Angry White Mailmen td-104 Read online

  And so angered did Jihad Jones become that he whipped out his tool to prove the lie to Yusef's words. Yusef met his thrust with a matching one of his own.

  "I win," said the Egyptian.

  "Only because you have coaxed its girth by rub­bing," Yusef accused.

  "This is its natural size."

  "And you are a natural liar!"

  Sargon barked, "Enough! Zip your flies and your mouths both. The Deaf Mullah awaits."

  In silence, they donned black boots and were given green checkered kaffiyehs to wear around their necks.

  Yusef looked his kaffiyeh over, very pleased with its length. It would be large enough to conceal his offensive-to-Muslims nose. This was good. Perhaps now he would obtain respect from this penis-envying Egyp­tian.

  They were taken to a room where the air was cool and the light was weak. It was guarded within and without by burly Afghan warriors who held AK-47 rifles, while curved scimitars were thrust into the sashes of their native costumes. They stood like fierce statues whose eyes were black points of malevolence.

  "Mujahideen from the Afghan organization called Taliban," Sargon explained.

  Yusef nodded. "Taliban" meant "Seekers of the Light." Such men as these had broken the back of the Russian Bear.

  The Deaf Mullah sat in the chevron-shaped niche behind a partition of wavery green glass the color of the Red Sea in fall.

  At their approach, he lifted his ear trumpet and placed it against his right ear, a pale, wavering shadow.

  "As-salamu'alaykum, my shuhada," the Deaf One intoned.

  Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones knelt on the rugs that were placed before the Deaf Mullah for that purpose,

  their hearts quickening. They had been called shuhada, a title bequeathed only on martyrs en route to Paradise.

  "You have done Allah's good work," the Deaf Mullah added.

  "Thank you, Amir al-mu'minin,'' they said in uni­son, using the preferred honorific meaning "Com­mander of the Faithful."

  "But there is work yet to be done."

  "I am ready," said Jihad Jones.

  "I am more ready than this dog," Yusef spat.

  "We will have peace in this place of peace while we talk of the destruction of this corrupt and infidel na­tion."

  Yusef composed himself, resting his hands on his knees. Jihad Jones did the same, but Yusef saw with ill-concealed satisfaction that his posture was poor.

  "Today we have restored the fear of Allah into the heart of the godless nation. This is good. Yet it is but the beginning."

  They nodded. These were true words. The Deaf Mullah continued.

  "Greater than the fear of jihad is the shadow of what the West calls the Islamic bomb. Long have they feared it. Great is their dread of it. But until this hour, there has been no such thing. It is only a jinni of smoke invoked to frighten the Western mind."

  Yusef and Jihad Jones exchanged startled glances.

  "Yes, I see it in your faces. It is too good, too won­derful to fall truly upon your believing ears. But it is true. While the Western intelligence organs chase Germans and Poles and Russian scientists, seeking to interdict the forbidden knowledge that will bless Is­lam with the might to enforce its will through peace

  and terror, we have in this place, in the heartland of the infidel nation, developed a true Islamic bomb."

  The silence hung in the cool air a long moment.

  "For months it has brooded in a secret silence, only awaiting what some call a delivery system. This, too, has been created."

  "A delivery system, Holy One?" asked Jihad Jones.

  "A missile. The greatest missile in the history of the world."

  "It is gigantic?" Yusef queried.

  "Long as the tallest minaret. As formidable as—"

  "As my Egyptian tool," said Jihad Jones boast­fully.

  "I will wager it more properly resembles my tool," Yusef insisted.

  "You will soon judge for yourself," intoned the Deaf Mullah from behind the green-as-water glass screen. "For you have been chosen as pilot-martyrs."

  And in the cool silence of the al-Bahlawan Mosque, Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones exchanged pleased ex­pressions.

  They were going to die.

  It was what they had lived for.

  Chapter 19

  Ibrahim Suleiman, known to the Chicago post office as Ibrahim Lincoln, awoke to the four-times-repeated cry "Allahu Akbar" coming from his always-running personal computer.

  Rising from his bed in his nightshirt, he scratched his beard as he padded barefoot in answer to the sum­mons to the dawn prayer. It was afternoon, but since he worked the night shift he was allowed to say the dawn prayer in place of the afternoon prayer and so on all through the day.

  The prayer rag faced Mecca. He knelt upon it for many thoughtful minutes.

  His prayer done, he sat himself before the terminal whose screen was as green as the walls of his home. He loved green. Not only was it the color of Islam, but it was the perfect antidote to the pink walls of his place of work, which quelled the Islamic fervor in his heart.

  Accessing the Gates of Paradise bulletin board, he found he had mail. It was from the Deaf Mullah. Ibrahim's heart skipped a beat.

  For the message was tagged The Ordained Hour.

  Calling up the message, he read it with avid eyes.

  My shahid, the day you are fated to enter Para­dise has come. Execute the task as instructed.

  Make no mistakes, for you are blessed by Allah and guaranteed entry into Paradise for your holy sacrifice, which as a True Believer you know to be no sacrifice at all.

  Il- Ya Islam!

  Clapping his hands with joy, Ibrahim Lincoln shut down his system for the last time and went to the basement of his home.

  There, the great plastic drums were ready. He be­gan filling them with the ammonia-and-fertilizer mix­ture to create the powerful bombs that would catapult him into the arms of his allotment of seventy-two houris. The mixture required constant thickening, but Ibrahim had foreseen that.

  Going to the corner, he pulled out a dirty canvas mail bag by its ropelike drawstring and dragged it to the cluster of containers.

  Opening it, he lifted the bag with some difficulty, but once he had it in place at the plastic lip, was re­warded by a cascade of old junk mail.

  It was ironic, Ibrahim thought, that the very mail he had been entrusted to deliver would intermingle with the witch's brew destined to destroy the post office from where it originated.

  It was a very simple operation. The Chicago post office had been built over the eight lanes of the Con­gress Parkway. It would not even be necessary to crash the mail van into the building itself. Only to stop it at the point on the expressway directly beneath.

  The resulting explosion was calculated to lift the grim ten-story building off its support columns and send the broken fragments raining down upon eight lanes of rush-hour traffic.

  Raining down upon Ibrahim Lincoln, too, but this was necessary to prevent the spread of what the Deaf Mullah decried as Westoxification. And the blood of the infidel was lawful. For it was written in the Koran that Allah does not love the unbeliever, and further, that idolatry is worse than carnage.

  It would be terrible, yes, but making widows and orphans was necessary in order to establish a pure Is­lamic theocracy upon the ashes of the United States. Besides, Ibrahim Lincoln would be spared the terrible sights and sounds of the dead and maimed because the explosion would catapult him into the waiting arms of the eternal virgins promised to him.

  He hoped at least one of them had an oral fixation. Neither of his wives would do this for him, never mind spitting afterward.

  Ibrahim Lincoln was contemplating his posthu­mous sex life when feet pounded down the stairs. The door was thrown open and he was thrown to the floor by a thick wave of men.

  One knelt on his back while others pointed guns at him.

  "Ibrahim Lincoln?"

  "Yes, that is I."

  "You are under a
rrest for the crime of sedition and waging a terroristic campaign against the United States."

  "Does this carry the death penalty?" he asked un­happily.

  "You bet it does."

  "It is not as good as victory, but it is better than nothing," he said as they cuffed him and dragged him to his feet.

  Chapter 20

  "I am to be martyred?" Yusef Gamal exclaimed.

  "You are both to be martyred," the Deaf Mullah explained in his sweet-as-raisin-tea Persian voice. He was a dappled shadow behind the green glass parti­tion.

  The last echoes of his words reverberated in the great al-Bahlawan Mosque in Greenburg, Ohio, be­fore a new sound stirred the dead air.

  "I will go first," said Jihad Jones.

  "No, I will."

  The Deaf Mullah raised a quelling hand. "You will both go together through the true gates of Paradise."

  Jihad Jones flared like a struck match. "With this Jew? Never!"

  "I would sooner lose half my allotment of houris," spat Yusef.

  "Allah has willed that you do this, and you will," intoned the Deaf Mullah.

  "If Allah wills it, then I will do it," swore Yusef.

  Jihad Jones made his face resolute. "Yes. If Allah wills that I have to die in the company of a Jew, then it cannot be avoided. My only solace is that the gates of Paradise will shut behind me and pinch cruelly the Hebrew nose that thinks it will follow me." "This is an Arabian nose. You wish you possessed a nose as mighty as mine."

  "I would rather have a mighty tool than a mighty nose. The houris will not supplicate themselves be­fore a mere nose."

  "Even with only my nostrils, I could pleasure a thousand times a thousand houri," Yusef hissed. "You could not do it if Allah himself blessed your limp Egyptian tool."

  "Do not invoke Allah in such a disrespectful man­ner," the Deaf Mullah snapped. "It is improper."

  Yusef subsided.

  "You will both be trained to pilot the Fist of Allah, which is the name we have given to the missile that will punish the city we failed to punish before," the Deaf Mullah told them.

  "I am ready," said Yusef.

  "As am I," swore Jihad Jones.

  "You are neither trained nor ready to pilot the Fist of Allah," returned the Deaf Mullah. "Only to die."

  "That is what I meant," said Yusef.

  "That is what I said, in truth," Jihad Jones added.

  "Be patient. Martyrdom will both be yours. But first we must make demands upon the infidel na­tion."

  "Let us demand they exile the Jews, starting with this fool," Jihad Jones suggested fiercely, digging a green elbow into Yusef s unprotected side.

  "Better that we demand the unbelievers refer to us as Muslims, not Moslems. I rankle every time this is done. We Muslims are not cruel. We only seek to convert the godless and crush all who resist Islam."

  The Deaf Mullah shook his ear trumpet angrily. "Silence! We will first make a demand of the Ameri­can President."

  "He is stubborn."

  "But also very weak. And vacillating."

  "We will make a demand to show that we have de­mands. Either they will meet this demand or they will not. If they do not, we will launch the Fist of Allah at the heart of their power."

  "And if they do?" Yusef wondered aloud.

  "Then we will make another demand, and if they fail to meet this demand, the Fist of Allah will come hurtling into their deepest heart."

  "And if they meet this second demand?" asked Yusef.

  "Then we will make demand upon demand until we finally demand the impossible," the Deaf Mullah said. "In the end, the Fist of Allah will strike because that is why it exists. To strike. And punish."

  "Where is the Fist of Allah?" asked Yusef.

  "In a secret place not far from here. You will see it when you have completed your training as pilot- martyrs."

  "I live to die!" shouted Yusef.

  "I will not be content to die once, but many times for the glory of Islam!" Jihad Jones howled.

  "You will die at the appointed hour. First you will train."

  His brow furrowing with worry, Yusef raised his hand.

  "Will we have to take a test this time?"

  The Deaf Mullah shook his bearded head. "No written examination."

  "Good. I do not like written examinations."

  "There will be no examinations. They are not re­quired by Allah in this thrice-blessed enterprise."

  Yusef raised his hand again. "Is cheating al­lowed?"

  "Not in this enterprise."

  "Oh," said Yusef Gamal, who hoped he could get by without cheating. He very much wanted to die. For he could not endure the thought of his allotment of houris pining away in Paradise without him, unkissed and uncaressed.

  Chapter 21

  The flight back to Boston left the gate on schedule, lifted off on schedule and made excellent time to Lo­gan airport.

  Over Pennsylvania, the aircraft started its descent, and Remo heard the pilot promise an early arrival.

  "We're going to crash," Remo told the Master of Sinanju.

  "Why do you say this?" asked Chiun, quickly checking the aluminum wing outside his window for signs of structural weakness.

  "On-time performance never happens anymore. God is trying to make our last hours on earth very special."

  "Then why does He thrust stewardesses in your face at every turn?"

  "He's thinking of the old Remo. In the old days, I never turned down an available stewardess."

  "This was before the boon of Sinanju, of course."

  "Yeah. Back when I was a cop, stewardesses hardly ever looked twice."

  "And now you have them in abundance when you do not wish them. Is life not unfair?"

  "Life is very unfair," agreed Remo.

  "Therefore, we will not crash," said Chiun, set­tling the matter.

  Over Rhode Island, Tamayo Tanaka came out of first class and hurried to a rear rest room, carrying a makeup case. She pointedly ignored them.

  "I can't believe that's the same woman on Channel 4," Remo remarked.

  "I cannot believe any white woman would lower herself the way that one does."

  "When did white people slip beneath Japanese on the Korean evolutionary scale?''

  The Master of Sinanju lifted his jade-capped index finger. "Since I was reduced to wearing this orna­ment."

  Tamayo hogged the rest room for nearly half an hour, and when she came back up the aisle she was dabbing some shiny, slick stuff at the comers of her eyes, which were now as slanted as almonds. Her skin tone was now a dusky ivory, her lips very red.

  "Don't look now, but Tamayo just turned Japa­nese."

  "The brazen hussy. Look at her flaunt her false Japaneseness."

  "Takes all kinds."

  The 727 landed approximately twenty-two minutes early. Deplaning, Remo said, "I'll bet Smith pulled some strings with the FAA to get us here this fast."

  There was no sign of Tamayo Tanaka in the airport waiting area. Downstairs the cabstand was backed up, so the Master of Sinanju simply went to the head of the line and stepped into the back of the next taxi to

  go.

  Shrugging, Remo followed.

  "Hey! You can't do that!" a familiar voice com­plained.

  And to their dismay, Tamayo Tanaka hopped in with them. "Two can play this game," she said.

  "You people all together?" the cabbie demanded through the cloudy Plexiglas partition.

  "Yes," said Tamayo.

  "No!" snapped Chiun.

  "Maybe," said Remo, who alone understood that time was of the essence. "We're going to the main post office."

  "South Postal Annex? Where that nut is holding the FBI off?"

  "That's where I'm going, too," said Tamayo.

  That was enough for the cabbie. He shot out from the curb.

  In traffic, Tamayo pulled a cell phone from her purse and called her station.

  "I'm almost to the Sumner Tunnel. Be at South Station in ten minutes. What'
s the latest?"

  Remo and Chiun listened in.

  "They've still got him treed on top of South Sta­tion, Tammy," a voice said.

  "Tammy?" said Remo.

  "Shh," Tamayo hissed, turning toward the car window. "Is he saying anything?"

  "Only that he's disgruntled."

  "Maybe I can talk him down."

  "If you can, you're better than the FBI Violent Postal Worker Task Force."

  "See you in ten," said Tamayo, clicking off.

  "Violent Postal Worker Task Force?" said Remo as Tamayo shoved her cell phone into her purse.

  "It's new."

  "It's an idea whose time has come, I guess," said Remo.

  "Are you two going to tell me who you're with?"

  "Fraudulent Japanese Squad," sniffed Chiun. "We are new, too."

  "There's no law against coaxing a person's reces­sive genes to the surface."

  "There should be," said Chiun. "Christmas cake."

  "Christmas cake?" Remo said.

  "It is what one calls a Japanese woman who is not married by a certain age, Remo. A very deep insult, which is lost upon this imposter."

  "I don't know why you're being so peppery," Ta- mayo said. "You and my maternal grandmother could be related."

  Chiun made a shocked O with his papyrus lips. "Remo, I have been insulted."

  "Inadvertently," said Remo.

  "Stop this vehicle and deposit this tart-tongued witch."

  "No time."

  "Then I am getting out," Chiun snapped, grasping the door handle and opening the door a crack.

  Reaching over, Remo pulled it shut again. "For Christ's sake, we're almost there."

  And then they were there. Because of the crowds, the cab had to drop them off at Atlantic Avenue near the tall aluminum washboard that was the Federal Reserve Building.

  It was dusk now. State-police helicopters criss­crossed the sky. Searchlights made hot circles in the ornate sandstone facade of Boston's South Station at the intersection of Atlantic and Summer Street. As they got out, one light fell upon the big green copper- faced clock, which showed exactly 8:22, and then moved up to the resting stone eagle at the roof comb.

  A huddled figure in blue and gray withdrew from the light, slipping behind one outstretched stone wing.

  "Looks like our man," said Remo.

  Chiun nodded. "It will not be a simple thing to capture him living."