Page 26 of A Moment Never Forgotten
As though he hadn’t asked a question, his uncle continued, “He was also upset because billions of dollars in assets were frozen in U.S. banks. I assured him, though, that once we took over, that money would be rolled into the Islamic Revolution.”
“Of course. We can make that happen.” Knowing his uncle, that money would never make its way back to the Supreme Leader. When he grinned, he could see his reflection in the window. He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble growing on his jaw. He needed to quit shaving immediately. Where he was going, men were most often judged by the length of their beard, and at the moment, his was nonexistent.
“Is everything in place, my son?” Al-Jamil’s voice had turned serious.
“Yes. We already have men embedded inside of the ten largest crude oil refineries.” He chuckled. “Several are on the security teams.” That had been such an easy feat thanks to the outstanding training they had endured in the Kansas and Washington state camps, with help from his computer guru establishing fake identities and backgrounds.
“Have you checked the Strategic Petroleum Reserves lately?” At his uncle’s question, the man fisted his hands. He checked daily.
“Yes, sir.” Before he could ask, he answered the next question that always followed. “As I explained in our teleconference two days ago, the United States currently consumes 20 barrels of oil per day. The SPR can only produce 4.4 million barrels per day and those are dedicated to the military. Within days, millions of Americans will be screaming for fuel oil to heat their homes, gasoline for their cars, and jet fuel for airplanes that will be unable to fly. As you desired, we will bring America to a halt.”
And that had been his personal goal since Abd al Rashid had been put on an airplane and flown to the United States. He hadn’t asked to be adopted by Reverend Abraham and Ms. Mary. He refused to think of them as his parents and never referred to them as Mom and Dad. He hadn’t wanted to become a Christian, but had been forced into the baptismal tank by his American father, the pastor of a Southern Baptist church in rural Georgia.
He had planned on joining the fight to bring the New Islamic State into reality, standing beside his family. His uncle, Nassar al-Jamil, would unite all those faithful to Mohammed under the one true caliphate. All infidels would be destroyed. The world could live in harmony knowing the love of Allah.
From the moment he stepped on U.S. soil, he’d vowed revenge. The image of his mother and father soaked in their own blood, lying lifeless in the sand, had kept him focused throughout his life.
A year after arriving in the U.S.A., Uncle Nassar found him and explained that everything was Allah’s will. Abd was destined for greatness since Allah had placed him up against their greatest obstacle.
Glancing around his office, he realized how far he’d come in his life. He sent up a prayer of thanks before asking for strength to make it through the next few weeks. There was still so much to do and so very little time.
The possibility of discovery never left his thoughts. He was still angry that Gabriel Davis had failed to kill Elizabeth Saint Clare, but his own men had failed as well and killed her husband instead in the car crash. Killing her now would be even more difficult.
He didn’t have time to eliminate Elizabeth himself and do it right. He’d been rushed when he was forced to kill Marsha Davis’s since he hadn’t researched his victim, he made mistakes. Having Berit Barker inside that group’s circle of trust would help. The woman had killed before and knew how to follow orders. She wouldn’t make a miscalculation. She was too damn good at her job.
He could order Elizabeth Saint Clare’s execution after he was gone from Washington, DC.
That would be just another part of his own personal exit strategy. Long before the first bombs exploded, he had to be out of the country, supposedly celebrating Christmas on a Caribbean cruise. He was booked on a flight to Puerto Rico, the departure port for his ship, leaving in a few weeks. As it stopped at several islands, he would collect cash from the many banks he’d used over the years. In Cartagena, Columbia, he would simply walk off the ship and never return.
From South America, he had several options depending on the success of the grand plan. He could hop a flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil then onto Tehran, Iran. He could just as easily head in the opposite direction. He already had an alternative identity established in Rio de Janeiro. He’d have a little plastic surgery done and recuperate on one of the many small islands in the Caribbean Sea that he’d already picked out.
“Abd, the Supreme Leader thought our idea of attacking on New Year’s Eve was perfect.” His uncle’s use of the wordourpissed off the man. Attacking when most of the United States was drunk and foolish had been his idea alone. His uncle continued, echoing the words he had spoken during the videoconference. “We’ll freeze them out over the next several days. They’ll welcome in the new year under the new regime.”
Continuing his comments from the previous day, the man added, “Perhaps Allah will bless us with an arctic storm from Washington state to Washington DC.”
“Son of my heart, before we begin the revolution, I want you to gather all of my followers in the compounds. Set up those huge screens. You and I will speak to them like we did in the videoconferencing. I want to reassure all my followers in the United States that soon they will be in charge and revered. They need to know that this is Allah’s will. I want them to see our faces, know who you are and that you’re my direct representative.”
Holy fuck. How the hell was he going to do that? Someone, somewhere, would certainly recognize him.
“I’m not sure—”
His uncle cut him off. “I would like this to happen December twenty-second, just before you begin your trek to join me here in the promised land.”
Well, that made it slightly easier. Perhaps with significant facial hair, he would be much less recognizable. Or, by that time, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be gone.
“One last thing, my son. Be sure the gold bars arrive with you.” The threatening tone in his uncle Nassar’s voice couldn’t be missed. “When the revolution begins, paper money will be worthless. Gold and oil will be the basis for bartering. Allah be with you, my son.”
The line went dead.
As the man turned away from the window and made his way back to his huge mahogany desk, he realized that he had not been given the go-ahead. But he knew what he had to do.
He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. “Doctor. It’s time to reverse the memory cap on Matthew Saint Clare. You have until the nineteenth to release the information we need. A week should be more than sufficient.”
“I understand. I, too, am leaving right after the executive holiday party on the twentieth. I’ll get him to tell us where he hid the gold. Allah be with you, my brother.” Sydney Petersen was not his brother. They were distant cousins.
Chapter Eleven
Exhausted, Matthew Saint Clare leaned against the doorjamb of their large master bedroom and watched his beautiful wife. Lizzie squinted, looking at nothing as she concentrated on listening to the voice in her headphones. She typed feverishly then stopped, clicked her mouse, then squinted again. Obviously, she was working on a difficult translation.
