EACH HONEY BARREL WEIGHED 110 pounds. At forty-nine kilograms they were easy for Abdullah to pick up, but he had to lift each barrel twice: once out of the cargo container onto a two-wheel dolly, and again inside the building. After hoisting the first twenty, he stopped to rest. Since his rigorous training on the Afghanistan border with Pakistan, two years earlier, he had done little strenuous work. His sporadic weight training helped keep him fit, but not in top condition. He continued offloading the honey, with occasional breaks, until all were moved inside. Abdullah secured the two wheeled dolly in the container, closed the doors, and latched them making it ready for pick up early the next morning.
Now to find that one extraordinary barrel.
He went to his toolbox, picked out an ultraviolet flashlight and began shinning it on the top of each barrel. He moved between the barrels searching for one painted with fluorescent dye, visible only to someone with a black light. Within minutes he found a barrel marked with the shape of the old Soviet Union's hammer and sickle. His next step was to load the barrel into the trunk of the old car he’d bought.
Bashir's story about the insurance woman with a company not listed online, and his experience with another woman pounding on the side of the shipping container with a rock, concerned him. These incidences may be unrelated, but why take a chance? He had unlimited money and must avoid making any error this late in the game, no matter how remote the possibility. He must find a hiding place for the barrel.
He solved that problem by renting a storage unit on the south side of town. The storage facility had hundreds of identical units distinguishable only by the number painted on each door. He paid in advance and stored the barrel in unit 169.
Smith Trading had served its purpose. Abdullah would leave it locked, and never return. He didn't need it anymore. He decided to take a motel room tonight, and secure more permeant quarters tomorrow.
The next morning Abdullah searched for an obscure and inconspicuous place to stay. He found it in a second story one-room apartment over the Up Your Alley Bar and Grill. A place that attracted some of its clientele from the Center City Bowling Lanes next door. The room, accessed by a flight of wooden stairs at the back of the building, smelled of stale cigarette smoke, beer, and cooking oil that wafted from below. The bartender, who owned the building and rented the place to him, warned the nights might be a bit rowdy with all the laughing, fighting and loud music from down below. In a more positive note, he pointed out the Wi-Fi signal from the bowling alley next door could be accessed without a password. No extra charge.
In his little apartment, he opened his laptop and checked his email as he did every morning. Since he only corresponded with Rome, he usually found his inbox empty, but this morning he discovered an encrypted message. Allah be Praised, finally a message from his handlers in Italy. Abdullah quickly unbuckled his pants and withdrew a small leather pouch he wore around his waist. From the pouch he extracted the thumb drive containing the decryption code and inserted it into his computer. He flicked a roach off the keyboard and with a few key strokes watched as his message from Rome spilled out on the screen. He read the message quickly, then went back and studied each word.
Many thoughts crowded through his mind. So they will meet in El Paso–Bashir's place, of course. These names–Alexander Kostoff, Kassar Suri and Danish Maloof–meant nothing to him. No matter, they are the experts that will make his mission a success. The team would be here at full moon. Abdullah checked his calendar. What? Only two days? Not much time to prepare. They want me to find a meeting place. Yes, yes, someplace safe, and remote.
Abdullah found his hands trembling. He needed to calm himself, and stay alert. Prayer would help him. He went to the black duffel bag where he kept his prayer rug, his money, and a handgun he had bought. Unrolling the rug on the cracked linoleum floor, be began his morning ritual. Thinking only of Allah, he felt the tension in his body dissipate.
The rest of the day Abdullah concentrated on work. He decided the meeting place would be at his house in Maljamar. Leased for the year, it was the perfect location. Blind to all who would harm you, as the seventh message directed.
He called Bashir to tell him of the new orders and to warn him of the arriving team members at his house on Thursday. "Bring them to Maljamar. You know the way. I will be at the house waiting to receive our guests. Speak to no one. Guard them. They will be with us for a day and one night."
Bashir acknowledged the plan and added some suggestions. "I will buy food for five people and prepare the meals, freeing you for more important matters. The menu must please their unique tastes, including the Russian. I must, also, rent a larger car. Mine is too small and unreliable. Do you know when these men will arrive?
Abdullah explained they were from 'many nations' and that they may arrive any time during the full moon, "When they have assembled, call me," he ordered, and Bashir agreed.
The house in Maljamar would have to serve the team of three, plus Bashir and him. He would need bedding, disposable tableware, and many other items. Wal-Mart, on the north end of town, would have most of what he must buy. Of course, he’d take the barrel to the meeting. This entire enterprise centered on the contents of the barrel.
He reviewed the actions he must take from now until the meeting ended. Every detail must be carried out with precision. The image of his motor home lighting the night sky with an orange glow reminded him he must prepare for every contingency and expect the unexpected. He added more items to his list of purchases, closed his laptop and opened his duffle bag. He counted out the money he needed, and left his dingy apartment to go shopping.
AS THE BARTENDER warned, that night the floor beneath his feet vibrated with loud music mixed with the hubbub of party goers down below. Enough of this, I must get my mind on something else. If it's not too late, maybe I will watch this game of bowling. He left his room and descended the rickety stairs behind the building. He stepped into the dark shadowy parking lot and started to weave through the cars on his way to the bowling lanes next door. That's when he heard voices. A man shouting and a child crying. Abdullah couldn't see in the dim light, but he followed the sounds. Lit only by a distant neon sign, he saw a man slapping a child–a boy child. The man's words were slurred, but the young boy's words were clear. "No, Papa. Don't hit me, Papa." Staggering forward the man continued slapping the boy, again and again.
Stunned by the act of beating a boy about the age of his little brother, Abdullah, seized with a sudden rage, reached for the man. With one hand he grabbed his neck and pulled him back, slamming him against a parked car. Then, holding his shirtfront with his left hand, he slapped him hard across the face with his right. He raised his arm and struck him again. The man, numb with drink, went limp. Abdullah raised his hand once more, then felt a tug on his pants leg. He glanced down. The boy, his face tilted up, cried, "Please don't hit my Papa again. Please don't."
Abdullah dropped his arm and let go of the man, who slid down the side of the car and fell on the ground. His anger subsiding, he turned and considered the boy, who was not more than six years old. He picked the child up. Blood trickled down the boy’s upper lip. "You're bleeding."
"It don't matter. It goes away."
Abdullah felt the boy's small body in his arms and remembered when he was young and frail. "A man should not beat a boy child. It dishonors his name and his family's name."
The boy wiped away the blood with his arm. "He gets like this some nights. I'm glad you didn't hit Papa again." He put his arms around Abdullah's neck as if to thank him. On the ground the man uttered meaningless sounds and tried to crawl away. Abdullah, feeling uncomfortable with his role as savior, put the boy down and turned to leave.
"Will you take us home? It's not far."
"Home?"
The boy pointed down the faintly lit street that ran next to the Bar and Grill. "It's that way. I can’t do it, please? Please?"
Abdullah studied the boy’s pleading face. What if this young man-to-be was his brother? Would he want him left like this? Even though the boy lived in America, he was of the age of innocence–too young to understand the ways of the world. Abdullah knew leaving him in the darkness alone with a drunken father would shame him in the eyes of Allah the Merciful.
He lifted the drunk to his feet. Holding him upright, he put the man's arm around his neck and held him tight around the waist. The putrid smelled of alcohol assaulted his nostrils. The boy, holding on to Abdullah's pants pocket, pulled them toward the street. In less than a block they stopped near a streetlight. The boy said, "He needs to go to bed, please?" He pointed at an old house.
Getting the drunk up the steps of the broken-down house took some effort, but finally Abdullah got him laid out on a worn sofa in a living room cluttered with empty whiskey bottles and trash. He knelt down, faced the boy, and held him by the shoulders. "Where's your mother?"
"I got no Mama. Just Papa."
Abdullah reached into his pocket and gave the boy money. "This is for you. Hide it. Buy some clothes, some food. Go to a doctor." He stood and patted the boy on the head. He knew if the man found the money he would take it and buy whiskey, but he could not allow himself to become more involved. He feared he might have already let his discipline slip.
Abdullah walked back to his roach-infested apartment. As he walked, he cursed America. The richest country in the world. A country whose streets are not paved with gold, but filled with greed. A country so bent on power and control that it allows boys to live in squalor and poverty. A culture of depravity. With new resolve, his mission took on greater importance.