but mostly he was gobsmacked that the little brown fucker had the temerity to cut short the forty-five minutes that he’d been promised. Bad enough that he hadn’t permitted Birk to bring along a cameraman. “What other luminaries are you expecting today?”
Birk’s question appeared to flummox the minister, but briefly: “Surely, you must know about the arrival of the Dick Cheney.”
The former vice president? “No, I didn’t know. When’s he coming?”
“He? No, no.” Ho-ho-ho.
What an annoying laugh.
“It is the ship the Dick Cheney. A giant tanker ship. It is in our Maldivian territorial waters even while we waste Mr. Birk’s precious time. Goodness, we are down to six minutes.”
The tanker, right. He knew about that. Didn’t know it was named the Dick fucking Cheney. And if the Dick fucking Cheney was plodding along in local waters, then Senator Gayle Higgens couldn’t be far behind. Birk would have to act fast.
“Tell me, Mr. Minister, how serious is your problem with homegrown terrorists?”
“No, Mr. Birk, you must not say … what is that word? ‘Homegrown’? They all come from far away. No proud Maldivian would ever take the life of his brother or sister. You must get that right in your reports. We insist.”
“What about your homegrown jihadists? They’re not so proud, are they?”
“Ah, look at this, Mr. Birk.” He pointed to his gold Rolie. “Time for you to go. Me, too. A luminary is coming.”
* * *
Adnan sat in the small fishing boat, squeezed below the gunwale with four jihadists from Waziristan. They’d arrived on his island at dusk last night, minds laden with the schemata of the tanker they planned to hijack, eyes gleaming with paradise. All of them knew death was imminent, either from seizing the vessel or from the detonation of the bomb that Adnan had become.
Last night Parvez had strung a large black Islamic flag between two trees. Then he’d brought out a video camera.
“Adnan, you are a martyr…”
Recording Adnan’s final statement had always been part of the plan. Even so, when Parvez said those words, Adnan’s spirits soared as surely as if he’d been praised by Allah Himself. Martyr. The highest honor—and it had been bestowed upon him. How great to have lived to hear such praise. The supreme leaders of Islam would know of him, and of Parvez, too, for he was the orchestrator of a martyrdom so great that billions of people would bear witness.
His friend went on: “Do you wish to say anything before you start on your path to martyrdom?”
“I wish to say that I’m doing this, inshallah, to make retribution for the Christian and Jewish pigs who are killing my country…”
Parvez nodded approval of every word. Then, on cue, the jihadists rushed up from the beach and flanked Adnan for the camera with their guns and heavy cartridge belts and RPGs. Their shoulder-mounted weapons pointed straight to the heavens, and Adnan had been startled to notice for the first time that the rockets were shaped like the minarets of Malé. Surely chance alone could not explain such a blessed coincidence: The unholy who dared to ban the most sacred towers would be answered with minarets of steel and explosives that would claim them in storms of fire and death.
Those weapons now lay hidden beneath layers of netting thick with the rotting smells of the sea. The fisherman who had sailed them past dozens of the country’s tiny islands now trailed the Dick Cheney and the five Maldivian Coast Guard boats that were escorting it.
Adnan had been approved for duty on the supertanker. Given his experience, training, and seaman’s papers, his employment had never been in question. He would be welcomed when he walked onto the wharf, his fully packed vest covered by a layer of clothes.
But disguising his true intentions would get him only as far as the gate to the gangplank. To board would require his fellow jihadists to shoot their way past the Maldivian security forces who would search each sailor. In the past, the security detail often lazed in the sun and performed cursory baggage checks, but Parvez had warned that they would be more alert tomorrow, and that the jihadists must take the ship. Adnan’s assignment would be to get on board, not to engage in battle. Even so, a Mauser pistol lay under the netting for him. Once on deck, he could hold everyone at bay with the threat of the bomb. He had to buy time, Parvez said, and make them sail the tanker into