MINE Chapter 1 (standard:action, 11518 words)
Author: Tom Soukup	Added: Feb 21 2003	Views/Reads: 3914/2571	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Chapter 1 of my new novel that I am currently marketing. It is an international action thriller involving terrorism and West African diamond mining.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

glass, her slender fingers accepting the warmth of the sun. 

A car horn sounded below and Erin followed the sound to a red
convertible stopped in the street below her window.  Five young men 
shouted and waved, laughing sharply, pointing and slapping each other 
on the back.  Erin pressed closer to the glass to see what it was that 
had drawn their attention.  With innocent shock she suddenly realized 
that it was she that was the focus of their raucous behavior.  Erin 
stood there pressed against the large window wearing nothing more than 
panties.  Although the window was three stories above the street, the 
distance did nothing to detract from the show she inadvertently 
provided as stimulus to the overactive hormones of the lecherous 
audience below.  Erin quickly closed the drapes, turned and pressed her 
back tightly against them, clutching the fabric behind her.  She could 
feel the angry rhythm of her heartbeat, unconscious reaction to the 
violation, but she calmed it with a return of her smile, then a laugh 
as she saw her own reflection in the mirror on the far side of the 
room. 

"Where were those guys at prom time?" she said to the reflection. 

Erin was painfully thin; skinny was actually a more apropos word.  At
five feet seven inches and barely tipping the scale at 105 pounds . . . 
hardly the physique of most of the other coeds that strolled the 
crowded campus . . . she had never been able to draw that same kind of 
attention fully clothed and at eye level.  She suspected correctly that 
the illusion she presented in the faraway window fashioned a better 
spin than could ever the actual flesh.  There was a time when that 
would have deeply bothered her.  She had always been thin, most likely 
a genetic curse encoded as indelibly as her ghoulish skin pallor.  For 
years, a bra was more as fulfillment to what little was left of her 
self-esteem than as an article of necessity.  Even now at the age of 
twenty-one, a woman by all other definitions, there was little more 
than two palms-full of soft flesh on her chest.  Those screaming young 
men in the car below probably had a larger cup size than she did.  Erin 
crossed her arms and laid a hand over each of her tiny breasts.  Time 
had taught her to find humor in her situation and, although that humor 
was often bittersweet, the flavor had become natural. 

"Big surprises often come in little packages," she said aloud as if the
crude young men might be able to hear.  Or maybe it was more to 
convince herself of her chosen destiny.  Besides all that, her slight 
build, which had been the curse of the past, would now work to her 
advantage in today's task.  She nurtured it, fearful through these last 
twenty-nine months of planning that she might suddenly gain the weight 
that had been out of her reach for a lifetime.  That just wouldn't do.  
Her eyes moved to the row of packages that were neatly arranged on the 
bed, fourteen of them in all, perfect rectangles with red stenciled 
labels.  She bit her bottom lip as she ran her finger along the edge of 
one.  Twinges of excitement climbed the ridges of her backbone.  She 
had to be strong, not just of conviction . . . there was never a 
question there . . . but physically strong as well.  She trained in the 
university gym nearly every night, working her tired muscles for 
elasticity and endurance while avoiding building mass that would only 
get in the way.  Erin stayed to herself, avoiding the gaggles of 
narcissistic females who spent most of their energy posing in front of 
full length mirrors to make sure that their hair was coifed to look 
fashionably (but naturally) tussled, their leotards were sufficiently 
thin to display enough nipple for the sweaty jock at the Nautilus 
nearby, and that their tee-back panties wouldn't dig too deeply into 
the muscular flesh of their ample buttocks.  They gave Erin strange 
looks as she labored away beneath a sweat suit that might just as 
easily have hidden a teenaged boy. 

But Erin had purpose.  Her body was sculpted to the task at hand.  Her
lanky build was cast of tight muscle, nothing superfluous, each feature 
according to that prescribed in the manual and tested a hundred times 
before.  She could run five miles in the heat of summer without 
breaking a sweat.  Countless journeys up and down the stadium stairs 
taught her that.  She was sure on her feet, practicing to carry her own 
weight carefully, elegantly as if she were walking the runway of a 
beauty pageant.  Oh how differently the skill would be applied.  She 
could balance her delicate frame over each willowy leg, transferring 
the weight to the outsides of each foot as they rolled heel to toe, 
heel to toe, steadily and confidently across the floor.  It was the 
walk of a jungle predator.  Stealth. 

"Do it again," Mustafa would say to her.  He'd hold his hand above her
head, his slender black fingers extended outward, walking beside her 
and scolding her as the wispy blonde strands of her hair brushed his 
palm.  "Do it again." 

Erin would turn without questioning.  Her bright eyes would lock with
the darkness of his, and the determination in his face was enough to 
stem any uncertainty that she might have harbored. 

"Now hold these and do it again."  Mustafa would hand her two
five-kilogram barbells.  "Hold them close to your sides and walk with 
me once more." 

Erin could feel the added weight, twenty-two pounds in all, as it
pressed her bare feet to the floor, her abdominal muscles straining to 
keep her back straight and her eyes forward.  She struggled as a drop 
of sweat formed on her forehead. 

"You mustn't," Mustafa said sharply, and he brought his face within
inches of hers.  He blotted the salty moisture away with the tip of his 
finger. 

Erin wanted to cry for the first time since the training had begun.  Her
conservative background in an upscale Delaware suburb and years in a 
private finishing school never opened the possibility that she'd be 
standing here in a dormitory room with a strangely dressed black man 
snapping commands into her face. 

"Do . . . it . . . correctly," he said without expression.  His skin
took on an almost indigo cast from this close. 

But Mustafa was her friend.  Inside she knew that.  They had originally
met quite by accident early in the first semester of her freshman year. 
 Harvard University was a frightening place and, although she clearly 
had the credentials to be here . . . a 1578 on the SAT and a wealthy 
father who was not only an alumnus but also a sizable contributor . . . 
she lacked the interpersonal skills to feel comfortable in the Ivy 
League aura.  It was Daddy, after all, who wanted this, and Daddy 
usually got what he wanted.  Erin would have been far happier at the 
local junior college even though it "might not have been commensurate 
with her academic prowess."  That's how Daddy would have put it.  Erin 
had little direction in mind when she stepped on the Harvard campus, 
really no different than most incoming students, and picked coursework 
from the university catalog as if she were choosing from a luncheon 
menu. 

"Islamic Philosophy and Theology": Harvard Divinity School, room 2304,
Professor Dhakir Rhumlah. 

It looked interesting, in stark contrast to her rigid Episcopalian
childhood.  Her enrollment would likely upset Daddy to some extent, but 
that in itself made the course attractive.  The Muslim world was on 
everyone's mind these days in a rainbow of emotions running from 
curiosity, through anger, to fear. The class size was small, the 
students representative of religious and ethnic diversity, and the 
topic compelling.  Professor Rhumlah brought life to what might have 
otherwise been the mundane.  Islam was probably the least understood, 
certainly the most misunderstood religion in practice today even though 
it formed the lives of more than a billion people worldwide.  Erin 
drank in Rhumlah's lessons, struggling at times with his thick Arabic 
accent that betrayed his roots in Saudi Arabia.  He deftly spoke of the 
similarities and contrasts, more often the former than the latter, in 
comparisons with the Christianity that clearly dominated the student 
body.  His textbook of choice was nothing more than a well-done 
translation of the Qur'an, and he quoted passages from memory to 
illustrate and punctuate his points.  His lectures had the unique 
quality of being able to add new mysteries while dissolving the 
preconceived away. 

"You seem quite taken by my religion."  A tall black fellow walked
beside Erin as she left class one day.  He was wearing a chocolate 
brown long shirt extending below his knees, buttoned high to the 
collar, and a matching cloth cap that resembled a sort of short fez.  
She remembered seeing him sitting in the class slightly behind her on 
the right.  "It is a beautiful religion but there is so much more that 
the professor cannot fully explain in such a structured environment." 

The young man spoke quite eloquently and with no hint of Arabic or any
other foreign accent that would have been more fitting to his dress.  
His words were soft. 

"Excuse me," he said when he recognized the puzzled look on Erin's face.
 "Let me apologize for my lack of manners.  My name is Mustafa Majd 
Udeen."  He extended his hand to Erin.  She took it hesitantly, 
noticing his unnaturally long fingers and the look of sincerity in his 
eyes. 

"I'm Erin Logan."  She realized that she was staring into his face and
she looked quickly away, dropping his hand and stepping back a bit in 
embarrassment.  She found herself strangely entranced in his presence, 
captured for the moment by the persona of muted confidence. 

Mustafa saw the faint lines of her nearly transparent eyebrows knit once
again and understood that further explanation was probably in order.  
"I used to be Jared Brown," he said, allowing the clarity of his 
enunciation to falter a bit and let just a hint of natural Alabama 
drawl creep through. 

Erin clutched her books tightly to her chest and turned slightly away
from Mustafa as if torn between staying to learn more from this strange 
man or running away as her instincts were telling her to. 

Mustafa laughed softly, a soundless rush of air rather than something
more audible.  "I'm sorry," he said and he stepped toward her.  Erin 
backed away an equal step.  "My name used to be Jared Brown before I 
changed it.  My father is Terrell Brown and my mother is Eunice Brown 
and they live happily ever after in Birmingham, Alabama where I was 
born.  Last year I changed my name to Mustafa Majd Udeen.  I embraced 
Islam and took a re-born name.  Majd Udeen means 'the glory of the 
Faith'.  You know, it's a change the way Cassius Clay changed his name 
to Mohammed Ali?" 

Erin tipped her head and a few strands of yellow hair fell across her
cheek to at least give her the illusion of protection from the 
charismatic eyes of the young man.  "Cassius Clay?" she said. 

"You've got to be kiddin' me," Mustafa said, and he let the veil fall
completely from his metered speech.  "The boxer.  You know, heavyweight 
champion of the world.  Mohammed Ali?  Ali means 'Noble'.  Mohammed the 
Noble.  How 'bout Karim Abdul-Jabaar, the basketball star?  He used to 
be Lew Alcindor.  Now he's Karim, Servant of the Mighty."  Erin brushed 
the hair away from her face but couldn't brush away her confused 
expression.  "Where y'all been, girl?" he asked with all of Alabama on 
his sleeve. 

Now Erin did turn away and walked into the hall. 

"Wait," Mustafa called to her.  "I'm sorry."  The southern accent was
gone again and the softness that intrigued Erin in the first place 
returned.  "Can I walk with you?  I'm going your way anyway."  He 
smiled. 

"But you don't even know where I'm going," Erin said without looking at
him.  She stopped and turned, and his broad smile seemed to be 
infectious. 

"Well, we're way out here on the edge of campus so I guess just about
everywhere else is in the same direction.  I'm heading back to the 
dorm.  The dungeon at Quincy House," he quipped. 

"I'm right across the way.  Lowell House." 

"See?  I told you I was going your way."  He held the door for her and
they walked out into the cool September air. 

"So tell me again about this Jared-Mustafa thing," Erin said.  Her long
legs kept equal pace with Mustafa's quick stride.  New England's brisk 
winters and a far-reaching campus are good teachers for such things. 

"Jared Brown was my name when I was a Baptist growing up at home in
Alabama.  We were all Baptists.  My uncle was a Reverend and my father 
was Deacon of our church for years.  My mother sang in the choir and my 
sister married into another Baptist family from the congregation.  I 
guess coming here to such a liberal college was enough to start me 
questioning what I really believed in.  My family scraped together 
every penny they could find to get me into the Divinity School here.  
It was a very big deal for them.  Everyone expected me to be the next 
reverend in the family and take over the church when Uncle Charles 
retires in a few years.  Didn't work out that way though." 

"What happened?" Erin asked.  She was beginning to feel more comfortable
now with her new friend. 

Mustafa stopped and looked up into the bright sky.  "I guess I learned,"
was all he said at first.  He let those words sink in for a very long 
time.  "There's so much more to know.  I studied and read everything I 
could get my hands on.  I went to lectures and badgered the speakers 
until they told me everything that they knew."  Mustafa laughed at 
that, reflecting for a moment on some unspoken memory.  He shook his 
head.  "Everything.  But you know it was finally Allah who showed me 
the answer."  Erin appeared to be forming a question when Mustafa said, 
"Allah.  God.  Islam brought me the sort of inner peace that I just 
couldn't find anywhere else.  Jared Brown was the Baptist from 
Birmingham.  He's gone."  Mustafa waved his hands in the air, 
dismissing his past.  "Mustafa Majd Udeen is the Muslim you see before 
you today.  The only connection remaining between the two is in the 
physical.  That I cannot change.  But the mind of Mustafa belongs to 
Islam."  He laid his palms against his chest as if to embrace his very 
soul.  "I am Mustafa Majd Udeen." 

Erin continued to walk, unaware that she had left him standing behind
her.  She hadn't met anyone quite like him and felt small.  "I want to 
know more," she said and she turned to see that he was well behind her 
now, still standing with his long arms in the air.  He looked iconic 
with the hazy shadows of the noontime sun making his dark features 
indiscernible.  "I want to know more," she repeated. 

Without speaking, he turned away from her, adjusted his position a few
degrees further, and gently dropped to his knees.  He placed his 
forehead on the ground and began to chant in complex tones. 

"Mustafa?" Erin walked closer to him, bending over with a concerned look
on her face.  "Are you all right?"  She laid a hand on his broad back 
but he didn't respond.  She felt the vibration of his cryptic words and 
pulled her hand away suddenly as if she was caught touching something 
forbidden. 

"Leave the freak alone," someone shouted. 

Erin turned her head sharply to the sound, fire flashing in the jade of
her eyes.  She sensed a defensive wave come over her although she had 
no idea why.  There was a small group of students gathered together 
under a tree a short distance away.  One of them wrapped a handkerchief 
around his head and was bowing to the others in mock imitation of 
Mustafa's posture.  "Screw off," was what Erin wanted to say to them 
but there was something about Mustafa's posture that made such language 
seem inappropriate.  Instead, she just stood there and glared at the 
intruders.  Her icy stare must have sent a strong enough message that 
they simply walked away without another word. 

Erin looked back at Mustafa. 

"Allaha Akbar . . . Subhana Bab-bi-yal A'Ala," he said.  He sat upright
on his heals and then began to rise. 

"What was all that about?" she asked, sincere concern draped on her
words. She extended her hand to him to help him to his feet.  Their 
size difference rendered the gesture symbolic. 

"Don't pay any attention to them," he said.  There was no anger in his
words.  It was obviously something he had suffered numerous times.  He 
calmly brushed the dried grass from his trousers. 

"What were you doing anyway?" she asked as they resumed their walk back
to the dormitories. 

"Salah," he said and the word seemed to come from a ripple of his
tongue. He smiled when he saw Erin try to silently mouth the word as if 
that might suggest meaning.  "Prayer," he said in explanation.  "We 
pray to Allah five times each day.  It is part of what we call Ibadah, 
our humility and devotion to Allah.  We must pray fives times each day, 
wherever we are at the time.  It doesn't matter.  Fajr is the Morning 
Prayer.  Zuhr in early afternoon, 'Asr in late afternoon.  Maghrib is 
at sunset and 'Isha at night.  It was Zuhr that I just finished but I 
used just the Salalud-Qasr, the shortened version.  The full Salah is 
quite an intricate process.  You'd find it fascinating." 

"And was that Mecca that you turned to when you bowed down?" Erin asked
having read that somewhere in the past. 

"It is Ka'bah, the sacred place at Mecca," he said, and the sound of the
word originated deep in the back of his throat.  "But it's the same 
thing." 

"But how did you learn all of that?" she asked, fearful that she was
doing a poor job of hiding her stereotypical view of Jared Brown that 
stemmed from the quieted bigotry of her heritage. 

"We gain understanding from curiosity fulfilled.  Seek it and you will
learn as I have.  Let me be your guide." 

*	*	* 

Erin's eyes drifted to the small clock on the nightstand next to her
bed.  It was already ten-thirty, and it was hard to believe that so 
many months of preparation had crawled by at a snail's pace while these 
last few hours were rushing away at whirlwind speed.  She had grown in 
so many different ways in her time here at Harvard.  She still looked 
the same on the outside, pretty much so anyway, except for a bit 
shorter haircut and the light line of a scar on her cheek where she cut 
herself slipping on the ice last winter.  When she saw her parents for 
dinner last night, they remarked at how healthy she looked and how 
proud they were of her for what she had become.  Her academic 
accomplishments were well documented.  Her father beamed.  But they 
didn't know about the other changes that Erin had undertaken on the 
inside, tucked deeply away where neither they nor anyone else could see 
them.  Erin closed her eyes now to cleanse her thoughts and restore the 
calm that she would need to finish this day. 

Her senses were suddenly aroused as a pungent odor wafted through the
stale air of the dormitory room and snapped her back to reality.  
Something was burning.  Something was very hot.  She spun around in the 
room, disoriented at first, until she saw the orange-red glow of the 
hotplate and the distorted form of what had been her teapot.  The 
plastic handle had already dripped away to leave a twisted dollop of 
char smoldering away on the wooden dresser top.  She grabbed a towel 
and snatched the remains of the teapot from the burner to toss in into 
the tiny sink in the corner of the room.  A rushing hiss of steam 
filled the room, condensing on her skin and raising gooseflesh on her 
arms. 

Erin spun away from the sink and stared at the bed through the
dissipating fog.  The packages were still okay, still all lying neatly 
in a row.  She walked slowly to the bed and placed her hand on one of 
the tightly wrapped squares.  It was still cool to her fingers although 
the prickle of what could have happened rose through her touch.  "That 
was close," she said to herself, whispering the words reverently under 
the weight of the burden they held.  A fire in the tiny room could have 
been devastating.  There were probably no more than two or three feet 
of space between where the teapot smoldered away on the dresser to the 
edge of the bed.  A spark or two tossed to the bed sheets and the whole 
thing could have gone up in flames.  Erin turned away from the spot as 
that thought caused her stomach to cartwheel.  Even if the worst hadn't 
happened, there was still the possibility that even a small fire would 
have set off the smoke alarm or, worse yet, the sprinklers in the 
ceiling.  Everyone would have come running to see what was happening.  
How could she have explained the fourteen packages on the bed to the 
university authorities? 

How could she have explained the whole thing to Mustafa? 

*	*	* 

Erin became entranced by the teachings of Professor Rhumlah.  His
lectures were filled with stories of prophets and mysteries of the 
history the formed Islam.  The course was necessarily compressed, a 
condensed version designed to fit the structure of a single semester.  
Erin's questions were answered politely but curtly, her need for 
in-depth information becoming a weight on the pace that the professor 
had established in his course outline.  Her desire for expansion of the 
various topics was insatiable. 

"Miss Logan," Professor Rhumlah finally was forced to say, "you are
looking for something much more that the scope of this class.  I 
suggest that you do some independent reading to fill your needs.  We 
also offer higher-level classes in which you can enroll in coming 
semesters.  I certainly don't want to stifle your quest for knowledge, 
but we must adhere to the course syllabus." 

Erin turned away from the professor with disappointment on her face. 

"Why don't you come with me to the Mosque on Friday," Mustafa said to
her.  "Let me help you." 

Erin met Mustafa early that next Friday morning on the steps in front of
Quincy House.  The filtered sun of a late autumn sky shone weakly 
through thickening clouds, and it was likely that the forecast for an 
early season snow-shower would be accurate. 

"Good morning," Mustafa said as he buttoned the last of his heavy coat. 
"I wasn't sure you were going to come." 

"And why wouldn't I," she answered.  They walked together along Plympton
Street toward Mount Auburn. 

Mustafa thought for a moment, not wanting to sound disrespectful.  "I
just wasn't sure," he said.  "But it is a pleasant surprise.  Your 
people do not usually show such interest." 

Erin was a bit taken aback by the term "your people".  She stopped and
turned Mustafa toward her with a tug on his sleeve.  "My people?" she 
asked with a tinge of anger in her voice. 

"You know," he said as he looked into the depths of her green eyes. 
"Christians." 

"But you were a Christian," she said accusingly.  "You said you were a
Baptist." 

"But it's different.  Christianity was forced upon my ancestors many
years ago.  They really had no choice in the matter.  My people come 
from an ancient Muslim background." 

"So does that mean that my people," she colored the words, "can't
learn?" 

Mustafa realized at once that he had struck a sensitive nerve.  He had
actually been searching for it, probing for a response.  He smiled 
apologetically.  "Of course not.  I was speaking in generalities.  
Please forgive me." 

"So where are we going?" Erin said to change the subject, satisfied with
the answer and needing no further explanation for now.  "Where is the 
Mosque?" 

"It's just outside the campus.  Just a short walk.  Well make it in
plenty of time for Fajr." 

"Fajr?" she repeated, stumbling with the word. 

"Morning prayer.  The first Salah of the day.  Remember?" 

She did remember their conversation although the strange sounding words
all seemed to blur together.  They continued to walk along quietly, 
each wondering what was going on inside the other one's mind. 

"Here we are," Mustafa said.  They stood in front of an old building,
little more than an abandoned storefront.  The window glass was opaque 
white with a series of black, wavy lines painted across the surface.  
Erin recognized it as Arabic writing. 

"This is it?" Erin asked incredulously.  She didn't want to sound
disappointed but there was no hiding it.  There were no intricate 
mosaic patterns on the walls, no minarets pointing to the sky.  It 
looked so . . . so simple. 

Mustafa understood her first impression and had no ill feeling toward
her for it.  He let it pass.  "You will need to cover your head before 
we go inside.  You can use your scarf.  Wrap it close to your face and 
around your neck.  Leave you coat buttoned all the way."  Erin looked 
at him strangely.  "It is our way." 

"Are you sure that it's okay for me to come inside?" she asked as she
made the proper adjustments to her clothing. 

"The Imam will welcome you with open arms."  Mustafa pulled her scarf
farther down over her forehead leaving only her eyes visible. 

"Imam?"  Erin was trying to absorb all of these new words. 

"The Imam is our spiritual leader.  Mullah Rahim A'Khaaliq Mahmoud.  He
is a very wise and gracious man." 

Erin found the very name intimidating but she placed herself in the
hands of her friend.  She nodded. 

As they entered the Mosque, they heard soft conversation from small
groups scattered throughout the empty building.  The young men were 
dressed similarly to Mustafa, wearing long shirts that ended just below 
the knees, and either colorful caps or some more complicated headgear 
that Erin correctly surmised had significance in their various 
heritages.  The women were cloaked from head to foot in dark colored, 
loosely fitting robes with only their hands and eyes without covering.  
Erin felt underdressed and self-consciously pulled the scarf over more 
of her face as she looked around the room. 

The floor was covered with small patterned rugs, each of them precisely
angled toward one corner of the room, which she assumed marked the 
direction of Ka'bah.  There were signs fastened to the walls with a 
variety of wavy line patterns that had no meaning to her. 

A door opened at the rear of the room and a tall man wearing flowing
robes entered.  He was obviously of Middle-Eastern origin.  His skin 
was dark and his untrimmed beard fell onto his chest.  His eyes were 
black as onyx but looked unnaturally peaceful.  "Subhana-Kallah-Humma 
Wa Bi-Handaka Watabarakas-Muka Wata'Ala Jadduka . . ." 

Salah had begun.  Each of the men and women moved silently to the edge
of their prayer rug.  "You can stay back here," Mustafa said to Erin 
pointing to a bench along the back wall.  He walked to his place at the 
far edge of the room. 

Erin was lost in the chanting of the melodic language.  At first she
felt out of place but she closed her eyes and let the surreal sounds 
comfort her, melting into the background yet feeling a part of what was 
transpiring before her.  The words were in unison but the voices were 
still distinct in their communication each with their God. 

"Allahu Akbar." 

Erin opened her eyes and saw the congregation move slowly to their
knees, then bend deeply to the floor, at last lying prostrate centered 
on the colorful carpets.  Each pressed his forehead, nose, knees and 
palms against the pile of the prayer rugs as the chant began again but 
with different words. 

"Subhana Rab-Bi-Yal A'Ala . . ." 

Her mind pictured the sculpted minarets now that were so disappointingly
absent when she first saw the Mosque.  She could almost feel the warm, 
dry winds that crossed those timeless deserts, and she envisioned the 
drifting sands forming endlessly smooth dunes, each marching forward 
relentlessly under a cloudless sky of sizzling azure.  She began to see 
her own life played on a parallel screen, an insignificant melodrama 
that paled in comparison to the intensity of the devotion of these 
worshipers.  She felt small, lost, a forgotten figure among these men 
and women, and found herself desiring to become a part of what she was 
witnessing instead of just an observer. 

Erin wondered if Jared Brown went through the same thought processes
before he reincarnated to Mustafa Majd Udeen.  Was there some 
similarity in Jared's background that, as was now playing so vividly in 
Erin's mind, had turned him toward a new light? 

"As-Salamu 'Alaikuar Wa-Rahmatul-Lah." 

The Salah was finished. 

Mustafa stood before Erin and his expression turned to one of unease. 
"Are you alright?" he asked in his soft tone. 

Erin's face was flushed bringing the first sign of color to her cheeks
that Mustafa had ever seen.  "Yes," she said.  "That was amazing, so 
beautiful."  Her words were slurred, as if she had just awakened from a 
pleasant, intoxicating dream. 

Mustafa smiled at her, satisfied that he had done the right thing in
inviting her here.  He extended his hand and helped her to her feet.  
"Would you like to meet the Mullah?" 

Erin's instinct told her to decline.  This had already been too much for
the little Irish girl from suburban Delaware.  It was obvious that 
these people held Mullah A'Khaaliq Mahmoud in very high regard.  
Mustafa had already explained to her that they believed the Imam to be 
a direct representative of the Prophet Muhammad himself.  She was 
frightened but she said, "Yes." 

Mustafa walked with her to the back of the room where the Mullah was
talking with several young men.  "Mustafa," the old man said as they 
neared.  "It is so good to see you."  His accent was thick although his 
enunciation of English was very precise, spoken in metered syllables 
similar to the way Mustafa fashioned his own speech.  Erin figured that 
Mustafa was also very taken by this man and emulated his speech pattern 
through overwhelming respect.  The Mullah shifted his gaze to Erin, and 
she could feel the pull of his charismatic eyes.  "And who is your 
friend?" he said to Mustafa, never taking his eyes from Erin. 

"Mullah Rahim A'Khaaliq Mahmoud, may I introduce Erin Logan," Mustafa
said with a slight bow toward the Imam.  Erin extended her hand but the 
Mullah did not. 

"Welcome to our place of worship," he said and he smiled warmly. 

Erin tried to find the words to describe what she had seen and had
experienced in her own mind for the last hour.  But the Mullah only 
nodded his head and turned away to resume his conversation with the 
group of young men.  Mustafa held Erin's arm and led her to the door. 

"I'm sorry," she said as they stepped back into the cold outside. 

"For what?" Mustafa said innocently. 

"I . . . I just didn't know what to say.  I think I upset the Mullah." 

Mustafa laughed.  "It's all right.  You will come to understand the
Mullah.  Women are held in a far different light from what you are used 
to.  There are so many things you have yet to understand about our 
religion.  Islam is an entity unto itself." 

The words sounded biblical although Erin realized the irony in that
comparison.  "It's why I find the course at the university so 
intriguing," she said.  "I want to know so much more and the more I 
learn, it seems, the more there is still to learn."  She touched her 
forehead and shook her head.  "How do you learn it all?" 

"There is only so much that the university course can possibly teach
you.  Professor Dhakir Rhumlah is a good man but you must remember that 
he works under the direction of Harvard University."  Mustafa made that 
seem ominous.  "The professor has a course plan that has been approved 
by the Divinity College.  He can teach the basic tenets of Islam but 
there is so much more to us.  In many ways, his hands are tied." 

"But what about the First Amendment . . .  Freedom of Speech," Erin
objected. 

"You are right but there are facets of Islam that are beyond the scope
of his work.  Islam is a myriad of disciplines, much the same way that 
the Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Lutherans and Episcopalians teach 
basically the same principles but each with differences in 
interpretations of the Bible and the lessons of Jesus Christ." 

It seemed strange to Erin to hear Mustafa speak about the Bible and
Christ just after having left a service so far removed.  "But how do 
you know all of this?"  Erin finally slid the scarf from the top of her 
head and wrapped it around her neck against the winter chill. 

"You will learn.  I will teach you what the professor is unable to
teach.  Let me help you." 

Erin looked into his dark eyes and knew that this friend would be her
light. 

Days passed to weeks, weeks to months.  Erin filled all of her scarce
free time in studies with Mustafa.  Each time she thought that she had 
reached an important level of understanding, a new question opened 
another door, another facet revealed. 

"How do you keep it all straight?" she asked him one day as they walked
together back from services at the Mosque.  "There's so much to know." 

Mustafa stopped and turned her toward him.  "I go to special classes,"
he said.  "Special classes with a special group of fellow Muslims.  We 
talk of our most fundamental beliefs, what Islam means especially to 
us, what the Qur'an says as the dominant book in our lives . . . what 
our common goals are.  We meet every week." 

"Can I be part of this group?" she asked.  "You know, sort of as an
observer to learn more?" 

Mustafa saw sincerity in her face.  He saw in her what he remembered in
himself when he first discovered the beauty of Islam.  "I'll see." 

"Oh please, Mustafa," she begged.  "I really am interested.  What is the
group called?" 

"Al-Qadi," he answered. 

A chill ran through Erin's body.  The world had changed and her memories
of that fateful September day were still vivid.  "Al-Qaida?" she 
whispered, and the pronunciation of the word actually made her shiver. 

"No," he said sharply, and there was no humor in his voice.  He looked
around to see if anyone was within earshot.  "No," he said a second 
time but more softly.  "Not that.  It's Al-Qadi.  In Arabic it means 
'the judge'."  Mustafa started to walk again toward campus. 

"Oh," Erin said somberly and dropped the matter at that.  She walked
silently at his side. 

*	*	* 

Erin looked at the clock again and saw that it was now past eleven. 
Time was running short.  She had been lost in her thoughts for too long 
already.  She needed to prepare.  The odor of the melted teapot had 
faded away and, with it, the cause for immediate concern.  She only had 
a little more than an hour left to prepare and there was still so much 
to do.  She collected her thoughts and pushed her reminiscences of the 
past away at least for now.  It wasn't that they weren't important.  
Quite to the contrary in fact.  It was that past and all that it 
brought with it that was her motivation to fulfill her pledge. 

Erin went to her small closet and pushed away the pile of dirty blue
jeans and tee shirts that covered the box.  She lifted the container 
from its place on the floor, the place where she had kept it hidden for 
the last three weeks since Mustafa delivered it to her late one night.  
She set it down briefly on the bed next to the row of packages, but 
thought better of it and moved it away to the top of her desk on the 
other side of the room.  She tried to remember everything that Mustafa 
and the others had taught her, each instruction that they had detailed 
and practiced for what seemed like a thousand times.  Erin had always 
lived by lists, never trusting even more minor things to her memory 
alone.  Although she was a brilliant mind . . . 1578 on the SAT didn't 
come easily . . . she believed in the paper record as a backup based on 
sound judgment.  But that wasn't acceptable here.  Mustafa forbade her 
to put pen to paper. 

She opened the box and laid the jumble of items across the surface of
her desk, side by side in their proper order of assembly.  Each was as 
familiar to her as her own fingers.  She could have done the whole 
thing blindfolded, touch being her only guide.  Her hands were steady 
although her heart raced.  Her lips moved silently as she recited the 
instructions to herself by rote. 

From the top dresser drawer, she next removed a full roll of plastic
Saran wrap.  She took the half-spent roll of paper towels from a 
freestanding holder beside the melted hotplate and placed it aside.  
She slid the Saran wrap easily over the dowel and pulled on the loose 
end to find that it unwound smoothly and easily.  It satisfied her that 
each of those items was now in place, ready for the final moves as the 
time grew nearer. 

Erin turned to the bed and felt the muscles of her abdomen grow tighter.
 Her lips moved now to a simple Arabic prayer that she had learned when 
she first decided to remake herself in the image of her adopted 
fundamental Islamic faith.  The strange words brought inner strength 
and serenity, steeling her to the task ahead.  She quickly counted the 
packages lined up before her although she had counted them many times 
before.  There were fourteen, exactly as had been calculated.  She 
touched the first one lightly, then gathered the strength to pick it up 
and peel back the thin plastic wrapper.  A faint smell of almonds 
prickled her nose with a quick flashback to another time when she was a 
child.  Her grandmother was baking almond crescent cookies just before 
Christmas.  The aroma was pleasant.  The memory brought liquid to her 
eyes but she pushed those thoughts away swiftly.  They had no place 
here. 

Erin slipped a pair of thin latex gloves over her slender hands.  She
tried to remain calm . . . Mustafa told her there was nothing to fear . 
. . but she pulled too hard on the glove and pushed her index finger 
through the tip of the filmy plastic.  "Damn," she whispered, and she 
stripped the glove away in ragged bits.  Fortunately she had an ample 
supply, and was able to ease the next glove into place without 
incident.  She carefully unwrapped each of the fourteen packages one by 
one, laying the contents on the spread-open plastic coverings.  Each 
package had a label stenciled in red.  The words held no meaning for 
her.  Mustafa told her that the words were written in the Czech 
language, and she didn't need to worry about what they said.  She 
trusted him completely. 

She had trusted him from the moment she met him. 

*	*	* 

Erin accompanied Mustafa to her first meeting of Al-Qadi on the
Wednesday following her introduction to his special Islam and their 
last visit together to the Mosque.  It was after ten PM when they 
walked together down a dark stairwell at the side of an old building 
that was several blocks further into the city than the Mosque.  They 
entered a room that was poorly lit but she could see that it was 
clearly little more than an abandoned cellar. 

Mustafa saw the wary look on Erin's face even in the dim light.  "It's
okay," he said.  "We are among friends here." 

Erin held his arm and followed a step behind. 

There were fifteen others already there before Erin and Mustafa arrived.
 Some were dressed in garb similar to Mustafa's religious attire but 
most looked like everyday college students.  Blue jeans and sweatshirts 
were more the rule than the exception.  There were three other females 
present, and Erin immediately noticed that none wore the head covering 
that she thought would have been the requirement.  Five of those in 
attendance were African-American and all of the others appeared to be 
of obvious mid-Eastern descent.  The low light certainly accentuated 
the darkness of their skin but their ethnicity was more apparent in the 
sculpture of their features and the placid look in their eyes.  Erin 
had noticed that nearly all of the Arab-Americans she had met since 
coming to Harvard had that similar look to their eyes.  One could 
almost describe it as an appearance of servitude although she learned 
quickly that their nature was far from that.  But their dark pupils 
always seemed to float against the droop of their upper eyelids, with 
sharply contrasting white surrounding the sides and below as if they 
were perpetually looking upward.  Maybe it was servitude after all but 
of a different kind.  Servitude to their God, to Allah. 

Mustafa directed Erin to a chair near the back of the room.  He sat at
her side.  There appeared to be no one in particular in charge although 
someone up front finally spoke. 

"Welcome, friends," he said in a tone not unlike Mustafa's.  "I see we
have a new member with us tonight." 

Erin could feel the blush rise in her cheeks.  She knew that she was
completely out of her element here.  She felt a strain in her forehead 
as a brief vision of her middle school years flashed across her mind.  
She pictured each of the dark figures in the room turning to her now, 
pointing and grinning while they chanted together, "Spooky . . . 
Spooky." 

But instead they smiled and said "Ahlan wa sahlan" . . .  you are
welcome. 

Erin smiled wanly. 

"Let us offer the Salah of 'Isha," the leader said to those gathered  
He extended his hands toward Erin and added, "Please join us." 

Erin looked to Mustafa with shock on her face.  "I don't . . ." 

Mustafa silenced her with his hand upon hers.  "Just do as I do," he
said.  "We will only be doing a Salatul-Qasr."  Erin still looked 
puzzled but faintly remembered hearing the words before.  "It is the 
shortened form of Salah.  We will be reciting only two raka'ats instead 
of the usual four."  She shook her head in confusion.  "Just follow 
me." 

Erin watched Mustafa out of the corner of her eye and tried to duplicate
each of his movements although she found it impossible to mimic his 
words.  She was embarrassed and hoped that no one would notice. 

When they finished, the leader separated his chair from the others and
spoke to the group.  "Before we begin our discussions tonight, I think 
we should learn a bit about our guest.  Mustafa, would you be so kind 
as to introduce your friend?" 

Mustafa stood and coaxed Erin reluctantly to her feet.  "This is Erin
Logan.  We met in class at the university last semester, and she 
accompanied me to the Mosque this past Friday.  She has shown great 
interest in Islam and desires to know more of our ways."  He sat down 
leaving Erin standing. 

Erin looked nervously around the room.  All eyes appeared to be on her. 

"I'm Erin Logan," she repeated unnecessarily but with no other idea of
how to start.  "I'm a business major at Harvard, or at least I think 
I'm a business major.  I am for now anyway."  She stumbled over her 
words not knowing which direction to take.  "I'm eighteen years old and 
was born in Wilmington, Delaware.  When I'm not in school, I live with 
my family in . . ." 

"Tell us about your family," the leader interrupted. 

Erin's thought pattern had been broken, and she was lost for the right
words.  "I have a younger brother who is a sophomore in high school.  
My mother is a stay-at-home mom and my father is head of a large 
accounting firm." 

"Are you a religious family?" he asked. 

"We're Episcopalian," she replied, and she felt even more distanced by
the admission. 

"But are you a religious family," he asked again, and the emphasis
offered new meaning to the question. 

"My mother is."  Erin wrung her hands and began to perspire even though
there was little heat in the room.  "I guess my brother is too, in a 
way, but only because mother insists on it.  I guess I'm not as 
religious as I thought I was or I probably wouldn't be here right now." 
She smiled at her weak joke. 

"Or maybe it's just that you are not as Episcopalian as you thought you
were," he corrected.  "That doesn't mean that you are not religious.  
Do you believe in God?" 

Erin expected him to use the term Allah but realized that he spoke for
her benefit.  "I think I do.  Yes.  Yes, I do." 

"Did you feel comforted at the Mosque the other day?" 

"Yes, very much so." 

"Then you are religious in the eyes of Allah," he said and the use of
the Islamic term seemed appropriate.  "What about your father?  You 
haven't spoken of him." 

Erin's eyes went to the floor.  "I don't think my father is religious at
all."  She spit the words although she tried to hide the emotion behind 
them. 

"And why do you feel that way?" 

"He doesn't attend Sunday services with mother." 

"Is that all?"  The leader was probing.  "Is that enough to convince you
that he doesn't worship his God in some other way that is less apparent 
to you?" 

"He doesn't treat people very well," she said in quick response, and she
was surprised at how easily she let those words flow.  It was as if a 
gate had been opened.  "He runs a very large corporation and makes lots 
of money.  He fires people and lays them off when it suits him but he 
still makes lots and lots of money.  He curses and speaks badly about 
almost everyone he does business with.  He pushed and pushes . . . he 
pushes my brother and me the same way he pushes his employees and his 
clients."  Tears welled in Erin's eyes.  "And he doesn't treat my 
mother very well."  She sobbed heavily with those words.  "I just wish 
he'd . . . I just wish he'd stop." 

Mustafa reached up to hold Erin's trembling fingertips.  The leader sat
silently, letting her emotion take its full course and subside on its 
own before he continued. 

"Are you very political?" he asked at last. 

"What?" Erin said as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back
of her hand.  The drastic change in questioning sent her reeling. 

"Are you very tuned-in to American politics?"  The idiomatic expression
seemed foreign coming from the lips of the articulate young man.  "Do 
you consider yourself a Republican or a Democrat?"  The question was 
posed not as a choice of either one but as a selection between overall 
party affiliation versus none at all. 

"I'm an American," Erin said with deep thought placed into every word. 
"I'm not really into the whole political thing but I guess I have my 
opinions like everyone else." 

"Do you agree with all parts of American life?" 

The question was loaded in so many different ways.  Erin wasn't sure how
to answer or even if she should.  Although the tone of the leader never 
changed from its soothing rhythm, she couldn't help but feel that this 
was bordering on an inquisition . . . that she was being violated and 
her innermost thoughts were to be explored next.  She feared that any 
answer could turn out to be the wrong one.  "I like being in America.," 
she said at last.  "I suppose there are some things that I don't agree 
with but isn't that what we're supposed to do?  How else can we make 
changes and make things better?  It's the job of each new generation, 
isn't it?  And now it's our turn."  Erin was satisfied with her answer, 
and it restored the confidence that was being slowly eroded away. 

"Once again, let me welcome you to Al-Qadi."  He saw that he had reached
an end point and little more was to be gained for the moment.  Besides, 
he trusted Mustafa's judgment, and the questioning was only icing on 
the cake.  "Please feel free to join us in our discussions tonight and 
in our nights to come.  Consider yourself one of us."  He nodded to 
Erin and again to Mustafa, and turned to the group to begin the 
evening's dialog. 

Erin sat down heavily next to Mustafa.  "Wow," she sighed in a hushed
whisper.  "That was tough.  I'm exhausted." 

Mustafa spoke softly but continued to look toward the leader.  "You did
very well," he said. 

Erin shook her head with confusion.  In some ways she felt violated,
that her inner self was being exploited.  But there appeared to be 
nothing sinister about the questions from the leader.  She actually 
felt somewhat peaceful now that it was over. 

The Wednesday night meetings continued and Erin found their content even
more rewarding than the classes and the volumes of texts that she had 
read.  Subjects were explored at a more understandable level.  
Interpretations of the Qur'an were offered in the very most basic needs 
of mankind rather than in modern terms that stretched the words at 
whim.  Islam gained a fullness that Erin never thought possible. 

"Remember that first night at the meeting?" Mustafa asked as they walked
back to campus one day. 

"How could I forget?" she said.  "What was that all about anyway?" 

"They needed to know you." 

"But why?  Why was that so important?" 

Mustafa turned to her and looked into her eyes differently than he had
done before.  "Do you know the term Jihad?" 

*	*	* 

She carefully picked up one of the fourteen unwrapped blocks and
measured the weight in her hand.  It felt heavier than it really was. 

The label stared up at her from the surface of the bed.  "Semtex" it
said in faded red block letters.  Mustafa and his Al-Qadi friends had 
somehow managed to get their hands on the material from associates in 
the Czech Republic, a distant faction of their network, and smuggled it 
successfully into the United States some time ago.  Semtex . . . the 
name sounded innocuous enough, certainly less harmful than the more 
familiar U.S. equivalent . . . C-4.  It was the plastic explosive that 
spy novels were made of, the stuff that James Bond might have used to 
take down some sinister cold war force to protect Western civilization 
as we know it.  It had always seemed to be just some mythical substance 
created in the mind of a suspense novelist.  Nothing as real as this.  
Erin pressed her fingers into the pliable gray surface leaving a dent 
that mimicked the shape of her hand and held that shape like soft 
modeling clay.  She thought about the many times as a child when she 
would knead colorful blocks of Play Dough into happy shapes of flowers, 
misshapen pottery and indiscernible puppy dogs.  The Semtex felt a 
little powdery at first but quickly turned to the malleable putty that 
made it so useful. 

Fourteen packages, one kilogram each.  Erin ran a quick calculation in
her head.  A little more than thirty pounds of explosive power.  It 
really didn't seem like all that much at first.  Hadn't the U.S. 
bombers dropped 500 and 1000-pound bombs in Afghanistan?  And what 
about those 10,000-pound "Daisy Cutter" bombs that caused such a stir?  
Thirty pounds certainly paled in comparison.  But Mustafa had told her 
that half a kilo of plastic explosive could blast a twelve-inch hole in 
half-inch thick plate steel.  And now Erin had twenty-eight times that 
much lying on her bed right in front of her.  She touched each block 
with the tip of her finger, counting "One, two, three, four, five . . 
." 

She smiled and felt the uncharacteristic flush rise in her cheeks again.
 She held one of the bricks in both hands and began to form it, to roll 
it into a long rope of devastating potential.  She thought of a passage 
from the Qur'an: 

As for those who believe and work righteous deeds, they will have the
gardens of Paradise as hospitality.  Eternally therein, they will not 
desire any other place.  [Qur'an 18:107-108] 

As she worked the pliable mass, the aroma of almonds that rose from the
Semtex graced her senses and became sweeter and sweeter. 

A place in Paradise as small as the bow or lash of one of you is better
than all the world and whatever is in it.  [Hadith-Sahih Bukhari 4:51] 

She had been chosen for this work divinely, she believed, and she could
not only hear the words of the Al-Qadi leader whom she had come to know 
as Hakeem Naa'il Yaman, nephew of a retired Palestinian official, but 
thought that she could even sense it in the mysterious eyes of the 
Mullah Rahim A'Khaaliq Mahmoud although he had never expressed such to 
her in words.  Her fervor over the past three years had not gone 
unnoticed, and her zealous participation in animated discussions each 
Wednesday night suited her to the task that was upon her now. 

Only Mustafa knew that it was as much what Erin Logan was made of as all
the rest that identified her as the right candidate.  A conservative 
Irish background, upbringing in an affluent family, fair skin and hair, 
green eyes that told no hidden tales . . . unassuming and transparent 
in the diverse student body of prestigious Harvard University.  She 
just didn't fit the accepted profile. 

Erin stretched the snake of plastic explosive out in front of her,
gauging its length.  Swinging it around her waist, she caught the free 
end and formed a belt that adhered tightly to itself.  She still wore 
only panties and felt tingles crawl over the bare skin as the sticky 
putty grasped her stomach.  She picked up another of the heavy blocks 
and began to knead it into shape in the same way. 

They will not taste death therein, except the first death, and Allah
will preserve them from the penalty of the Blazing Fire.  It will be a 
bounty from your Lord.  That will be the supreme achievement.  [Qur'an 
44:56-57] 

She placed the second belt above the first and continued, forming each
block of Semtex into another rope to be bonded around her above the 
preceding one, working her way up her chest, creating a vest of 
destiny.  She began to feel the increasing weight press on her hips and 
constrain her breathing.  But the months of practice carrying heavy 
dumbbells and breathing in rapid, short breaths was to pay off now.  
She felt the pressure on her knees and the tension in her calves began 
to complain.  She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered. 

The person who participates in Holy battles in Allah's cause and nothing
compels him to do so except belief in Allah and His Apostles, will be 
recompensed by Allah either with a reward or booty if he survives or 
will be admitted to Paradise if he is killed in battle as a martyr.  
Had I not found it difficult for my followers, then I would not remain 
behind any sariya for Jihad and I would have loved to be martyred in 
Allah's cause and then made alive, and then martyred and then made 
alive, and then martyred in His cause.  [Hadith-Saha Bukhari 1:35] 

The last cord fit just under her breasts, pushing them up a bit making
them look fuller than they were, and, under any other circumstances, 
that might have added a touch of humor.  But there was no place for it 
here. 

She gingerly patted the body wrap together, blending it until she was
sure that it was a continuous suit that only thickened her slim figure 
to the form of an average sized torso.  The warmth of her body softened 
the plastic further and gave it enough elasticity to let her breaths 
come more easily. 

Erin moved now to the dresser, carefully removing the latex gloves,
turning each one inside out to avoid getting the identifiable odor of 
almonds on her hands.  She slid on a new pair of gloves and grasped the 
edge of the Saran wrap roll.  She pulled the clingy film, and it 
unwound as she had expected.  She slid her panties lower and wrapped 
the Saran around her body starting six inches below the bottom of the 
Semtex snake.  Slowly rotating in place, she added successive wraps of 
the film, overlapping each turn six inches on the preceding one until 
she had covered the explosive completely.  She continued the turns to 
add a second ply moving downward as necessary insurance against escape 
of the damning aroma.  It was a careful step in her preparation, one of 
the many that had been practiced for so long.  Meticulous planning and 
extensive experimentation by others within Al-Qadi had guaranteed that 
the method would avoid detection in the heightened security that was 
sure to be in place this afternoon. 

Erin slid her panties back into place and sat on the edge of the bed. 
No discomfort here, she noted.  She began to perspire from the 
impervious covering but quickly stifled it through the mental power 
that she had mastered in her efforts with Mustafa. 

She moved to the desk and deftly assembled the electronic components
required to detonate the Semtex.  Plastic explosives are extremely 
stable until subjected to a minor explosion in close proximity. That 
would be the job of the tiny blasting cap.  Erin held it between two 
fingers, and it looked like nothing more than one of those Black Cat 
firecrackers that used to delight her so much on the Fourth of July 
when she was a kid.  That was a very long time ago, she realized as she 
thought about what was soon to take place.  Where have those days gone? 


She slipped the blasting cap under the Saran wrap and pushed it deep
into the Semtex.  She slid the tangle of ignition wires into a thin 
money belt, slung it around her waist and connected the red and black 
wires to the leads on the blasting cap.  Two small switches hung out of 
the pouch on the belt, and it was these two that had to be struck to 
detonate the device.  Erin separated them and tucked one of them inside 
the waistband of her panties leaving the other to dangle free. 

She hesitated as she held the nine-volt battery in her hand.  Nothing
was likely to happen until the battery became a part of all the rest.  
Attaching it would cast the fateful die.  It would be the final sign of 
her commitment.  It was also the most likely time that an accident 
could happen if Allah chose that as the course. 

She snapped the battery into its receptacle on the ignition circuit, and
stood still for a moment. 

"Allahu Akbar," she said with relief.  Allah is the greatest. 

Erin looked a last time at the clock.  It was nearly the appointed hour.
 Four years of education at one of the finest universities in the world 
had passed.  She would have graduated with a BA in Business 
Administration, magna cum laude to boot.  It was almost as long in her 
pursuit of a chosen new faith, Islam.  And twenty-nine months of 
fastidious planning with her brethren of Al-Qadi.  Today was finally 
here. 

Erin slid the long gown over her shoulders and the flowing lines hid her
secrets perfectly.  She would wear the colors of Harvard proudly even 
though their significance lost their traditional meaning to her and 
were nothing more than a necessary means to an end.  She placed the 
mortarboard cap on her head, arranging her silky hair neatly beneath 
it.  The tassel hung before her eyes, and she pushed it aside letting 
it swing against her cheek.  In some ways it was a shame that she had 
done all of that hard schoolwork only to throw it away within minutes 
of receiving her diploma.  But her goal today was far more important. 

She supposed that her parents and her brother, all of whom would be
proudly sitting in the gallery at the ceremony, would be troubled by 
what she was about to do.  She had struggled through last night's 
dinner with them, hoping that they would be unable to see her 
intentions for the next day.  They made idle conversation over the 
tasteless meal, talks of campus life, academic pressure, her brother's 
desires to go anywhere but Harvard when his time came, a Mother's pride 
. . . Daddy's insistence that Erin have a successful future.  A future 
not to be realized.  She hoped her brother would eventually understand 
as he grew older.  She thought he might.  She knew that her mother 
never would, and that was tragic.  Daddy would just be angry . . . with 
others, not himself of course.  He would never accept that he was a 
part of it all.  That would be beyond his reach.  His ego wouldn't 
permit it.  Graduation was sure to be a lot different from when he 
strutted up to the same podium twenty-three years ago. 

Harvard Yard and Tercentenary Theatre, where the commencement ceremonies
would take place, was a short walk from Erin's dormitory.  It was a 
beautiful spring day with cloudless skies and a temperature barely 
breaking the seventy-degree mark.  Graduating students were walking 
together in small groups, arms waving in exuberant discussion, laughter 
filtering across the open green spaces, and a light breeze blowing in a 
way that sounded something like the unified swish of their silk gowns 
all heading in the direction of the rest of their lives. 

Erin walked alone.  She saw Mustafa from a distance but neither one
acknowledged the presence of the other.  It was best that way. 

As expected, security was tighter than usual around the open-air venue
for the ceremony in the shadow of Memorial Church.   Everyone had to 
pass through a metal detector.  No problem.  There didn't appear to be 
any sign of individual pat-downs that would have presented an 
impenetrable obstacle.  A menacing-looking German shepherd paced back 
and forth along the line of people passing through the security gate 
but walked past Erin without even flaring a nostril.  Apparently the 
Saran did the job for which it was advertised.  Erin breathed a sigh of 
relief. 

Erin took her seat in her designated place among the other Business
Admin graduates.  She briefly caught a glimpse of Mustafa as he sat 
some distance away with his fellow Divinity School classmates.  His 
eyes remained fixed forward.  Erin was about thirty feet from the 
stage, a little more than that to the podium, and she wondered if the 
distance was too great.  Had something been miscalculated? 

She had enough Semtex plastic explosive wrapped around her to blow
twenty-eight twelve-inch holes in half-inch thick steel plate, she 
remembered.  Maybe she couldn't take everyone out.  That would be 
unnecessary anyway.  The explosion would make a statement that would be 
heard around the world.  The blast might reach the podium.  She hoped 
it would.  Certainly something of it would reach that far. 

Applause erupted as the keynote speaker stepped into view in
Tercentenary Theatre.  A group of large men in dark suits and 
sunglasses spread out into the area as the President of the United 
States of America took his seat on the stage. 


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