially begin at sunset. At that point, Saifullah wanted all the men to be fed and ready to focus on God and on the task at hand. But in the few hours of daylight that remained, he had decided to boost the men’s morale by sending Alavi and Saliba on an old-fashioned fast-food run.

Alavi had briefly considered pointing out the inconsistency of Saifullah’s now providing the very food for which three days earlier he had caused two of the men to be beaten. Prudence won the day, and he had decided against it. He knew there was always a deeper reason for whatever the old man did.

The answer came later in the day. “If you teach your men to respect you, they will go to their deaths for you,” the wise imam had eventually told Alavi, while handing him the keys to the van. “But if you teach your men to love you also, they will still go to their deaths for you . . . but with smiles on their faces.”

The last man in line received his meal. Mission accomplished, Alavi thought. Smelling the fries had created in him a ravenous hunger.

He reached to grab the final two bags for himself and Saliba, but found a third still remaining. Looking out of the van, he searched for anyone not eating. It didn’t take long for his gaze to fall on Quraishi—the defiant one from the first day’s beating—still sitting on his bunk sharpening his knife. The man’s eyes were on Alavi as he slowly stroked his blade across the stone.

Alavi held up the white paper bag. With a defiantly bored shrug, Quraishi slowly and deliberately sheathed his knife and slipped the stone into a small pouch, which he set squarely in the middle of his pillow. Then, easing himself up, he stretched and began a casual stroll toward the van.

Who does this idiot think he is? Alavi wondered as he felt the heat beginning to rise in his face. Many of the men were watching Quraishi, more and more heads turning with each relaxed step he took. Some of the men were grinning and elbowing each other. His fans, Alavi thought. Something’s got to be done about this guy. This whole week, it seems he’s made a point of trying to challenge me and to weaken the authority structure Saifullah has worked so hard to establish.

Slowly, with a bored look on his face, Quraishi continued his approach. When he was about ten feet away, an indignant Saliba yelled out, “Who the—?”

But Alavi silenced him with a raised hand. A self-satisfied smile appeared on Quraishi’s mouth. He thinks he has me cowed. Seems it’s time for an example to be made.

Alavi sized the man up. Quraishi had about three inches and forty pounds on him. Proceed carefully but conclusively with this one.

The big man finally arrived in front of the van’s side door and stood staring at Alavi. Every eye in the warehouse, including, he was sure, those of Saifullah, was on the threesome.

“Hungry?” Alavi asked.

“I could eat,” Quraishi said smugly, holding out his hand for the bag.

Taking hold of the bag from underneath, Alavi lifted it towards Quraishi. But before the other man could take hold of it, Alavi turned it over. Fries needled to the ground, and the cardboard box holding the burger bounced once, ejecting its contents, which landed in an elongated three-layer stair step on the dusty ground.

Never once taking his eyes from his adversary’s, Alavi reached toward Saliba, who deposited a Coke in his outstretched hand. He tipped it and squeezed until the lid shot off, spewing its sticky liquid onto Quraishi’s boots and pant legs. As the events took place, Alavi could see the other man’s expression turn from anger to rage to dark hatred.

Reaching for the final two bags, Alavi said in a low, firm voice, “Get a mop and clean this mess up. Or else someone’s liable to slip and hurt themselves.”

He had just shouldered past Quraishi, when he heard, “Give me your bag.”

“Sorry, no time for you to eat,” he answered without stopping or turning around. “You’ve got work to do, mop-boy.”

“I said, give me your bag.” These words were followed by a snatch at the bags Alavi was carrying. With surprising speed, Alavi brought his right elbow arcing backward, catching Quraishi on the temple. The man grunted, stumbled, but didn’t go down. Using his momentum, Alavi completed his body twist and drove the steel toe of his left boot into Quraishi’s jaw with a sickening crunch.

The force of the blow spun Quraishi around, landing him on his back. Letting his momentum carry him through a complete circle, Alavi slid the knife out of his thigh sheath, dropped to one knee, and plunged the blade deep into the rebel’s neck.

“Astaghfirullah,” Alavi whispered with his eyes closed, seeking forgiveness from Allah. With two hands, he pulled the blade out, then wiped it on the dead man’s shirt. Standing up, he turned to the two men who were nearest to him. They were staring at him with eyes as big as their hamburger buns.

“Finish your meals; then clean this up, please.” They quickly nodded their assent.

To the rest of the assembled men, he said, “A cancer needs to be removed as soon as possible, or eventually it will spread to the whole body. This man has reaped what he sowed. His fate now rests in Allah’s merciful hands. He missed his opportunity for martyrdom and now must wait to see what his life has earned him. Inshallah, he may be in paradise, or he may not. It is only for Allah to decide. I apologize for having put a damper on your celebration.”

Still holding the two bags, he walked toward the office. Through the glass in the door, he saw Saifullah and Adnan Bazzi, the third of the three team leaders, watching his approach. As he neared, Saifullah took a seat at a conference table inside the office, while Bazzi opened the door.

As soon as he entered, Alavi deposited the bags on the table and knelt before Saifullah. “Please forgive me.”

Saifullah’s hand rested on his disciple’s head. “You did what needed to be done. That one has been trouble from the start. It is as Allah wills. Now please, rise and eat.”

Alavi took a seat across from Saifullah, while Saliba sat to the leader’s left. Bazzi already had his meal spread out at Saifullah’s right.

“Are you sure you won’t have my meal?” Alavi offered the imam.

Saifullah shook his head slowly. “No. I’m afraid I have my meal right here,” he said, indicating a plastic Pepcid bottle that was sitting on the table.

Alavi opened his bag and inhaled deeply the warm, heavy scent of the fries. But instead of the anticipation he usually felt at that aroma, this time it turned his stomach. And by the third packet of ketchup that he squeezed into the open lid of his cardboard burger container, he could take it no more. He pushed the meal aside—disappointed and slightly nauseated.

He saw that Saliba had done the same thing. However, Bazzi, who had the benefit of distance, continued to scarf down his meal.

“I’m sorry this unfortunate incident has stolen your appetite, my friends. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

“We’ll eat before the sun comes up in the morning, Teacher,” Alavi said. “That should give us what we need for the day.”

“Very well. Now, let us begin.”

For the next hour, the four men talked through the following day’s attack, step by step, move by move. Whereas on Monday, when they first rehearsed the events, the process was choppy, awkward, with each man trying to figure out how his part fit in, now it was like a flowing narrative—a four-man recitation of a memorized presentation.

When they reached the end, Saifullah said, “La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. There is no power or strength except with Allah. He will determine the ultimate success of our mission. We must simply follow the plan he has given to us.

“Tomorrow, when the gunfire starts, you must observe your men closely. Most will follow the plan perfectly. However, because this is the country of their birth, there are certain things you must watch for.

“There are some who may feel the fires of revenge against past wrongs burning out of control. As a result, they may resort to unnecessary violence and cruelty. There are places for these things, but they must be controlled. Sloppiness due to unbridled aggression puts us all in danger.

“Others you must watch for signs of doubt. Many have mentally accepted the fact that these men and women are their enemies. However, when the bloodshed starts, they may begin seeing old friends or loved ones in the faces of the infidels. These are ones who can be compromised by compassion as time goes on. They are the potential chinks in our armor. We must be diligent in watching them.”

“Yes, Saifullah,” the three team leaders said in unison, while Alavi stole a glance at his discarded quarter-pounder. Time was creating a separation from his previous actions, and the hunger in his stomach was beginning to make the cold burger look more appealing. He forced himself to turn away.

“Now go and get your teams together. Rehearse the plan with them again. Watch their eyes to see which of them you may need to spend more time with. Then pray with them. At 8:30, I’ll lead in prayers and give an address for the advent of Ramadan. Everyone must be in bed for lights-out at 9:30. Now go, and may God go with you.”

Alavi left the office and approached his already-assembled team. He glanced toward where the attack had taken place and was gratified to see no sign of any violence. After sitting down with his men, he looked each one in the eye. He opened his mouth to begin his speech to them but found that he had lost his train of thought. Instead, his mind was filled with the aroma, the texture, the taste of a stale quarter-pounder and cold, soggy fries.

This could turn out to be a long, hungry night.