ABOMINATION

By Ian J White

When the analysis departments of the CIA, Germany's BND and Britain's MI5 and MI6 began noticing fragmentary and vague references to an unspecified major Islamist terrorist attack, information analysts around the world were put on high alert, trying to piece together the cryptic chatter in an attempt to determine the nat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Translation House
• Release date: May 16, 2025
• ISBN: 9781763681880

Book preview

1

Vienna – July 2025

The Café Kraemer was a rundown, somewhat dilapidated Kaffehaus standing on Dorotheergasse just far enough off the Graben and the Kärntner Straßen pedestrian zones to avoid the crush of mid-summer tourists and souvenir hunters. Some of the more intrepid sightseers did venture into Dorotheergasse, cameras clicking, yet few if any ever darkened the doorway of the Café Kraemer. How the proprietor managed to turn a profit remained a mystery.

Two blocks to the west stood the ever-popular Starbucks Café with its ubiquitous green street umbrellas. And Dorotheergasse, together with the surrounding streets and lanes, was home to numerous Kaffeehäuser and cafés, most if not all of better standing and more charming than the Café Kraemer. Indeed, there were any number of Kaffeehäuser in the city where tourists could enjoy a fine Viennese coffee and sample the obligatory Sachertorte in comfortable and appealing surrounds. Café Kraemer was not one of them – the proprietor and his clientele preferred it that way.

The establishment, if it could be called that, could best be described as nondescript, even uninviting. The interior was dingy and gloomy, with dull lighting, whilst the natural light struggled to penetrate the few windows, all of which were in urgent need of cleaning. Small tables with round, white marble tops and old wooden chairs stood on the bare timber floor beneath ceiling fans that turned slowly, struggling to provide some semblance of airflow in the main dining area. ‘Dining area’ was something of a misnomer, however, for only very basic snacks could be ordered at the Café Kraemer. The clientele, almost exclusively men, came to drink coffee and talk, their cigarette smoke rising and forming a dense, impenetrable layer beneath the ceiling.

On one of the dark timbered walls hung a large clock of the type commonly seen in railway stations but it had apparently ceased working. Perhaps it just needed to be wound but, in any event, the clock was superfluous to needs for opening and closing times were purely at the proprietor’s discretion.

Café Kraemer displayed its name unenthusiastically stencilled on its grimy front windows, laying claim to a street frontage that looked as if it were a hundred years old and probably was. Parts of the wooden window frames were showing signs of rot, and restorative paint work on the façade was clearly well overdue. In fact, were it not for the three small, unstable metal tables on the sidewalk – sans tablecloths, sans umbrellas – and the accompanying, rickety folding metal chairs, the establishment could easily be missed.

It was at one of those three sidewalk tables, and with the others unoccupied, that two men sat, smoking cigarettes and sipping strong black coffee. Though they had been there for more than an hour, neither had noticed any other customers entering or leaving the café – and they would have noticed.

Ahmed Maamoun was twenty-two years of age, well dressed in trendy ripped denim jeans, fashionable sneakers and a khaki linen, collarless shirt that opened with only three buttons to a point about mid-sternum. The three-quarter length sleeves extended to mid-forearm where they ended with an embroidered, dark brown, stylish border hinting of something slightly exotic. He was a handsome man though his hair, cut to within half a centimetre of his scalp, added something of a sharp edge to his countenance. He had olive skin, brown eyes and a well-trimmed beard. His dark glasses with mirrored lenses sat alongside his coffee cup on the table, together with the folded newspaper he had brought with him.

His companion was a man of indeterminate age, perhaps twice Ahmed’s age. Whilst Ahmed was quite expansive in his conversation, even loquacious, it was clear that his older companion was more circumspect by nature. He was also more conservatively dressed – canvas boat shoes, neat beige slacks and a short-sleeved grey shirt, open at the neck. He wore dark glasses, as was his custom even on overcast days. His dark hair, of average length, was combed straight back from his forehead which only accentuated his somewhat sharp, pointed nose and deep set eyes. Like Ahmed, he was olive skinned and sported a neatly trimmed beard. He had befriended Ahmed at the Akabe Mosque in Vienna’s suburbs where he was a frequent visitor, seeking out young men deemed worthy of his mentoring. He currently had three such devotees under his tutelage.

He turned his head to the left to view the many tourists and shoppers filling the Graben at the north end of Dorotheergasse. One block north-east of where he sat stood St Stephen’s Cathedral, its spire glittering in the sunshine at the north end of the Kärntner Straße pedestrian zone. From outside the café, however, it was not visible for Dorotheergasse was little more than an old narrow lane lined on both sides by four-story high buildings. He took another mouthful of his coffee while he considered the young man seated with his back to the street across the table from him.

Ahmed pointed to the headline of his folded newspaper on the table – Lone Terrorist Kills Three in Amsterdam Attack!

It’s outrageous to call this man a terrorist, he said in Arabic, taking up his coffee cup. "He martyred himself, a shahid, a true soldier of the Prophet – peace be upon him."

The older man gazed at Ahmed over the rim of his coffee cup and gave an almost indiscernible nod – more a nod with his eyes than his head – a nod not intended to endorse Ahmed’s views on jihad, but not one designed to estrange him either.

You’re a young man, Ahmed, he thought as he sipped his coffee. You’ve had the fire lit within you but you’ll be of more use to the cause when you learn to apply the flame judiciously, when and where it is most effective. I wish you could have benefited from the training I received during my time in Afghanistan, but I will work with you and nurture you. Learning to control that fire will come with maturity, provided you live long enough – provided you don’t waste your life on some pint-sized, headline-grabbing endeavour.

Ahmed took a mouthful of his coffee before placing the cup back on the table and lighting another cigarette. Sensing less than full endorsement of his words, he drew twice on his cigarette before speaking.

Surely you agree, Khalil, he said, for Khalil Qadir was the name his companion went by. "Surely you acknowledge this man as a shahid, a martyr for the faith?"

"A shahid, yes, Khalil answered quietly, but a wasted shahid."

Ahmed sat with his mouth agape, a look of incredulity on his face, and his cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers while he struggled to understand Khalil’s words. But as he processed them and sought to find words with which to protest, Khalil continued.

Ahmed, there is jihad and then there is jihad. He paused before continuing. Jihad, as you know, means striving or struggling with a praiseworthy objective. What I and most brothers of the faith refer to as the ‘Greater Jihad’ is a noble, spiritual or moral struggle against our own nature – against a nature which does not conform with God’s will. He paused again. Then there is the struggle with force and with violence against the enemies of Islam – what we refer to as the ‘Lesser Jihad’. Generally, it is only the Lesser Jihad that is recognised and feared by our enemies. Of course, one cannot have the latter without first surrendering oneself to the former.

Yes, the imam speaks in the same terms.

Yet, even within the Lesser Jihad, there is jihad and then there is jihad. Any fool can strap on a suicide vest and walk into an airport terminal. And what did he achieve? Khalid asked as he pointed to the newspaper headline. Three tourists dead, probably Dutch nationals, and a headline that will be forgotten by tomorrow. Do you not think, Ahmed, that it would be better to strike a much greater blow in the name of Allah the Merciful and to live to do it again and again?

"At salāt ad-dhouhr today, Ahmed said, referring to the midday prayer at the Akabe mosque, the imam praised this man for his sacrifice to the faith, yet you seem disparaging of him. You say his sacrifice and his life were wasted."

The Akabe Imam, Kahil knew, was a firebrand, engaged in radicalising and encouraging young men to serve the true faith through martyrdom. And he is also a fool, he thought, though a useful fool for he too serves his purpose, radicalising his followers and keeping the eyes of the intelligence agencies off the real soldiers planning the real jihad.

Yet, he realised he needed to be more circumspect in handling this issue, particularly with one as impressionable as the young man sitting opposite him. He drained his coffee cup, then pursed his lips, before responding to the younger man’s challenge.

Perhaps ‘wasted’ was the wrong word, Ahmed. Such sacrifices serve their purpose. They occupy the efforts of the anti-Islamic security and intelligence forces by distracting them – by focusing their attention on attacks by individuals or small groups rather than on those who plan and execute large scale initiatives like the World Trade Centre attacks, the Bali bombings, the London Underground attacks and so on. Large scale initiatives like those are the true arm of the Lesser Jihad, Ahmed. We’re not going to bring the West to its knees three lives at a time.

Their conversation was interrupted by the old Kellner, who came to the door of the café to enquire whether the two men needed anything. With an almost imperceptible nod and a slight movement of his hand, Khalil indicated that he should refill their coffee cups. The two men fell silent while the old waiter poured their coffees. After he had left, Khalil lifted his eyes and waited a few moments before speaking again.

"And you, brother? What plans do you have to serve the faith?

"I await my calling, brother. I am ready, ready to fight and die as a shahid for Islam if necessary, but my calling is not yet clear."

Khalil nodded and drew on his cigarette.

That’s sensible. It’s wise to wait until you know with certainty what is required of you by the Prophet, peace be upon him. Don’t act precipitously and don’t waste your life on insignificant attacks, Ahmed. Ah, my apologies, there is that word ‘waste’ again. I use it too loosely, but you understand what I am saying to you.

"Yes, I understand, Khalil. When Allah requires me to sacrifice my life as a shahid in his holy war, he will tell me what to do."

Actually, Khalil thought, even as he nodded his agreement, I will tell you!

Tell me, Ahmed, who do you consider to be the real enemies of Islam?

Ahmed sat back, spreading his hands in incredulity that such a question needed to be asked.

The West! he said emphatically. The infidels! The Americans, of course! The Americans are the Great Satan!

And the Zionists?

Yes, yes, of course the Jews.

Never forget the Zionists, Ahmed. It was they who spawned the Christians. The Zionists are the fathers of the unholy and decadent West.

Ahmed searched his mentor’s eyes, expecting to see a burning fire of righteous anger or hatred, but he saw nothing except a steady gaze that penetrated his soul. Then while he was still formulating questions in his mind, Khalil moved on quickly and surprised him with a change of subject.

You are Jordanian, are you not?

Ahmed took one last draw on his cigarette before grinding the butt in the ash tray and immediately shaking a new cigarette from his pack. Syrian by birth, he said as he lit it, but I am now a Jordanian national. My mother is from Amman and still lives there. My father was Syrian – from Damascus.

Was?

Ahmed nodded. Killed by Israeli air strikes in Syria in January 2013. He was part of a convoy transferring arms to Hezbollah and other items to the Scientific Studies and Research Centre in Jamarya, northwest of Damascus.

Jamarya? The biological weapons research centre?

So it is said, Ahmed replied, though I know little of that. I was ten years old at the time. After my father’s death, my mother took me back to Amman.

Now, that is an interesting pedigree, Khalil thought. Old enough to have known something of his father’s mission and old enough to have grieved his father’s death at the hands of the Israelis. And he likely still has contacts both in Syria and Jordan. Properly managed, this zealous young man might be an important asset to The Union.

For some time, he sat drinking his coffee and studying the younger man opposite, formulating in his mind the role this protégé of his might play in The Union’s embryonic plans. Was this a man he could recommend to The Teacher?

As he sat there, his mind went back to Afghanistan where he had spent two years being instructed in a jihadist training camp. Each day had commenced with morning prayers, followed by lectures on the significance of jihad – both the Lesser Jihad and the Greater Jihad. During the day, veteran jihadists supervised physical drills and operational training, including instruction on how to handle firearms like the AK-47, as well as the preparation and planting of land mines and improvised explosive devices (IED). Recruits were also instructed in the art of using knives, particularly the prescribed method of beheading infidels. In the evenings, former or current members of Pakistani intelligence services briefed recruits on operational and communication security measures. As part of developing their resistance to interrogation, all recruits were forced to endure extended periods of torture, including waterboarding and stress positioning where they were forced into a painful physical position for long periods. ‘They don’t want to kill you – not until you’ve told them everything they want to know’ was the overriding and oft-repeated mantra they had heard during that training. Khalil knew he could not possibly pass on all this experience to the young man sitting opposite, yet perhaps he could train him to the point where he would be useful to The Union. Time would tell.

Ahmed, he finally said, do you really want to do something great in the name of Islam? Do you really want to be a mujahid engaged in the great cause?

I am the servant of Allah, Ahmed proclaimed.

Then, you must prepare yourself.

Ahmed ground out his cigarette though it was only half smoked and looked at Khalil questioningly.

You must retreat from the world, Ahmed – retreat to that place within yourself where there is only you and Allah. Conform yourself to the spiritual and moral struggle against your inner self – to that place where you know with all certainty that you are ready to commit yourself fully to God’s will.

Does retreating from the world mean I need to absent myself from the mosque?

"No, it doesn’t mean that. Everyone knows you as a devotee of the true faith – it is natural for you to attend the mosque for salāt. But it does mean being more circumspect in your response to the imam’s calls. His role is to radicalise impressionable young men to what he believes is the true cause."

Ahmed sat gazing intently at his mentor, taking it all in and nodding his understanding.

Being radicalised is not enough, Ahmed. Radicalisation is for the lone wolf asset who kills in small numbers, he said, pointing again to the newspaper headline. Such acts have their place, as we have discussed, but they are not the actions of a true mujahid.

I see that now, Ahmed said. I understand.

Khalil looked around and, when the opportunity arose, attracted the waiter’s attention. He asked for a glass of lemon juice for himself and, without consulting Ahmed, a fresh cup of coffee for him. After their beverages had been delivered and the waiter had retreated, he sipped his lemon juice and continued.

And there are other more physical changes you must make, Ahmed. You must learn to walk in the shadows, to make yourself less …what is the word? …less conspicuous.

When Ahmed responded with only an almost imperceptible raising of his eyebrows, Khalil continued.

Look at you, he said. You stand out – you draw attention to yourself. You need to grow your hair to a normal length, wear sunglasses that are less noticeable than those mirrored aviator sunglasses and dress more conservatively. That shirt, for example, just draws attention to yourself.

I can do that, Ahmed replied. And then?

Then build the intensity of righteous jihad within yourself – the Lesser Jihad – build it until it consumes you and demands release. Then and only then can you be of real service to the Prophet, peace be upon him.

A Fiaker drawn by two white horses, clopped slowly down Dorotheergasse from the Graben towards the Café Kraemer. Though Fiaker were a common sight in the more popular tourist areas, particularly the pedestrian zones of the Graben and Kärntner Straßen, they rarely entered Dorotheergasse. This one carried two couples, probably American tourists wanting to explore some of the back streets of the Viennese neighbourhoods or to be taken to a particular destination. The two female passengers sat chatting and sipping glasses of champagne and their male companions were snapping photographs as the carriage made its way past any sites which captured their fancy.

Khalil immediately picked up the folded newspaper, opened it and hid behind it as the Fiaker passed by.

In this age, he thought, it’s impossible to avoid having one’s image uploaded to international data bases – passport photographs, images from driving licences and other identity documents are all available to security forces. Facial recognition systems can then use biometric scanning to map facial features from a photograph or a video – it’s your facial signature. Yet it makes no sense to assist them by allowing further photographs to be taken.

The Fiaker had now passed, and Khalil knew that Ahmed, sitting with his back to the street, had not been photographed, at least not in any identifiable way. He refolded the newspaper and put it back on the table, yet his act of concealment had not been lost on Ahmed.

You don’t like to be photographed? Ahmed asked.

Khalil shook his head. Neither should you, he said. It’s part of walking in the shadows – of keeping your adversaries wondering where you are and what you’re doing.

Ahmed nodded.

You must also avoid keeping any information on your cell phone, Ahmed, especially lists of contacts and any images of yourself or of identifiable places. It is just too easy for the entire contents of your cell phone to be downloaded by intelligence agencies. Commit your contacts to memory so they don’t need to be stored on your cell phone – and no selfies, Ahmed.

Ahmed and Khalil turned to observe the progress of the Fiaker, now more than a hundred metres beyond where they sat. It had stopped, and the passengers were alighting in front of the Jüdisches Museum, Vienna’s Jewish Museum. The two men seated at the Café Kraemer turned away in disdain. Neither had ever set foot inside the Jüdisches Museum, nor did they have any desire to do so.

Khalil removed banknotes from his wallet, left €15 on the table for the Kellner and stood up, preparing to leave. Ahmed took his cue from him and also stood.

We’ll leave in different directions Khalil said. We can meet here on Fridays after prayers but we’ll not speak again of jihad until you are ready. You’ll know when you are ready, Ahmed. More importantly, he thought, I’ll know when you are ready.

"And when you are ready, we’ll speak of your service to the Prophet, peace be upon him – Assalam alaikum."

"Wa alaikum salaam," Ahmed intoned.

2

Washington DC

Unlike virtually all other passengers, he had not turned on his cell phone immediately on landing. In fact, he would not turn it on until he was well clear of the terminal – he knew about the ‘man in the middle’ technology employed at international airports by intelligence services which depended upon passengers switching on their cell phones as soon as their plane lands. He knew how, rather than connecting to the main communications tower, his phone would connect to a closer mini-tower within the terminal. Indeed, there may be several mini-towers within the terminal – in the main concourse, in the immigration hall, near the baggage collection carousels, and in the executive lounge. The mini-tower, controlled by the intelligence service of the host country, would automatically connect phones to the main communications tower. In the process, however, the mini-tower would download everything on the phone, including images, contact lists and SMS text messages without passengers ever being aware their phones had been compromised.

After his Air France flight direct from Paris, he was now standing before a young female immigration officer at Dulles International Airport. He smiled at the woman and handed over his false passport which identified him as French national Mohammad Ibrahim.

The young woman studied the passport, glancing up to compare the photograph and the given details with the elderly man before her. Born 1957, she read – so 70 years of age. She took in his heavy jowls which, unknown to her, were caused by prosthetic pads worn inside his cheeks and his grey hair which, under his trilby hat, appeared to be quite short. His beard, on the other hand, was reasonably long without being excessively so – perhaps a little over two inches at the chin – mostly grey but showing some signs of residual black. He was dressed conservatively in grey trousers and a white shirt, with a grey and blue striped necktie under a navy blue cardigan. He walked with the aid of a cane and wore round glasses with clear lenses and silver wire frames, all of which seemed befitting a man of that age.

The immigration officer took a second look at his beard, noting it was longer than in the passport photograph. Still, it was not unusual for hair and beards to grow longer before being trimmed back. She scanned his passport and it returned no alerts – he was not on any no-fly list banning his entry into the United States.

What is the reason for your visit to the United States, Mr Ibrahim? she asked.

I’m here to spend time with my sister, he replied in English with a somewhat charming French accent. She is quite elderly, though not quite as old as I, and is suffering from cancer – we don’t expect to have her much longer.

I’m sorry to hear that. Your sister’s name and address please?

Mrs Aisha Farooq, Lexington, South Carolina – Elm Street 1810.

The young immigration officer keyed the information into her system and was satisfied to find a Mrs Farooq living at that address.

How long do you expect to be in Washington DC, sir?

I have an overnight reservation at the Holiday Inn. I’m flying out to Columbia tomorrow morning.

And how long will you be in the United States?

Ten days. I plan to spend Thanksgiving with my sister and I have a reservation on Air France from Dulles to Paris on November 26th.

Again, her fingers tapped at the keyboard, checking his on-flight reservations. He was indeed booked on American 966 to Columbia out of Reagan National at 10:20 the next morning and on Air France from Dulles to Charles de Gaulle on November 26th.

Would you please remove your glasses and hat, sir? she asked.

He smiled at the young woman again, then removed his glasses with his left hand and the trilby with his right, holding them by his side while she gazed at him intently. She compared his facial features with the passport photograph again, then, satisfied, pressed Alt-Q on her keyboard which initiated an automated digital photograph, something the passenger would never be aware of – standard practice in all US international airports. She stamped his passport and handed it back to him.

Enjoy your stay in the United States, Mr Ibrahim.

Thank you, he said. Have a great day.

He collected his one small suitcase from the luggage carousel and cleared US customs with ‘nothing to declare’, before exiting into the main concourse, aware that, like everyone else in the concourse, he would be filmed on CCTV. He pulled the trilby low over his forehead and kept his eyes downcast, his head inclined towards the floor, knowing there would be nothing unusual about that for an elderly man using a walking cane. He exited from the concourse and took a cab to the nearby Holiday Inn for a good night’s sleep.

The following morning he travelled to Columbia, South Carolina, on American 966 as scheduled but did not go to Elm Street, Lexington. Instead, he was met at the airport by a large African-American man in his mid-thirties, an inch over six feet tall and with a shaved head, who drove him to a small nondescript house in Catawba Street near the University of South Carolina.

There he set about changing his identity. He was fluent in a number of languages, as well as his native tongue, Arabic, and he knew he could pass as a native-born citizen of Germany, France or England – indeed, he had lived extended periods in those countries. He realised there was little he could do to change his skin colour – he would always be recognised as a person of Middle Eastern ethnicity. Thus, he had decided before leaving Paris that he would embrace this, and that he would always use Arabic names – it would only attract attention if an obviously Middle Eastern man were to present with names like Monsieur de la Cour, Herr Schmidt or Mr Charles Courtland. I can’t change my ethnicity, he thought, and, in any event, there is no need to do so. I can present in this country as a proud but orthodox Muslim with nothing to hide, and it would be expected that such a man would have an Arabic name. The things I can certainly change are my age, my nationality and my general appearance.

In the Catawba Street house, he was given three complete sets of false identity documents in zip-lock bags. From one of those, he removed a set of Austrian identity documents, including an Austrian passport, identity card, driving licence and a European Union Health Insurance Card, then refilled the bag with the identity documents of Mohammad Ibrahim. Those would be needed when it was time to leave the United States. The trilby, glasses and walking cane were dispensed with, along with the prosthetic cheek pads – all would be waiting for him in a Boston hotel next week. He washed most of the colouring from his hair and from his beard, retaining only minimal strands of grey at the temples. Mohammad Ibrahim, born in Montpellier, France in 1957 had wiped twenty-five years off his age and had become Austrian national Khalil Qadir, born Linz, Austria, 1982.

At 5pm the next afternoon Khalil Qadir was at Columbia airport boarding Delta 2407 to Cincinnati, Ohio, with a short stopover in Atlanta, Georgia. As he disembarked at Cincinnati’s busy airport, he donned a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap with a large white C above the visor and pulled it low over his forehead.

After collecting his one small suitcase, he took a cab the short distance to the Courtyard Marriott Hotel and checked in to his reserved room. The evening flight from Columbia to Cincinnati had been specifically chosen so that the hotel check-in staff at the Marriott would have been replaced by the day staff when he checked out the following morning, for by then his appearance would be somewhat different. After settling into his room, he opened another of the zip-lock bags and exchanged his Austrian identity documents for a new set. He trimmed his two-inch beard back to its normal length of just on a half inch and redyed his hair black, completing the transformation from Khalil Qadir, Austrian, to Faariq Malek, Egyptian citizen, born Alexandria, Egypt, 1980. Then he remain in his room until checking out for his final US inter-city flight.

On Tuesday, he took American 104 out of Cincinnati for the two-hour flight into Boston Massachusetts, landing at twelve noon. It was Tuesday, November 20th, two days before Thanksgiving and, as expected, the airport terminals were extremely busy. In the Boston airport restroom, he assumed a new identity when he exchanged the Cincinnati Reds cap for a Red Sox cap and donned a matching sweatshirt. To complete the transformation, he put on a pair of glasses with heavy tortoiseshell frames and clear lenses. He was now a US citizen – Raashid Abdullah, born Rochester, New Hampshire, 1988.

Were it not for the glasses with tortoiseshell frames and the Red Sox apparel, Ahmed Maamoun would have recognised him as Khalil Qadir, his mentor from the Café Kraemer – but Ahmed was not there. Exiting the airport concourse, he took a cab directly to the Dalton Street bus terminal and claimed his pre-booked ticket for the next bus to Amherst, two hours west of Boston.

He slept for a good six hours after checking into the Comfort Inn, Amherst. It had been a demanding schedule but he now felt assured that he had shaken any possible surveillance tracking by US intelligence services. Five flights, including one long-haul trans-Atlantic flight, an inter-city bus journey, six US cities in four days and four false identities had all been designed, he hoped, to keep him off their radar long enough for him to complete his business, before returning to Europe. Now he had two full days in which to rest up before attending to that business. His one excursion from the hotel would be on Wednesday morning when he would walk around the Amherst Campus of the University of Massachusetts, and then to a local restaurant, Savannah’s Bistro, for lunch. He then spent the entirety of Thanksgiving Day alone in his hotel room at the Comfort Inn, with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, rehearsing his approach to the one man whom he had come to see in this godless country.

3

Amherst MA

O you who have faith, when the call is made for prayer on Friday, hasten toward the observance of Allah, and leave all business behind.

— Surah Al-Jumu’ah Ayat 9 (62:9 Qu’ran)

Michael Stanway rose to his bare feet at the end of his obligatory salāt al-jum‘ah and prepared to leave the Masjid At-Taqwa, within walking distance from his office at the Amherst Campus of the University of Massachusetts. He stretched his sixty-two-year-old bones to relieve the