The Brotherhood

By Frank Stopa

The Brotherhood for the Jihad enters the world of Global Jihad by derailing an international communications plan and kidnapping its American backer. When one of the kidnappers and his target are marooned in the mountains of Colorado, the two must rely on one another for survival while both sides race toward a dramatic rescue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Stopa
• Release date: Aug 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476112374

Frank Stopa

Frank Stopa is a former intelligence officer who has negotiated and worked successfully with law enforcement, intelligence and military services worldwide. In addition to his writing pursuits, he is currently engaged in training police officers across the United States in homeland security issues.

Book preview

Chapter 1

August 1, Northern Yemen

You have been chosen for a historic mission, announced Walid to the seven jihadist trainees clustered together in the Yemeni desert north of the Hadramaut. Two trusted brothers flanked him, men proven in battle against the infidel. As the intense summer heat radiated up from the sand, they listened intently. It is a mission that will put you to the test! …in the land of the American infidel!

Mustafa, the youngest of the Arab fighters, perked up. Could this signal the end of our training? Could this mean we’ll finally see action?

A wave of euphoria surged through him, as he realized he would finally embark on his jihad against the crusading Americans. After all the time he’d suffered in that depraved country, after the countless months of training here and in Afghanistan, he was finally going to strike a blow against his enemies. He was going to kill Americans!

The men congratulated each other, laughing jovially and slapping each other on the back. They speculated on their mission, where they would be going, who they’d be fighting. None of them had paid the slightest attention to how Walid, a slender, lithe man of five and a half feet tall, had maneuvered himself behind Mohammad, who was resting comfortably against a small outcropping of rock no more than ten feet away. None of them had noticed the Czech-made Makarov pistol Walid had eased silently from its holster. None of them had recognized that moments before, his two instructors, Ridhouan and Karim, had quietly positioned themselves behind the group, their fingers poised on the triggers of their Kalashnikovs, ready to quash any dissent.

Without warning, without emotion, Walid raised the Makarov to the back of Mohammad’s head and fired one perfect killing shot into the back of his skull. The jihadist’s face exploded before their eyes, spattering blood, shards of bone, and brain all over them. His head slumped forward, the body seated right where Walid had unceremoniously ended his life. Karim and Ridhouan stood silent throughout, their eyes scanning the seven trainees for indications one of them might oppose Walid.

And then, almost simultaneously, Mustafa and Kamal stood from their places in the sand. They each trained their Kalashnikovs on Walid. Neither of the two men could explain why they’d stood; it was an instinct deep down inside each man that urged him to stand up for his fallen comrade. Karim and Ridhouan sparked to attention, training their weapons on the two dissenters, prepared to kill them in a hail of automatic weapons fire. Walid waved them off. Mustafa, puzzled, glanced quickly behind him and saw the two instructors covering them.

Something is wrong here, Mustafa thought to himself.

Kamal spoke up first, rising indignantly from the sand. What are you doing? Kamal screamed at Walid, demanding an explanation, his hands now clearly at his side, away from his weapon, tears welling up in his eyes. Why did you do that? He was the best of us! He was the most committed of us!

Mustafa let his hands fall to his sides as well, his Kalashnikov hanging by its shoulder strap, his body trembling with fear. He realized he’d just put his life at terrible risk. He’d stood up to oppose Walid, but after a moment, he shrunk back away in fear, subconsciously signaling to Walid that he was no longer a threat.

Walid responded instantly to the uprising and fired one more shot from his Makarov in the air just over Kamal’s head. Mustafa could feel the pressure wave in front of the bullet burst against his eardrums. Walid had efficiently and cruelly reestablished control over the shocked trainees.

Sit down! Both of you, sit down, and shut up! Walid ordered.

Timidly, Mustafa and Kamal eased themselves down to the dirt, submitting to his domination. The horrified men were stunned, staring silently at Mohammad’s lifeless, faceless body, a massive flow of blood soaking into the front of his desert camouflage tunic. They didn’t know what to think. He’d been the perfect trainee. He’d followed every order and had learned every lesson. He was committed to the Ikhwan. He was committed to the jihad. He was a good friend. He had been a good friend. If he could be singled out for this kind of punishment, what could happen to them!

This is a lesson for you all! Walid emphasized with his booming, commanding voice. "The Ikhwan Al-Jihad, the Brotherhood for the Jihad, will not tolerate anything less than total submission! Your brother did not comply! He suffered God’s wrath!"

What they couldn’t know was that Walid had singled out Mohammad specifically because he was the faultless trainee, because he was committed, because he was willing to give his life. He’d done everything he was commanded to do. He was the perfect object lesson, and that lesson was: No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you do not matter! You are a pawn in the great struggle between Islam and the Infidel! You will sacrifice yourself as needed for the cause. No more, no less!

The seven disheartened Ikhwan trainees trudged back to their desert training camp with their commander and instructors as the midday heat reached its zenith. The temperature soared well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in this sun-baked, inhospitable desert, as the men begrudgingly left Mohammad behind. It wouldn’t be long before for the buzzards identified the body slumped over in the sand. There would be no Muslim burial for him, rather the dishonor of dying alone, unwashed, and unmourned on the edge of the Rub Al-Khali, the infamous Empty Quarter.

Get up! Move out! We have a long march ahead of us! Get up! Move out! commanded Walid repetitively.

Karim and Ridhouan rousted the men, prodding them forward at rifle point. Mindlessly, they set out on the long march back to camp, mechanically willing their boots forward one step ahead of the next. At this moment, the jihadists were intellectually incapable of grasping what had just happened. Walid had placed them into a perfectly compliant state; all they could do was to follow orders.

Mustafa was dazed. He’d never seen a man killed in cold blood before. Perspiration poured from his forehead, ran down his back, and soaked his shirt, the putrid smell of fear emanating from his body. His throat tightened, forcing his breathing to become more rapid, shallower. He felt sick to his stomach and began to hyperventilate. His body was dangerously close to going into shock. His mind was on the edge of panic, a flurry of disconnected thoughts racing across his consciousness.

How could Walid do this? What had Mohammad done? What am I doing here? Walid was brutal! Oh God, the sand is burning through my boots! Why did he have to shoot Mohammad? Where am I? Why didn’t the other instructors do anything about it? If the Ikhwan wanted me for its struggle, why are they killing a good Muslim volunteer like Mohammad? How could this be happening?

Mustafa was confused, but that really didn’t matter now. As the salty perspiration stung his eyes, the most visceral of his physical instincts took over. He struggled to match Karim’s pace. He had to keep going. There was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t want to end up like Mohammad. He’d have to focus on surviving this day. Only then could he think about what had just happened, or how he’d respond.

Karim, the tallest and largest of the instructors, was a behemoth at six feet three inches tall, and 280 pounds. He was a giant of a man, the strongest fighter in the camp, the most feared opponent in hand-to-hand combat. And worse, he was now proving himself to be relentless on the march, setting a furious pace. Mustafa couldn’t fathom how such a big man could march so fast. After Mohammad’s execution, the last thing Mustafa wanted was to fail Walid. He was sure Karim would be waiting.

Ridhouan, the other instructor, was also ever present on the march, but not because of his physical prowess; he was of average build and weight. He brought a distinctly sadistic slant to the physical and psychological stress the trainees were now enduring. Initially, he’d carried off Mohammad’s pack and weapon in addition to his own; nobody would be foolish enough to leave a perfectly good weapon and pack in the desert. A kilometer or so into their return, he singled out Mustafa as another object lesson. He bolted ahead of the sinewy single file, now strung out across a hundred yards of sand, and turned, looking each trainee square in the face, increasing their distress. As Mustafa filed by, Ridhouan lifted the backpack to his chest and heaved it straight into Mustafa’s face, knowing full well he’d stumble and fall.

Get up! he screamed harshly at Mustafa. If you are so concerned about the scum back there, you can carry his pack! You can carry his rifle! Get up!

Mustafa struggled to his feet as Ridhouan, standing directly over him now, forced the extra Kalashnikov into his chest. The burden the young trainee had to shoulder was something near eighty pounds. Mustafa, feeling his weight shift backward, hunched forward to balance the extra weight. He said nothing.

Move, move, move! Ridhouan shouted again. Get back into your position in line, now!

Walid made sure the trainees had no time to think clearly, to express any emotion about what had happened. As soon as he’d executed Mohammad, as soon as he’d imposed his lesson, he stood them up to begin their six-hour march back to camp. He’d forced a pace that ensured they could only focus their thoughts on surviving the march. He’d reinforced his will with a loud, intense voice that pierced the silence of the desert at irregular intervals to chastise the men, to keep them off balance. Along with the intense physical intimidation provided by Karim and Ridhouan, Walid had quickly and successfully maneuvered them into a state of total fear: exactly what he wanted as he prepared them for operations.

Walid had also taken note of Kamal and Mustafa’s protests. Each man had shown some individuality, some concern for his brothers, some leadership. Kamal had spoken up. Walid knew he would brutally exploit these men and that they’d probably all die believing they were making a difference. Still, they needed a leader to rally around, and Kamal might be the perfect man for the job. Mustafa, on the other hand, was younger. He was naïve, still too idealistic. He hadn’t become cynical enough to make judgments that would ensure the survival of the men and the accomplishment of their mission. If he survived this mission, he might become a leader, but not yet.

As the men made their way through the barren Yemeni landscape, they passed one dusty tribal village after another, each scraping out a meager existence—or not—in accordance with their ability to protect scarce water sources. Each time, they were greeted by playful bands of children looking for handouts, followed by armed villagers inquiring about their course of travel, wanting to rule them out as enemies. Each time, Walid would talk with the men, advising them that they were guests in the Wadi, enjoying the hospitality of one of their local tribal patriarchs. Each time, the remaining villagers, young and old, would quickly turn out, applauding the trainees for their commitment to jihad, offering them fresh, sweet water. Then, they’d leave them to continue on their way.

This part of the Yemen was sparsely dotted with these villages. This was the tribal land called the Wadi Hadramaut, known for its adherence to strict Wahhabi Islam and its complete and utter disdain for the central political control from Sana’a. This was the ancestral home of Al-Qaeda’s Usama bin Laden, as well as the migratory source of the radical ideology of the Southeast Asian Jema’a Islammiya. In the aftermath of the destruction of the jihadist training camps in Afghanistan and the relentless hunting of Bin Laden in Pakistan, the Wadi Hadramaut had become a prime, though little known, training ground for the Brotherhood.

What better place could there be to prepare these men for their upcoming jihad against the American infidels? It was from the Hadramaut that Walid had forged the team with which Mustafa would fight. And it was from the Hadramaut that Walid would launch his teams into the Americans’ heartland, making the Ikhwan’s explosive entry onto the international political landscape. Now, it was only a matter of time.

Chapter 2

December 5, Dubai, United Arab Emirates


The Convention Centre at the Dubai World Trade Center was abuzz with activity as Arab and Western diplomats, businessmen, and journalists from far and wide maneuvered through the sea of people. Some jostled for position to assure they’d have their say, while others simply wanted to witness history. The Dubai Initiative was up for approval at this special session of Arab League’s Telecommunications Committee.

At the back of the room sat an exhausted David Hamilton, CEO of Hamilton Communications Corporation—HCC. For two years, he’d lobbied tirelessly for his brainchild, an ultra-fast optical laser communications network for the Middle East, a system destined to bring an unprecedented degree of openness, information sharing, and freedom to all countries in the region. Today, that effort would culminate in a feverish run up to the vote. Hamilton had worked the crowd harder than ever. He’d cajoled and wheedled some of the delegates into voting for him. He’d connived and browbeat others, and had even shamed more than one into supporting his cause. He’d resorted to every trick in the book to assure a successful vote. Now, he was spent. The Initiative had to pass! He’d staked HCC’s future and his reputation on the Dubai Initiative.

Sitting alongside him was Kathy Jansen, HCC’s vice president of sales and marketing. She wore a simply tailored black dress cut just above the knee with a colorful scarf and black heels that accentuated the curve of her hips and legs, without revealing too much. Her eyes were unique: steel gray and set against a dark, exotic complexion and framed by her smooth, glossy, jet-black hair. She was a stunning woman. She knew it, and she used it to get what she wanted.

Three years ago, the president, a close friend of Hamilton from their days together in the army, had recommended her. She was the daughter of a personal friend, a man with business ties across the Middle East, ties that could certainly help HCC. At first, Hamilton believed somewhat naively that his old friend was taking care of him, the perks of office and all. Later, it became clear his old friend was also building his own bonds of obligation and responsibility. He’d handed Hamilton a stellar employee on a silver platter with the clout and connections to help HCC succeed; in return, the president expected political support. Some day, he’d probably also expect to be repaid.

Right now, Jansen sat next to Hamilton, aware that he was stealing glances at her. And she exploited it, playing the temptress and allowing the subtle scent of her perfume to waft across in his direction. She knew he was on the verge of temptation, launching into an affair with her, but he’d been there for some time. Hamilton was married with two teenagers. He was afraid to take the risk, and she knew that too.

Considering her next move, she felt the vibration of her mobile phone against the curve of her hip. She loved to be tickled by the phone. She looked down at the device, enjoying the sensation. It was a text message from one of the committee’s more influential staffers. Jansen, using her beguiling ways, had months ago convinced the man to back the Initiative. She looked down at the screen on the phone and read the brief message.

Vote starts. Ten minutes. Good luck. Ahmad.

She turned to Hamilton, placing her hand atop his forearm. The vote is starting in ten minutes, David, she announced, passing on the news from her slightly more than confidential contact, before responding, Thank you, my dear. I’ll call later.

For the next hour, the two sat uncharacteristically silent as the drama of the vote for this contentious initiative played out before them. Twice Jansen reached across Hamilton’s lap and took his hand in hers, pretending to need him to calm her nerves. Hamilton’s face flushed red each time. He enjoyed her overtures, her attention. He wanted her, but he resisted. He loved his wife and kids and kept images of them in his mind.

It’s all right. Relax. We’re going to win today, she told him, each time checking Hamilton’s reactions to her subtle advances.

I’m dying to get this vote over with, he responded. It’s been such a long haul. We’ve worked so hard.

An hour later, the delegates had all been accounted for. Their votes had been tallied. Hamilton and Jansen were exhausted. They’d just finished an emotional rollercoaster ride; two years spent trying to predict the results of the vote, not to mention the fate of Hamilton Communications. The Dubai Initiative had passed by the slimmest margin possible—one vote. The two HCC executives were ecstatic! They jumped to their feet in excitement and joy.

Hamilton smiled to himself, a sense of relief washing over him, and clenched his fist in an understated affirmation of their victory. Jansen showed her relief as well, feigning a mild collapse against Hamilton. As he reached to support her, the scent of her perfume once again excited his senses. She wrapped her arms around her boss and squeezed him in a congratulatory hug. Something more than congratulations were in her mind and Hamilton’s as well.

Congratulations, David. This is your victory. She released him and sat back in her chair, looking him straight in eye, intending only one message to pass between them.

Thank you, Kathy. Thank you, he responded, uncomfortable with Jansen’s even more blatant overture.

Hamilton didn’t want to send an inadvertent signal of approbation. In fact, he felt a strong sense of embarrassment. He’d been happily married for twenty years, and the idea of an extramarital affair, while enticing as he entered what was clearly his mid-life crisis, was a temptation he’d always resisted. He stopped himself and refocused his mind on the furor around them.

At the conclusion of the vote, the room exploded into a cacophonous roar, part joyful exclamation, part indignation and outrage. Those who’d supported Hamilton and his Initiative flocked to his side to congratulate him. Those who’d opposed it warned the crowd vehemently of its consequences for Arab culture and society. To the right of the meeting hall, a disturbance erupted as a group of protesters opposing the Initiative overwhelmed the meager security forces and barged their way into the room. They unfurled banners and chanted slogans in Arabic decrying the Dubai Initiative as a Crusaders’ Initiative. Although they did little damage, save for the physical assaults against the guards, they did manage to disrupt the proceedings; their chanting grew louder and louder. Hamilton and Jansen turned to look at the demonstrators.

What is that over there? asked Jansen. What are they chanting?

"It’s a demonstration. They’ve forced their way into the room. They’re yelling, ‘Death to America,’" explained Hamilton, suddenly struck with the notion that opposition to the Initiative might be much more visceral than he’d ever imagined. For him the Initiative was nothing more than a brilliant technical innovation, an idea that couldn’t be refused, it was so perfect. He’d never considered an opposing view.

As the turmoil increased, a smoke grenade exploded outside the conference center, sending white smoke all around the entrance, oozing through the half-open doorways. As it spread among the nearest delegates, they surged backward across the room in a wave, pressing those behind them further into the safest corners. The guards besieged the demonstrators, battling them with wooden batons, preventing them from entering the center and making the police response that much easier to organize. As the Dubai riot police arrived on the scene, the ruckus died down quickly. The guards restored order.

Through all of this, nobody paid the slightest attention to an Arab man dressed in an exquisitely tailored gray Sayville Row suit, covered by the traditional Gulf thawb and white kaffiya. He quickly and quietly walked out of the meeting room and departed the World Trade Center for the parking garage. As he walked, he pulled his cell phone from his waist and dialed.

The vote has not gone our way, he reported to an unnamed listener. It was very close, winning approval by a majority of fifty-one percent to forty-nine. There is turmoil in the conference center; there are many, many unhappy delegates. Although we have lost, the turmoil it has created is exploitable.

This isn’t the news we have waited to hear, but may be something we can work with. You will call back when you have more to report, commanded the voice on the other end of the call.

Yes, I’ll call in two hours with more information. The man completed the call, not realizing that his listener had already hung up.

Chapter 3

December 5, Abu Dhabi, UAE

A shimmering reddish sun radiated its last light as it sank below the horizon, receding between the buildings of Abu Dhabi’s modern skyline. It was a skyline that could have graced any modern city in the world, were it not for the ever-present minarets, a constant reminder that Islam ruled here. The day had been a hot one, though nothing like the furnace-like temperatures of summer. Still, the heat had kept all but the hardiest souls indoors during the middle of the day, the upper classes preferring the air conditioning of their homes, offices, and schools. As night fell, muezzins around the city sang out the Islamic call to prayer, as much a call to the pious as a signal that this oil-rich Persian Gulf Emirate would awaken once again.

The streets were just coming alive. The bazaars, which had opened up at the first sign of the sun’s decline, now generated a low hum of human interchange as hagglers and traders negotiated prices on everything from exotic Asian spices to African gold to European groceries. Western tourists ventured out as well, souvenir shopping, shepherded everywhere they went by a cloud of guides intent on leading them to their own trinket stands or carpet showrooms.

Taxis flooded the streets. Transplanted Indian and Pakistani drivers guided them through the wide, well-paved boulevards, passing older, poorly constructed apartment high rises on one side, crumbling monuments to the discovery of oil wealth in the sixties, and sleek, modern office towers on the other, evidence of real economic power. Their fares included the upper echelons of the expatriate community: the European businessmen, the diplomats, the adventurous westerners, all in the Gulf, managing the modern society spawned by the Emirate’s vast oil wealth.

Lower down the economic ladder, there were Moroccan police officers, Palestinian soldiers, Philippine hotel employees, Arab construction workers—you name it! They were here! The nomadic Emiratis had long ago transformed themselves into an aristocratic class, hiring expatriates to build, manage, and populate the modern Sheikhdom they had created out of the sand.

The wealthiest, the decadent elite of this royal city-state, were just getting into the rhythm of their day. Some might have reported to work late in the day, if they had to at all. Others might actually work, making the decisions in government, banking, education, and medicine upon which the rest of society would base their daily lives. The evening would also become their social time. It was the time to strengthen the personal bonds upon which their small society had been built since well before the oil boom. The restaurants were full. Party boats were out on the Gulf’s placid waters. And the most influential entertained behind closed doors.

On the outskirts of the city, in a wealthy suburb of expansive, walled-in villas studded with satellite dishes and garnished with high-priced SUVs, two traditionally garbed Arab men, white kafiyyas shading their heads from the last of the sun, sat on the veranda of one of the more expansive villas, enjoying small glasses of intensely brewed tea. The younger of the two was a short, rather rotund man in his mid-forties. He wore his beard neat and trimmed, tracing a long, thin line along a barely discernable jaw line, complimented by a moustache that barely was. Every time he spoke, his belly bounced up and down, as his lungs expelled air in an audible gust. The man was obese—the result of a life of privilege and leisure that had seen no hard labor, no exercise, and in fact no effort to make a living, or even to succeed. The firstborn son of an absurdly wealthy Emirati prince, he now controlled the family business empire with interests in the oil and petrochemical industries and expanding outward into shipping, banking, and insurance services. He was once a spoiled brat, taking, taking, taking from the world, and never giving back. Now he looked to make his mark on the world.

The older Arab was a different sort. He was strong, with an unbending will forged in the crucible that is the desert. Still, he was no stranger to the finer things in life. Now, wherever he went he was treated like royalty. People waited on him. Everyone catered to him. He’d always had everything he wished. But this was no elitist tribal leader either. To those he inspired, he was known simply as Sheikh—Leader. At the same time, he was all but unknown to the outside world.

The Sheikh was in his late fifties, or maybe early sixties. Nobody, not even he, knew his exact age, being since he was born into a Bedouin Arab tribe that roamed the undefined desert border regions between Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, and Oman on the edges of the "Rub Al-Khali." His tribe had little reason to care for dates and times; they were useless in the struggle to survive in the harsh Arabian Desert. The Sheikh was of average height, maybe six feet tall and strong, a body perfectly suited to the rigors of a nomadic existence, well adapted to a life on the move. And as he sat drinking tea, anyone could see he had a bearing about him that immediately and physically qualified him for his title.

As the two sipped their tea, two bone-thin Pakistani boys in identical white shirts, black trousers and vests, and open-toed sandals, the older about fifteen and the younger no more than eleven, waited on the men, bringing tea, then plates of dates, figs, and other fruits. To anyone looking in on these men, they would certainly appear to be members of the privileged class of tribal Abu Dhabi society, the men who ruled the Emirate, those who controlled the oil money.

The older man lifted the tea to his lips. He turned his head toward the servant boys, made eye contact with the older of the two, and nodded as if to say, Leave me now. The boy had worked for his Arab patron for four years now. It wasn’t the best existence, but it was far better than the uncertain existence he would have faced as an orphan in his native Baluchistan. He understood the unspoken signals perfectly. He had served the man long enough to sense his superior bearing, his superior status. He feared the man and turned to hurry out, ushering his younger companion off the veranda, almost shoving him forward into the villa. The Sheikh then turned his attention to his friend.

Mokhtar, we were disappointed to hear, he arrogantly used the plural to refer to himself, that the committee has voted to approve the American optical computing proposal. Despite all of our efforts, we have been unable to dissuade Hamilton. He is a much stronger man than we had anticipated. The idiots in the Arab League do not understand what this will mean for the Muslim world! It will change everything! They meekly believe what the infidels tell them! They do not think how it will destroy our world! This is something we must prevent at all costs. We cannot have a free exchange of information across the Muslim world. It will destroy the foundations of our very way of life. Still, they do not listen.

"Yaa, Sheikh," replied the other man, not knowing how to respond, but assuring he displayed deference to the first. Of course you are correct, but what are we to do now? he asked rhetorically, not really certain what to say or what his Sheikh would say in return.

The Sheikh considered the man’s question less as a specific request for guidance and more as an opportunity to postulate on the state of his world. He’d long been a shadowy leader in the Muslim world, revered by those he inspired. He’d motivated countless thousands to discover the most fundamental and radical interpretations of the Islamic faith and to take bold actions to demonstrate their commitment to Allah.

"We have known all along that this must not stand. We have also known that our efforts to prevent the Initiative have resulted in nothing. Restoring our traditional, spiritual lives and values depends on our ability to prevent the technology of the West, of the infidel, from diverting us from the path that Allah has set for us. We must not listen to the infidel. We must not allow him to exercise any control over our lives. We must cast him off once and for all! Insha’Allah—if God wills it.

"Insha’Allah! How may I be of service, yaa Sheikh?" responded Mokhtar, feeling intimidated by the increasingly fervent and emotional tone of the older man’s rhetoric.

You have done well putting our contingency plans into place to assure that the proposal can never be realized, that our hand will remain hidden, that God’s will shall always be done. You have placed your people where we want them? he asked, expecting a positive response and nothing else.

"Yes, Sheikh. They are in place. They are prepared to act immediately on your command. They are prepared to destroy the Dubai Initiative once and for all." The younger Arab was now becoming more and more uncomfortable. What his Sheikh was asking him to do would change the region. It would change the Muslim world’s relations with the West in unimaginable ways. And it would irrevocably change his life.

Excellent! We wish for this to proceed. We want this Dubai Initiative to fail! It must fail completely! We must embarrass the Americans, Mokhtar! he emphasized the man’s name to reinforce the link he was drawing between him and the effort to stop the Initiative. "We do NOT wish for this American company to launch its work in any way whatsoever! Is that clear?"

Mokhtar hesitated for a moment, fearing that any failure on his part would be met by the harshest reprisals. "Yes, Sheikh," he responded with the slightest hesitation, with something short of the total enthusiasm and fervor desired by the older man, who responded calmly, but firmly.

"Mokhtar, we can appreciate that you may have some fear about this action. It is natural to have fear, but consider this. You are acting for the greater glory of Allah. Nobody but Allah