64

LAREDO, TEXAS

Zaid Farooq awoke an hour before sunset.

Slipping out of the bunk bed to which he had been assigned, he headed to the kitchen, turned on the stove, and filled a large pot of water for coffee. He called his men into the kitchen for a meal. As per Farooq’s orders, they all remained silent as they ate, but there was a nervous energy in the air as they tidied up their temporary quarters, headed into the garage, loaded their crates into a white Chevy box truck, and climbed in themselves. All except Mansour bin Badr, whom Farooq told to join him up front.

Farooq pulled down and locked the truck’s rear door, then climbed into the driver’s side, hid his loaded pistol under the seat, and turned the key. Checking his mirrors, he programmed the portable GPS device mounted on the dashboard. Then he nodded to their young host, and the boy pushed a button on the wall. The garage door opened, and they rolled out into the toasty evening air.

The Algerian took Highway 59, heading northeast. Using the vehicle’s cruise control feature and determined to do nothing to draw attention to themselves, he maintained the posted speed limit. Only when Laredo was fading away behind them did he finally relax and begin to speak.

“I am sorry about your mother, Mansour,” he began. “She was a pious woman, and she raised three courageous warriors.”

“Thank you, Brother Zaid,” the young man replied.

“You must miss her very much.”

“I do—we all do,” Mansour said. His older brothers, Jibril and Ali, were staying behind to travel with the second group, led by Tariq Youssef. Mansour seemed obviously slighted at being left out.

“It must be very hard on your father to be alone.”

“Perhaps, but he does not speak of it.”

The moment was awkward, so Farooq said nothing, and they drove on in silence for a while.

Then Mansour said, “I never imagined I would ever leave Yemen,” as he stared out at the cattle grazing and the oil derricks pumping for as far as the eye could see.

“Your father is very proud of you.”

“My brothers, for sure.”

“And you, as well.”

Mansour shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“What do you mean, perhaps?” Farooq asked, determined to shake the boy out of his melancholy. “Your father is a great warrior. And he is one of the wisest men I have ever known. He could have chosen any of his men for this mission. He could have sent your brothers and left you home. But he didn’t, did he?”

Mansour said nothing, just continued gazing out the passenger window.

“Jibril is as brave a young jihadist as I have ever met, rivaling your father,” Farooq continued. “And Ali is nearly as courageous. But you are smarter than them both, Mansour. Shrewder. More cunning. That is why I asked for you by name.”

That surprised Mansour. He turned and faced Farooq. “You asked for me?”

“Of course.”

“But why?”

“Was it not you who proposed kidnapping those three aid workers? Was it not you who planned the mission with such precision?”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Mansour shot back. “He thinks it was you.”

“I am more than happy to tell him it was your idea, when the time is right.”

“He never would have listened if you’d told him earlier.”

“Which is why I never told him,” Farooq said. “But you know the truth, and so do I. You have greatness within you, Mansour. That’s why I want you at my side—especially on this mission. We are about to make history. We are about to be immortalized. For all eternity, every Muslim in the world will know your name.”