FIFTY ONE
Near the Westchester Wastewater Treatment plant in Yonkers, Hasham strolled through his sprawling garage, admiring his fleet of immaculate delivery trucks. His Swords of Allah . . . his Avenging Angels . . . smiting the enemy at this very moment.
Even after several ChocoYummy deliveries, the trucks glimmered like precious gems beneath the LED lights.
Hasham walked over to a driver standing at a truck’s rear door.
“Unlock it.”
The skinny, bearded driver unlocked it and rolled up the truck’s door.
Hasham reached inside and examined a sample. Perfect. Irresistible. Desirable.
He nodded to the driver who rolled the door back down and locked it, then got in and drove off with the other trucks to make more deliveries.
Hasham returned to his office, sat at his desktop computer and opened a file. He scrolled through the pages, double-checking documents he’d checked many times. Everything was accurate, right on schedule, unstoppable. His burner phone rang in the desk drawer.
Bassam Maahdi calling from Yemen.
Why call me now? We agreed no calls until after the attack.
Hasham picked up. “Mr. Jones. Your call surprises me.”
“I imagine so, Mr. Smith. But you see, I’m also surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“I hear that our talented lady doctor has left us,” Maahdi whispered.
Who told Maahdi she escaped? Only four people knew and none would dare speak directly to Maahdi. Perhaps my police informant has loose lips. If so, I’ll close them.
“It’s not a problem, Mr. Jones.”
“It’s not?”
“No. You see, the good doctor has already served our purposes quite well.”
“But still . . . perhaps we should consider postponing.”
“Au contraire! Postponing gives our competition more time to discover our plan.”
“Yes, but. . .”
“No need to postpone, Mr. Jones. Trust me on this. Everything is ready to go. We will deliver our medicine on time. Nothing can stop us.”
“But the doctor knows so much. She may reveal our secret formula to our . . . competitors!”
“She can’t.” Hasham said.
”Why not?”
“She doesn’t know our secret formula.” Hasham grew concerned that even though they spoke on safe phones, the NSA might somehow be listening.
“And more importantly, she does not know our secret distribution strategy.”
“Distribution strategy . . .?” Maahdi sounded confused as usual.
“How we’ll deliver our . . . medicine.”
“But she might guess how.”
“Never.”
“Or our competitors might help her figure it out!”
“Not in a hundred years.”
He heard Bassam breathing hard, probably squeezing his fat knuckles white on the phone.
“You seem so sure.”
“I am absolutely sure.” Hasham had explained this to Maahdi several times before. “Our product’s delivery is simply too unique, too far-fetched, and too improbable for them to ever consider.”
Maahdi breathed out. “I trust you are correct in all this, Mr. Smith.”
“I am absolutely correct, Mr. Jones!”
Maahdi cleared his throat, sounding like he had chunks of lamb stew stuck in it. Maybe he’ll choke to death.
“As you know,” Maahdi said, “our friends have invested enormous amounts of money in the laboratory and the . . . medicine itself. They expect excellent results!”
“They will get them.”
“But if they don’t, well, you know how they react when they are dissatisfied.”
Hasham knew a death threat when he heard one. “Everything will be a huge success, Mr. Jones. You have my word!”
“I certainly hope so.”
They hung up.
Hasham felt a tightening in his chest. If Maahdi called back and ordered him to cancel his attack, Hasham would attack anyway. He’d invested too much of himself, too much personal passion into this attack.
The door opened, and Faisal, Hasham’s assistant, nodded to him.
Hasham walked outside and ran his hand over the logo - Ask Mummy for ChocoYummy - on the side of one of the large trucks.
Such a tempting phrase.
He nodded at the drivers.
They started their trucks and drove off, delivering more jihad to Manhattan.