The Hammer of God

Armed with the picture of the four known men and the one unknown man, law enforcement officials swarmed into Muslim communities from coast to coast. There was a terrific outcry from all the usual sources. These cries of stereotyping and prejudice towards one specific cultural group was strangely not as loud among smart-thinking Muslims in those communities who realized that an infected bioterrorist hiding in their midst would infect Muslims and non-Muslims with non-stereotyping, non-discriminatory accuracy. Two known terrorists were found hiding in those communities. Because one of these proved to be infected, intense medical teams also swept into these Muslim communities curtailing their infectious breathing of Complex-33. Untold thousands of innocent Muslim-American men, women, and children were saved.

?§?

It was impressive; this was a prayer mat of the same weaver as his father had, all those many years ago. That alone was the sole comfort he now had at the Manhattan Correctional Facility. Unable to merge into the general population, his confinement couldn’t be deemed solitary because there was a constant stream of nurses, doctors, and psychiatrists, as well as guards. An imam came once a week — a prayer session attended by a translator and a member of the American security community. These visits were also recorded for later scrutiny. He was not allowed a lawyer because he was being “detained;” he had not been arrested.

Then she came to his room one day. His danger sense went immediately up. She was either a young girl from a college course doing research or a she-devil, sent to seduce him away from Allah and the cause.

“Aliz Berniham. I am special agent Brooke Burrell, the F.B.I. agent who took you into custody when you were wounded at the motel.”

Upon the term, “F.B.I.,” Sheik Aliz Berniham focused on a crack near the sink in his one room “cell” and tried to let the remembered sound of midday prayers fill his ears in an anemic attempt to drown out her words in his head. But his mind swirled; Allah’s plan, which he had been so close to carrying out, with its two years of training and planning, had been thwarted by a woman. A woman who, from the looks of it, didn’t even bleed yet. What had he done to displease Allah, to be rebuked like this? A woman!

Then a smile creased his face ever so slightly. If the Americans were this desperate, conscripting a mere woman to combat jihad, then surely victory was a matter of when, not if. His attention eventually tuned into the voice of the woman speaking at him.

“… it’s up to you. In our system you have been designated an enemy combatant. Therefore, we can hold you indefinitely. Now, the manner of your incarceration can be good or not so good. It can be here or in a nicer place, eventually with an outdoor garden, maybe contact with certain other inmates.”

She was good, this one, well briefed about his garden at home, his sole expression of art, and the many satisfying hours he spent gardening. It was a remnant of the British influences of his youth when they occupied his country, dividing his homeland up like a holiday goose at the dinner table. His father, through his connections with the British Empire, secured free passage for his mother, his brother, and him to relocate in Hungary.

His father died soon after their arrival in that new country. He and his brother strayed from the religious teachings into the ways of science. They were both naturals at it, with each achieving academic honors and degrees in various disciplines.

“Okay, so here’s what I want to know: how did you adulterate the vaccine? How did you get operational ability in the U.S.?” The agent slid a pad across the plain wood table. He disregarded it, instead he remained focused on the wall, calculating the stress forces that combined and created the horizontal crack in the plaster.

“This is the only way for you to get some semblance of normality for the rest of your living days, Sheik.”

She was showing some small amount of respect to his position. Still, he remained focused on the fracture. He shifted in his seat.

“Aren’t you going about this all wrong?” he finally said, recognizing her against his better instincts.

“I am not going to insult your intelligence and befriend you then use that friendship to weasel information out of you,” Brooke stated flatly. She finally got eye contact from him for her gambit. “You will never get out of here, unless you tell me what I want to know. That is an iron-clad fact, sir.”

The Sheik smiled. He knew he wouldn’t be here long.

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It reminded Bill of P.S. 21, the little, red brick front part. The original school building to which, in 1957, the modern extension was attached. The basement of that 1900’s elementary school was the same as the basement here in the White House, right down to the moisture-controlling gray sealant paint.