The medallion was a disk about the size of a half dollar. Around the rim of its front was etched the same word in seven different languages: onore, honneur, honor, Ehre, and also Greek, Farsi, and Cyrillic. In the middle of the medallion were engraved three daggers, handles set equidistant, their tips touching in the center. The daggers were barely visible after so many years of rubbing. The reverse side was blank.

The brass disk had not always been a medallion. Before being melted down and re-created, it had been a 7.62 mm cartridge allegedly removed from an unexpended AK-47 clip that had been fired by Saddam Hussein-a gift for a small boy from his uncle.

Hakeem Qasim sat brooding at the desk in the dark hotel room. Even after all these years, he could still detect the slight odor of the brass as he rubbed it. The only light in his room came from CNN, long since muted. The government was remaining tight-lipped about the attack on the Mall of America, so the news channels had exhausted their facts on the failed terrorist attempt hours ago. Until new information broke, they were just filling time with stories like the girl with the big hat who worked in the third-floor Hot Dog on a Stick who had confessed to staring in shock as the liquid rolled back and forth in the slushie machines immediately after the explosion.

This was to be the beginning of my revenge, Hakeem thought.

Much had occurred in Hakeem’s life since the murder of his family. Two days after the surgical strike on Uncle Ali, he had gone to live with his mother’s brother, Ibrahim, in Ramadi. He had taken nothing with him; all his possessions had been destroyed in the explosion except the clothes he wore and the bullet on its chain around his neck.

Hakeem had met Uncle Ibrahim only once before. Ibrahim was known to have connections to the Cause-an Iraq-based international terrorist organization focused on dealing justice to imperial America and Western Europe. Because of that, Hakeem’s mother had insisted that her family keep their distance. But now, in this orphaned boy, Ibrahim had seen an opportunity to create a weapon potentially more powerful than anything the Cause had stashed in its secret arsenals in the southern al-Hajarah desert. He saw a chance to create a mole.

So before Hakeem’s physical and emotional wounds had had a chance to heal, Uncle Ibrahim introduced him to a man simply known as al-’Aqran-the Scorpion. Each day this mysterious man spoke to Hakeem about revenge and about the importance of family honor. He talked about the boy’s place in the Cause. He sermonized about the evils of America, the virtue of patience, and the glory of a martyr’s death.

“Your day will come, Hakeem,” al-’Aqran had told him, “the day that you bring honor back to the name of your father. Satan’s great puppet, Bush of America, took your family, your future, and your honor. He wanted your uncle Ali, but did he care whom else he slaughtered? Did he care about your life or the lives of your mother and father? No, they were nothing-throwaway lives, dung.

“But while you wait for your revenge, you have a challenging task ahead of you, young warrior. You must become one of them. You must live like them, talk like them, drink like them, fornicate like them… Ah, I see by your face that you worry. Don’t, for Allah knows your motives. He knows your heart. You must take a career and excel. You must take a wife and have children. You must appear exactly as one of them.

“However, you will be living with a secret-a purpose no one will know about. People will look at you and see one of them, but you will not be one of them. You will live in the decadence of the imperialist society, and when the time is right, you will help destroy that society. Those who have humbled you and your name will themselves be humbled by your hand, young Hakeem, by your hand. The honor of your family depends upon you.”

When he wasn’t being indoctrinated into al-’Aqran’s hatred of the West, Hakeem was learning languages, cultures, and the intricacies of bomb making. This intense education continued for two years.

One day the Scorpion came to the boy and abruptly removed the AK-47 cartridge from around Hakeem’s neck. Three days later, he presented the medallion to the boy. “For your life ahead, you cannot carry with you something as conspicuous as the gift your uncle Ali gave to you. So I have recast it in a form that can stay with you forever and always remind you of who you truly are.”

The next morning, they had left Ramadi. After a journey of many weeks, twelve-year-old Hakeem found himself alone, abandoned at the gate of a monastery.

For the next fourteen years, Hakeem had lived as another person. The only links he kept to his former life were his medallion and his deep-seated hatred. Al-’Aqran had told him that someday he would be contacted, and then his revenge could begin. The contact had come ten months ago. Since that time Hakeem had lived a double life, doing his job while he prepared to destroy his society, loving his family even as he prepared to abandon them.

In less than ten days, the double life would end. He would once again be fully Hakeem, son of Mustapha Qasim, nephew of Ali Qasim, soldier of the Cause, hand of vengeance! He would bring America to her knees and restore honor to the family of Qasim.

But the first step in that restoration had not gone as planned.

He picked up the remote control and flipped through the cable news stations. Each channel seemed to rub his failure in his face, doing nothing to help his dark mood. He flung the remote across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

How could they have disgraced me and the Cause like this? The plan I created was so detailed! I’d worked on it for years, hoping for the opportunity to unleash it! The training of these fools was supposed to have been perfect. My contacts promised me. This was to be the beginning of a new era of terror in America! This was to be the beginning of my revenge! Instead, it’s another misstep-another black eye to the Cause.

He held the brass disk in front of his eyes. It glowed blue from the television. He could faintly see the well-worn daggers-one for Father, one for Mother, one for Uncle Ali.

Uncle, I once promised you that when I was called upon, I would fight the Great Satan. I have waited many years to avenge my family. I have been very patient for my retribution in your name. Forgive me, Uncle, for my failure in this first attack. I promise you that in nine days, I will restore honor to the Qasim name!

Sunday, December 21

Grand Hyatt

San Francisco, California

Riley awoke from his dream with a start. That’s one thing about war, he thought. You can get it out of your days, but you can never get it out of your nights. He shook his head, trying to get the images out of his mind, as if his brain were an overgrown Etch A Sketch. He glanced over at the clock-6:52 a.m.

Through his open curtains he could see that dawn had just begun to break. Not that the sun stood much of a chance in this weather. San Francisco was a beautiful city most of the year, but these overcast, drizzly December days were enough to put chills in any man’s bones.

Riley put on his hotel robe and walked to the window. Through the gray he could make out the Golden Gate Bridge, and closer to him was the island prison of Alcatraz. This was the same view he’d had the last two times he was here. He had always wanted to drive the bridge and tour the prison, but the only times he’d been in the city had been for football-not a lot of free time to sightsee. Some summer I’ll come back, rent a convertible, and cruise the California coast from Napa all the way to San Diego. Maybe it’ll be for my honeymoon, he mused. Although, I guess finding a girlfriend first would help.