Asad Khalil found to his astonishment that he was still thinking clearly about certain things despite his grief.

He moved quickly away from the munitions building, not wanting any further association with that place.

He walked, alone with his thoughts, alone in the world. He said to himself, "My whole family are martyrs for Islam. I have succumbed to a temptation outside the Sharia and because of that I was not in my bed, and I have been spared the fate of my family. But Bahira succumbed to the same temptation and has suffered a different fate." He tried to make sense of all this and asked Allah to help him understand the meaning of this night.

The Ghabli whistled through the camp, blowing up dust and sand. The night was colder now and the moon had set, leaving the blacked out camp in total darkness. He had never felt so alone, so frightened, so helpless. "Allah, please, make me understand…" He lay face down on the black road facing toward Mecca. He prayed, he asked for an omen, he asked for guidance, he tried to think clearly.

He had no doubt who it was that had brought such destruction on them. There had been rumors for months that the madman, Reagan, would attack them, and now it had happened. He had an image of his mother speaking to him. My poor family must be avenged. Yes, that's what she had said, or was about to say.

Suddenly, in a flash of understanding, it became clear to him that he had been chosen to avenge not only his family, but his nation, his religion, and the Great Leader. He would be Allah's instrument for revenge. He, Asad Khalil, had nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for, unless he took up the Jihad and carried the Holy War to the shores of the enemy.

Asad Khalil's sixteen-year-old mind was now set and focused on simple revenge and retribution. He would go to America and slice the throats of everyone who had taken part in this cowardly attack. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. This was the Arab death feud, the blood feud, more ancient even than the Koran or Jihad, as ancient as the Ghabli. He said aloud, "I swear to Allah that I will avenge this night."

Lieutenant Bill Satherwaite asked his weapons officer, "All bull's-eyes?"

"Yeah," Chip Wiggins replied. "Well, one of them may have overshot…" Wiggins added, "Hit something though. A line of, like, smaller buildings."

"Good. As long as you didn't hit the Arch of Mario."

"Marcus."

"Whatever. You owe me dinner, Chip."

"No, you owe me dinner."

"You missed a bull's-eye. You buy."

"Okay, I'll buy if you fly back over the Arch of Marcus Aurelius."

"I flew in over the Arch. You missed it." Satherwaite added, "See it when you come back as a tourist."

Chip Wiggins had no intention of ever coming back to Libya, except in a fighter plane.

They flew on over the desert, and suddenly the coast streaked by below, and they were over the Mediterranean. They didn't need radio silence any longer, and Satherwaite transmitted, "Feet wet." They headed for the rendezvous point with the rest of their squadron.

Wiggins remarked, "We won't hear from Moammar for a while." He added, "Maybe not ever again."

Satherwaite shrugged. He was not unaware that these surgical strikes had a purpose beyond testing his flying ability. He understood that there would be political and diplomatic problems after this. But he was more interested in the locker room chatter back at Lakenheath. He looked forward to the debriefings. He thought fleetingly about the four 2,000-pound laser-guided bombs they had let loose, and he hoped everyone down there had enough warning to get into their shelters. He really didn't want to hurt anyone.

Wiggins broke into his thoughts and said, "By dawn, Radio Libya will report that we hit six hospitals, seven orphanages, and ten mosques."

Satherwaite didn't respond.

"Two thousand civilians dead-all women and children."

"How's the fuel?"

"About two hours."

"Good. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, until the Triple-A."

Satherwaite replied, "You didn't want to bomb a defenseless target, did you?"

Wiggins laughed, then said, "Hey, we're combat veterans."

"That we are."

Wiggins stayed silent awhile, then asked, "I wonder if they're going to retaliate." He added, "I mean, they screw us, we screw them, they screw us, we screw them… where does it end?"

BOOK III

America, April 15 The Present

Terrible he rode alone

With his Yemen sword for aid;

Ornament, it carried none

But the notches on the blade.

"The Death Feud" An Arab war song

CHAPTER 18

Asad Khalil, recently arrived by air from Paris, and the only survivor of Trans-Continental Flight 175, sat comfortably in the back of a New York City taxi cab. He stared out the right side window, noticing the tall buildings set back from the highway. He noticed, too, that many of the cars here in America were bigger than in Europe, or in Libya. The weather was pleasant, but as in Europe, there was too much humidity for a man used to the arid climate of North Africa. Also, as in Europe, there was much green vegetation. The Koran promised a Paradise of greenery, flowing streams, eternal shade, fruits, wine, and women. It was curious, he thought, that the lands of the infidels seemed to resemble Paradise. But the resemblance, he knew, was only superficial. Or perhaps, Europe and America was the Paradise promised in the Koran, awaiting only the coming of Islam.

Asad Khalil turned his attention to the taxi driver, Gamal Jabbar, his compatriot, whose photo and name were prominently displayed on a license mounted on the dashboard.

Libyan Intelligence in Tripoli had told Khalil that his driver would be one of five men. There were many Muslim taxi drivers in New York City, and many of them could be persuaded to do a small favor, even though they were not chosen freedom fighters. Khalil's case officer in Tripoli, who he knew as Malik-the King, or the Master-had said with a smile, "Many drivers have relatives in Libya."

Khalil asked Gamal Jabbar, "What is this road?"

Jabbar replied in Libyan-accented Arabic, "This is called the Belt Parkway. You see, the Atlantic Ocean is over there. This part of the city is known as Brooklyn. Many of our coreligionists live here."

"I know that. Why are you here?"

Jabbar did not like the tone or the implication of the question, but he had a prepared answer and replied, "Just to make money in this accursed land. I will return to Libya and my family in six months."

Khalil knew this wasn't true-not because he thought Jabbar was lying, but because Jabbar would be dead within the hour.

Khalil looked out the window at the ocean on his left, then at the tall apartment buildings on his right, and then toward the distant skyline of Manhattan to his front. He had spent enough time in Europe not to be overly impressed with what he saw here. The lands of the infidels were populous and prosperous, but the people had turned away from their God and were weak. People who believed in nothing but filling their bellies and their wallets were no match for the Islamic fighters.

Khalil said to Jabbar, "Do you adhere to your faith here, Jabbar?"

"Yes, of course. There is a mosque near my home. I have maintained my faith."

"Good. And for what you are doing today, you are assured a place in Paradise."

Jabbar did not reply.

Khalil sat back in his seat and reflected on the last hour of this important day.

Getting out of the airport's service area and into this taxi and onto this highway had been very simple, but Khalil knew that it might not have been so easy ten or fifteen minutes later. He had been surprised on board the aircraft when he heard the tall man in the suit say, "Crime Scene," and then the man looked at him and ordered him off the spiral staircase. Khalil wondered how the police knew so soon that a crime had been committed. Perhaps, he thought, the fireman on board had said something on his radio. But Khalil and Yusef Haddad, his accomplice, had been careful not to leave any obvious evidence of a crime. In fact, Khalil thought, he had gone through the difficulty of breaking Haddad's neck so as not to leave evidence of a gunshot or knife wound.