Pandemic

But things had changed since those halcyon student days. Kabaal had reconnected in a far deeper sense with his Islamic roots. And, as he had learned from Sheikh Hassan, with commitment came obligation. Obligation to disseminate the word of God. Obligation to strive for a state where religion and life weren't forced asunder as they were in the hedonistic West or corrupt Arab monocracies. The Sheikh made it clear that it was Kabaal's duty to push his brothers, by force if necessary, toward a nation like the Prophet Mohammed's Al Madinah, where the Shari'ah (or Islamic law) ruled supreme.

Still, Kabaal had been slow to reach for the sword. When the twin towers fell in New York he even allowed a few of his papers to criticize the action. But then Kabaal watched with a sense of bitter betrayal as the West mounted a savage retaliation — Afghanistan, Palestine, and finally Iraq. The last aggression galled him the most. When the supposed weapons of mass destruction never materialized, "democratization" became the catchphrase. What hypocrisy! Kabaal knew it was always about the oil. And now the U.S. was already eyeing Syria and Iran with her gluttonous insatiable appetite for oil and power.

Sheikh Hassan had predicted it all. In a voice that trembled with passion when the cleric spoke of the degenerate West, the Sheikh argued that the Crusades had never ended. In every country where Islam met Judeo-Christianity, war was ongoing. A war in which Islam was the victim. And as the Sheikh pointed out, when facing the bombs and airplanes of the infidels, what choice did the outmatched righteous have? Guerilla warfare was the only option. When Islam was under threat, no weapon — regardless of its unorthodoxy or lethality — was beyond consideration.

While the Sheikh's arguments moved Kabaal, until recently his involvement in the cause had been limited to financial support. And he supported it generously. Through murky, circuitous trails, his funds found their way to coffers across the globe. From the Hezbollah in Lebanon to the Abu Sayyef in the Philippines, Kabaal's "endowments" allowed The Brotherhood to pursue the cause.

The time had come for Kabaal to jump into the operational field. He intended to do so with an eruption that would reverberate around the globe.

If only he heard back from the Malays.

He clicked the "send/receive" button again. This time, a bar popped up as the antivirus software scanned the message. A moment later the message opened on his screen.

Shipping update. Items: Religious Texts.

Unavoidable delay with Chinese customs. One container damaged beyond repair.

Discarded prior to shipment. Other container arrived with all the books intact.

Awaiting further distribution instructions.

Yours,

LS.

Kabaal smiled. The Malays had done well. Very well.

He deleted the message and turned off his computer. "And so it begins," he said to no one.

CHAPTER 4

UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 640, EASTERN ATLANTIC

Had Noah Haldane waited another millisecond before yanking his leg out of the aisle, the drinks cart would have steamrolled over his foot.

"Sorry, sweetie," the chunky middle-aged flight attendant chirped in a southern drawl. "Almost crushed your little piggies, there."

"No. My fault," Haldane said as he shifted in the seat and repositioned his pillow to no avail. In spite of his fatigue and the relative comfort of the first-class surrounds, he wasn't any closer to sleep.

"You look so uncomfy, hon," the woman said, flashing her teeth and gums in another huge smile. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Can you make the last twenty-four hours of my life disappear?"

The flight attendant laughed so vigorously that her voluminous, dyed blond hair shook. "Honey, I absolutely can." She leaned forward and rummaged through the cart before emerging with three minibottles, each one squeezed between neighboring fingers of her right hand. "Vodka? Gin? Or is this a job only Johnny can handle?" She shook the miniature Johnny Walker whiskey bottle between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a small bell.

"I'll start with vodka."

Haldane nodded his thanks as he sat up in his seat and accepted the glass of vodka on the rocks. Conceding that sleep wasn't an option, he reached for the stack of printouts that the WHO had e-mailed him.