31

Sankore Mosque

Timbuktu, Mali

8:20 p.m., Local Time

The Same Day

Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian was puzzled by the nozzle’s inability to receive the proper pressure. Just this afternoon, the device had tested perfectly. Of course, under test conditions, water was used instead of the mercury particles that had destroyed Flight 447 and would soon bring down another planeload of infidels. Using the real ammunition for trial purposes was impractical for a number of reasons.

First, it had taken over a year to produce and accumulate enough mercury particles to destroy another airliner. Working with the volatile element was slow, tedious, and dangerous. Plus, there were few facilities in the Arab world possessing the equipment or know-how to make the production process work. Complicating that problem was the necessity for secrecy. Unlike those fools in Iran with their nuclear program, Abu Bakr had no intention of being in a position to have to claim his project’s use was peaceful. No one who had basic knowledge of chemistry or physics would believe the civilian use of reducing mercury to its basic atoms and propelling those atoms high enough to substantially reduce gravity and then cutting the nozzle pressure to bring them down on the target was peaceful.

Abu Bakr liked that: The idea of striking from the sky. Like the fist of Allah smiting the enemies of His people. Hence, the code name of the project, the Fist of Allah.

Second, the operation was not without risk. A malfunction or miscalculation could bring the entire mass of atomic-size mercury particles down on this very mosque. Abu Bakr was a devout Moslem, but he was no fanatic willing to sacrifice his life for a cause. That cause needed scientists like him, not jihadists willing to die for an unverified promise of seventy-two virgins. No, he could advance the cause of the Second Caliphate, the expulsion of the infidel Zionists from this part of the world, or whatever, much more effectively with science than an explosives belt.

That risk had been the reason he supposed Moustaph had chosen this place, whose very name was synonymous with obscure places.

It had not always been so. The courtyard of this mosque had been laid out in the eighth or ninth century. The present building dated back to the fourteenth. On the southern periphery of the Sahara Desert, Timbuktu had been a center of commerce and trading then, crossroads for the treasure of Africa to begin its journey to Europe and Asia. The city had been a center for learning, also. This mosque was one of three that had become a madrassa, a Moslem school. The Sankore Mosque had gone on to become not just a place for study of the Koran, but of science and mathematics as well.

That also might have been a reason for Moustaph’s choice.

Another might have been the unique minarets of the mosque. Instead of the needle with the bulging top common to most such places of worship, this one had thin pyramids towering above its walls, almost a custom fit for the giant nozzle.

Abu Bakr smiled. Even if the infidel should discover the existence of the weapon, the idiots would shrink from the prospect of damaging a UNESCO World Heritage site, as was the Sankore Mosque and all of Timbuktu. The infidel held places and things above Allah’s law.

The sound of a door opening at the bottom of the stairs that led to this room made him forget his thoughts. It was past the time for the Maghrib, the prayer said after sunset, and not yet time for the Isha, the call to the final of the day’s five prayers, so there could be only one person to whom the ascending footsteps belonged.

Abu Bakr hurried to undo the lock in response to the brisk knock on the door. Outside stood a man of indeterminate age, although his beard was more white than black. He wore the traditional Moslem clothing: a taqiyah, the small brimless hat; a thobe, the collarless long-sleeved robe, splattered with mud; and sandals caked with it. His only distinguishing features were a scar on his right cheek and eyes that seemed to burn with a light from within with such intensity that Abu Bakr found it uncomfortable to look the man in the eye when addressing him.

Mahomet Moustaph, now the most wanted terrorist in the world.

“Peace be upon you,” the newcomer said, giving the traditional Islamic greeting as he crossed the threshold.

Abu Bakr shot a quick glance down the steps, verifying Moustaph had not come alone. At least two figures stood in the shadows.

He gave the traditional response. “And may Allah’s blessing be upon you.”

Moustaph wasted no more time on the niceties. Crossing the room, he stood before the nozzle, an object shaped like what one might find on the business end of a fire hose. This nozzle, though, was the size of a mini bus and rested on a steel gantry, which had been assembled from pieces small enough to be smuggled into the mosque under coats, robes, or other exterior clothing. The mosque’s imam knew what was going on in the northwest minaret, but few, if any, of his congregation did.

Moustaph noted Abu Bakr’s stare at the muddy footprints he was leaving. “Mashā’ Allāh, it is God’s will. The river floods; the streets’ dirt has become mud.”

He was referring to the annual late-fall flooding of the Niger River Delta reaching Mali in January. It was paradoxical that an area so close to the world’s largest desert would flood.

Abu Bakr shrugged, a matter of no concern. “The reason I sent for you, Sidi, is that there is a difficulty.”

If possible, Moustaph’s eyes grew even brighter. “Explain.”

Abu Bakr indicated a low table surrounded by cushions. A teapot and several glasses were arranged on its top.

Moustaph shook his head, rudely declining this basic Arab hospitality. He was known as a man with little patience for time-consuming customs. Rumor had it he had become even more brusque since his escape from the infidels. Many an elderly mullah took umbrage at what could be perceived as rudeness. Like a number of the younger jihadists, Abu Bakr believed custom and ritual got in the way of efficiency too often. The time for manners and the old ways would return when the devil himself—in the form of the United States and its imp, Israel—were wiped from the face of the earth.

So he answered the question on his feet instead of seated with a glass of tea in his hand. “It is the nozzle. For some reason, we are losing pressure.”

“You have checked the equipment below, to which it is attached.”

A statement, not a question.

“Of course, Sidi. All works as it should. The problem lies between the moving parts that create pressure and the hose itself.”

“A fitting?”

“Checked thoroughly.”

Moustaph caressed his beard in silence for a moment. “You have consulted an engineer?”

Abu Bakr tried with only modest success to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I am an engineer, a graduate of MIT in Boston.”

The other man could not have been less impressed. “Then find an engineer from a good Moslem university, one who knows his Koran as well as his calculus. Make no mistake about it: In six days, we will bring down an infidel aircraft, a very special infidel aircraft. In shā’ Allāh, if Allah wills it.”