Omar looked around the room, meeting every gaze. “I cannot state it more clearly than that.” Then he added, “Mohammed fought twenty-eight battles and organized sixty-four raids, of which he led about half. Therefore, Islam is the only major religion founded and spread by the sword rather than by conversion.”
Breezy raised a hand. “Doctor, I’ve heard that Muslims don’t believe in suicide, like Catholics. So why do all these young guys blow themselves up?”
“That’s a complicated question. The Prophet makes it clear that self-destruction is an offense against God. But He made allowances for the ignorant — those who had never received The Word. I don’t know, but I suspect that the impressionable youngsters who become suicide bombers either have been misinformed by their leaders, or have intentionally been denied that knowledge.
“Either way, my friends, a naive enemy can kill you just as easily as a dedicated one.”
12
Marcus Garvey Jefferson knew very little about the British Army. But he would have appreciated one of Her Majesty’s Forces’ favorite adages: “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.”
From the digital photos and Espinoza’s bogus visit, Jefferson and his two accomplices knew much of SSI’s layout before they walked through the doors. It was 10:20—a time chosen to optimize their one-shot option. Presumably most or all of the staffers would still be in the building before any left for lunch.
Jefferson and his brother Hakeem stopped outside the entrance to allow an army officer to enter. They waited a few moments, then pulled the balaclavas over their heads. They already wore latex gloves. Marcus nodded to Hakeem and their accomplice, grinning as he did so. If the imam’s contact was true to his word, they stood to make at least $30,000 for perhaps five minutes’ work.
The raiders strode across the polished floor to the reception desk. They noted that, as before, a uniformed security man sat astride a stool.
Marcus focused his attention on the receptionist. He liked what he saw: pretty, mid-twenties, blue and blonde. Perky. He liked perky, up to a point. But she was not the gate guardian that Carlito had described. That woman was older, obviously more experienced.
Marcus gave a high, guttural bark.
On signal, Hakeem pulled his nickel-plated Smith & Wesson 59 and grabbed the guard by the collar. The third raider, a naturalized citizen of Saudi extraction, produced a small spray can and leapt atop the counter. He quickly coated the lenses of both security cameras with a thick, viscous liquid. Then he unslung his folding-stock AK-47 from beneath his jacket and dropped behind the counter, covering the entrance.
Marcus pushed his Beretta 92 into Miss Perky’s face. He registered her baby blues, now bug-eyed in disbelief, and glimpsed her name tag. Becky Nielsen. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed Ahmed pistol-whipping the guard into submission. With some difficulty the Saudi pulled the man’s revolver from its thumb-break holster and tucked the.357 into his own belt.
Marcus placed himself into his dominance bubble. He knew from experience that violent intimidation went a long way, especially at gunpoint. “All right, bitch! Open that door!” He shoved Becky Nielsen against the wall, beside the keypad.
Speed was essential now. The plan held that if they did not gain entrance to the inner sanctum in two minutes, they would leave.
Becky Nielsen was screaming. She was certain of it. Her mouth was open, but somehow she heard no noise. Marcus knew he had achieved his goal: the girl was thoroughly cowed. Now he just needed to get her to perform a simple exercise. Speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, he said, “O-pen, the dooor.”
In her twenty-three years, Ms. Nielsen had never confronted violence. Her eyes focused on the seemingly huge pistol wielded by the young African American. She had African American friends; she didn’t even like to say “black,” which sounded too much like “colored.” She heard a loud moan and swiveled her gaze to nice old Ray bleeding on the floor. In their brief acquaintance she had learned that they both liked coffee au lait. That was about all she knew of him.
Something stung her cheek. The skin felt suddenly rough, bruised. Nobody had ever struck her. Never. She was stunned and startled, not yet angered. “Do it!” the gunman was shrieking at her again.
“I… I…” She reached for the keypad. Her hands trembling, she tried punching in the five-digit access code: 19199. Twice the nineteenth letter of the alphabet, twice followed by the ninth letter. She missed the one the second time. A red no-go light was illuminated.
“She’s stalling, man!” Hakeem was checking his watch.
Keeping his voice low and controlled, Marcus grasped Becky by the throat. “O-pen the dooor… or I will shoot him.”
The blonde head vaguely nodded. She tried entering the five numbers again, going slowly to concentrate. It was too slow.
“Do him!”
Without hesitation, Hakeem pulled Ray’s Smith & Wesson Model 28 and executed the gray-haired man with one round to the head. The noise pealed off the high ceiling of the lobby. Becky began to scream, but the fear rising in her throat choked it off. It emerged as a desperate cry of helplesness. She realized that she had wet herself.
“You’re next, bitch. Do it right!”
19199. The green light glowed. Hakeem’s watch ticked through the sixty-eighth second.
“Security breach, main entrance!”
Joe Wolf was the first to notice that surveillance of the lobby had gone blank.
“We never should’ve hired that twinkie,” Sandy Carmichael said. Obviously Becky Nielsen had forgotten the rehearsals for such occasions. She had not even attempted to input the 20000 code that would flash audio and visual alarms to every console in the office, let alone to the security firm that would automatically summon the police.
Eighteen people were present at SSI headquarters that morning. One was dead, one now paralyzed with fear. Several of the eleven men picked up the nearest phone and dialed 911. None of them were armed.
Wolf immediately ran to the rear of the building, intending to open the “toy box.” The walk-in gun vault contained rifles, pistols, and submachine guns. He fervently prayed to Saint Christopher that at least one had a loaded magazine.
In the executive offices, Michael Derringer learned of the threat and stood motionless for an eternal three seconds. Then he strode to his corner gun rack and pulled down a Browning Superposed, the world’s first over- under shotgun. It was a collector’s item, beautifully engraved by a factory artisan in the 1930s. Derringer had only taken it to the skeet range a few times. He would never take it hunting. Now he scrambled to find some twelve- gauge shells — any kind. Four rounds of birdshot beat a sharp pencil all to hell.
Lieutenant Colonel David Main had attended two wars and numerous firefights. He had his army briefcase and a Benchmade knife with a three-inch blade.
Joe Wolf, retired FBI agent, had a Sig 228 in the company safe.
Sandra Carmichael had a compact .45 Kimber Ultra Carry in her purse.
Things were going well. If Imam Mustafah was true to his word— and he always had been — Marcus and Hakeem stood to make ten grand apiece for a few minutes’ work. It was almost too good to be true: shoot up the place, destroy computers and anything else worthwhile, and split before the heat rolled in. Ahmed didn’t seem concerned with money. He was one of those true believers.
