FORTY FIVE

Hasham strolled around his ChocoYummy factory. It had served his purpose well over the last six years. The years of searching for the right location to build a subterranean laboratory within striking distance of New York City, and searching for the right kind of assembly plant nearby, and the right mystery substance to blend with the VX, and the right reformulation of the blend mix to make it more lethal.

And of course, the years of identifying the right Aberdeen scientist to help him with the delicate blending process - all his years of channeling his rage into his jihad . . .

. . . would all pay off in hours.

He watched his men stack more cases of ChocoYummy onto the trucks and double-lock the doors.

He smiled at the truck Ask Mommy for ChocoYummy signage.

Then he walked inside to where Izzat was working on his iPad.

“What’s a new product without advertising, Izzat?”

Izzat smiled. “Unknown . . .?”

“And unsold!” Hasham said. “Watch this!”

Hasham inserted a DVD into the large screen television. On the screen, Hasham’s new commercial popped on.

He watched as . . .

. . . a young blond boy and girl, around nine,
skip down the street and hurry into a small
neighborhood grocery store. They ask for
ChocoYummy. The smiling grocer hands
them each a bottle. They twist off the top
, chug some down and lick chocolate off their
lips and grin into camera. Chocolate drips
down the boy’s chin and the girl giggles.

Then the ChocoYummy logo pops on, the announcer says . . .

“ChocoYummy . . . is fresh whole milk with lots of yummy organic nutrients. So ask your mummy for ChocoYummy . . . cuz it’s so good in your tummy!”

“Perfect,” Izzat said.

“Agreed,” Hasham said as he walked into his office and shut the door. He took out his safe phone and dialed. Time to tell Bassam Maahdi in Yemen the good news.

“Ah . . . Mr. Smith, so nice to hear from you,” Maahdi said in Yemen. “How are things?”

“Just fine, Mr. Jones. And there?”

“All is well. Tell me, is our medicine on its way to market?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. And will it be delivered to our patients on schedule?” Maahdi asked.

“Yes.”

“And you will tidy up the assembly facility?”

“A most thorough cleaning indeed. Just minutes from now.”

“Most reassuring, Mr. Smith.”

“So we’ll talk after the product’s in the marketplace,” Hasham said.

“Yes. After!” Maahdi said.

They hung up.

He looked around the plant and smiled. My global jihad begins here now. France and England in a few months. Tel Aviv in ten months. The world will learn . . .

Hasham smiled. He was filled with an overpowering sense of fulfillment, unlike anything he’d ever felt. Just one last task. Destroy the bottling plant.

And Dr. Nell Northam with it.

He and Izzat walked over to one of the drivers near the bottling assembly line.

“It’s cleanup time,” Hasham said.

Izzat and his assistant followed Hasham over where they grabbed five-gallon cans and began splashing gasoline onto the floor. They poured some on the rolls of paper near the printers, some near the bottling machines, garage loading area, and the corners of the building. They spilled more onto some flammable lubricants near the small machinery and computers.

Everything would be destroyed.

Hasham would have preferred to use his favorite explosive: TATP, triacetone triperoxide. TATP was his weapon of choice for his suicide bombers in Europe and Israel. Wearing their vests, they pushed their TATP detonators with such unwavering bravery and devotion. He was especially proud when they blew themselves up during Ramadan to earn greater rewards in heaven. Such devotion!

But traces of TATP found here would shout terrorism. Which would bring in the techs from FBI and Homeland Security. Hasham did not want expert FBI techs investigating the bottling plant fire. They might get very lucky and stumble upon his most important secret from the plant, a critical secret he did not want discovered.

Hasham wanted local firemen - bumpkins - investigating the fire.

The firemen would declare that gasoline caused the fire. They’d conclude the fire was set for the insurance money and suspect the factory owner. But the factory owner, one Felix Frampton, they’d learn had been deceased for twenty-six years.

By the time they realize I borrowed Mr. Frampton’s identity, I’ll be six thousand miles away in a country with a non-extradition treaty with America.

Hasham walked over and splashed an entire can of gasoline near the janitor closet door where Dr. Nell Northam was locked up. The fire would seep into her room and cause the chemical compound vats to burn and likely explode.

It was unfortunate to sacrifice someone with her expertise. She’s a brilliant scientist who could have created powerful weapons for our cause. But a cause she would never accept because she’s infected with infidel thinking.

And now she knows too much. She certainly read some of my files in the lab when I was busy. Critical files that detail extremely important future plans. And she can identify me.

It’s simple. She must be terminated.

He looked toward the janitor room again. Should he feel guilty that Dr. Nell Northam would never see her husband and daughter again? Of course not!

Did she, or any Americans, ever feel guilt for killing his wife and daughter?

“An eye for an eye, Doctor!” he whispered at her door.

The word - eye - jolted him, as always. He flashed back to the last time he looked into his wife Leyla’s eyes . . . flat and opaque as life drained from them. Minutes earlier, they’d been bright and luminous and brimming with life. But that night even the full moon couldn’t animate them as she lay on the ground, bleeding to death.

Just minutes earlier, they’d been sipping tea in their Tikrit home.

He’d said, “Leyla, I’m going down to Abdul’s for a few minutes.”

“You’re planning another attack, aren’t you?”

“We’re always planning.” She worried too much and he wanted to calm her concerns. “But we plan very carefully, Leyla. Then we act.”

“You mean attack. And the attacks always beget attacks.”

He shrugged, knowing how she wanted him to cease all his jihadist activities.

“Leyla, you have nothing to fear.”

But that night, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

She had everything to fear.

He’d stepped outside and walked down toward Abdul’s. He noticed the evening sky had turned dark amber. He smelled jasmine. The full moon lit the heat waves shimmering off the desert sands. A breeze swayed the palm tree fronds. A beautiful night.

A few steps later, he heard a unique whistling overhead. He recognized the sound, knew it was too late. Knew he was a dead man. Looked up and saw the missile streaking toward the bomb-makers’ house next to his. Saw the explosion, felt his body blown over a car and dropped onto the street where a speeding truck missed his head by inches.

His nose was broken and bleeding. He spit blood and sand. A bloody bone stuck out of his forearm. Struggling, he managed to hobble back toward his home. But it wasn’t there. Only rubble . . . and body parts.

He knelt down beside the dismembered bodies of his wife and daughter. His beautiful young daughter, Adara, lay dead, still gripping her mother’s severed arm. He buried his head into Leyla’s blood-drenched body, wept, swore revenge, and passed out.

He awakened in a hospital two days later.

Why am I still alive?

Only one reason made sense.

Allah wants me to punish those who did this to my family and the others.

He persuaded a wealthy Saudi benefactor to help the injured victims of the drone attack that killed his wife and daughter, and nine others, including two widows and their children. But after six months of helping victims, Hasham decided it was time for payback.

It was time for Al Thar - revenge.