Under the veneer of a new man, the Bangladeshi was enjoying a cup of coffee at a small sidewalk café. People milled about speaking the language, something he could listen to all day with the pronunciation’s poetic. And he had been reading Le Monde when a man wearing a fedora and wide-rimmed sunglasses approached the coffee shop. He was short and slight and sported a heavy beard that was made up of minute loops. What gave away his heritage was the color of his hands, that of light brown.
The Bangladeshi folded his paper and placed it next to his cup, then he waved the man over. The man in the fedora cocked his head, the man clearly perplexed. Then he stepped towards the table as though trying to place the face, the man limping somewhat from a birth defect, a clubfoot.
“Bangladeshi?”
The Bangladeshi smiled enough to show perfect rows of ruler-straight teeth. “Ahmed, how have you been, my friend? It’s been a while, yes?”
Ahmed Jaziri was a Yemeni who had significant ties with terrorist organizations and was key to operational acts of terrorism across the globe. For the most part, he maintained a low profile by conducting operations from afar by orchestrating strikes against the U.S.S. Cole, the Limburg Attack, the assault on Jibla Hospital, the U.S. Embassy, and was instrumental in deadly hits against tourists. And though he tried his best to stay out of the ‘intelligence’ spotlight, he was still a mark on their radar as a wanted man, albeit as an illegal arms dealer and not as a terrorist.
He appeared confused. “Bangladeshi?” he repeated.
The Bangladeshi nodded.
“You appear different.”
“The miracles of modern-day medicine,” he told him. “New features. New life.”
Ahmed Jaziri took the seat opposite the Bangladeshi and proffered his hand in greeting. After a brief handshake, Jaziri eased back into his seat while appraising the Bangladeshi’s new look. “I see some resemblances to the old Bangladeshi,” he said.
“But not enough to show up on the monitors of facial recognition programming.”
“Smart.”
“Perhaps you should try it, Ahmed, instead of covering your face with a hat, oversized sunglasses and a beard. No one can see you under all that.”
“That’s the point.” When Ahmed Jaziri saw the waiter approaching their table, he simply waved him off. And then to the Bangladeshi, he asked, “You said you had a matter of great importance to discuss with me.”
The Bangladeshi nodded and said, “More of a proposal.”
“One, I assume, that asks for a financial reward to fill your coffers?”
“You know me too well, Ahmed.”
“And your proposal.”
The Bangladeshi responded in even measure by plainly stating, “I have within my possession the tomb of the Unholy Trinity.”
Ahmed Jaziri’s mouth parted slightly as though shocked and numbed by the admission. And then: “You have the Unholy Trinity . . . In your possession?”
The Bangladeshi nodded.
“Have you laid your hands upon them?”
“I dare not open the tomb. But I know they’re there.”
“Perhaps an unveiling is in order before you start making proposals, yes?”
“They’re there.”
“And your proposal.”
The Bangladeshi leaned forward so that he could converse in hushed whispers. “I will guarantee you, Ahmed, that the major targets that you have set your sight on for so long will be destroyed in concert with key cities razed and ruined. With your blessing, I will unleash Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet upon them.”
“At what cost?”
“Five hundred million in cryptocurrency.”
Jaziri’s features did not betray his emotions, as he stared at the Bangladeshi for a long moment. And then: “Do you want to pass that number by me one more time.”
“You heard me. Five hundred million in cryptocurrency.”
“And you think I have such riches?”
“I know for a fact that you’ve raised close to two billion in sales from black-market oil transactions.”
“And you want twenty-five percent of my entire financial operation to fund a campaign to unleash the Unholy Trinity on certain targets, when there are other campaigns to focus on?”
“I’m talking about a trifecta here,” stated the Bangladeshi.
“Really.”
“Cities that were considered beyond your reach at one time . . . are not out of the reach of the Unholy Trinity.”
Ahmed Jaziri looked as though he was mulling over the offer, and then, “I’ll listen to what you have to say, Bangladeshi, before I make a decision. But your words better move me for such an amount. If they don’t, then you’re only wasting my time. I want you to know that.”
The Bangladeshi nodded. “Here me out,” was all he said.
Jaziri nodded, the gesture meaning ‘go ahead.’
“Inside the crypt lies Satan,” said the Bangladeshi, “who will destroy the Great Satan that is Washington, D.C. The Antichrist will eliminate Tel Aviv. And the False Prophet will destroy Vatican City. Three targets that have long been on your desired list and that of the organizations you deal with—the Taliban, al-Qaeda and the Islamic State.”
“And you can make this happen?”
“I will guarantee it.”
“How?”
“I will gather people who will see the three to their destinations. Once the Unholy Trinity is set, then they will wreck absolute devastation in which your enemies will be unable to return to normality in a thousand lifetimes.”
There was a pause from Jaziri.
Then from the Bangladeshi: “Five hundred million is a small price to pay for the ultimate victory, Ahmed.”
Jaziri had to agree. He had been financing small attacks and raids with death tolls minute in comparison to what the Unholy Trinity could do. A massive population of over one million people would be destroyed, and great cities would fall.
“On one condition, Bangladeshi.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want to see them. Tonight.”
“The Unholy Trinity?”
Jaziri nodded.
“Done,” said the Bangladeshi. After he gave Ahmed Jaziri his address, he added, “The lid to the tomb
