They were tested endlessly and told their very lives depended on the training, but the “chemicals” they used were nothing more than colored water, and the wooden dowels made little sense. It grew boring.

The afternoons were spent studying the Catholic faith, including all of the strange trappings of that religion. Scripts, ceremonies, and arcane trivia that meant little beyond reminding him of the hated reform school he’d fled.

Having had to absorb the multitude of Islamic strictures inherent in the Islamic State had been bad enough, but something he could tolerate because it was all forgotten on the battlefield. But he was disgusted at being forced to learn about Christianity and Catholicism. He’d had enough of that beaten into him at the school, in what he felt was an incredible show of hypocrisy. They preached tolerance and love on Sundays, forcing the boys to listen to one itinerate preacher after another, then tortured him and his friends the other six days of the week. In his mind, Christianity was nothing but a cloak for abuse, and, if the world were just, he’d take every one of those hypocritical preachers with him in a blaze of glory.

There was no such duplicitousness within the Islamic State. They proclaimed up front what would occur for any infractions, and adhered to that creed with brutal efficiency. While he didn’t really care for all the Islamic diatribes, he found symmetry in his existence here. A life worth living, even if it meant death.

Next to him, Carlos rubbed his chin, now shorn of its patchy, juvenile beard, and said, “Rumor has it we’re leaving soon. That we’ve done all we can here.”

Devon said, “We haven’t done anything. Where is all the training like Mohamed Atta got? All we’ve done is break some glass and learn about an infidel religion.”

Jacob inwardly smiled at the statement, amazed at how deeply his two companions had embraced the propaganda. Wanting so badly to belong, to feel a sense of inclusion and purpose, they’d absorbed the myth of the Islamic State like gauze on a gunshot wound, the blood soaking through and permanently staining whatever remained.

Jacob saw Ringo’s team enter and waved to Hussein. Watching him walk over, he recognized that the same hadn’t happened to his other friend. If anything, Hussein’s wound was too great, the blood of the Islamic State overwhelming his defenses. Instead of absorbing, Hussein was fighting it, and he was losing. He looked haggard. Scared.

He’s not going to make it.

Hussein fist-bumped Carlos and Devon, then sat down. Devon said, “What do you hear? Yousef says we’re leaving soon.”

Jacob scowled and said, “What were you told about our names? You forget the Muslim one. Use our given names.”

Chagrined, Devon snuck a glance at the Chechen, hoping he hadn’t heard. He whispered, “Carlos. Carlos says we’re leaving.”

Hussein said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I am. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Jacob said, “So are we. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon.”

Carlos said, “How do you know?”

“They had us shave. There’s a reason for that. They want us to look American, and they want it now.”

Devon said, “I hope so, but we don’t even know what we’re doing. We haven’t learned anything.”

Jacob said, “Maybe it’s like The Karate Kid. Wax on, wax off. Maybe we’ve learned something without even knowing. Or maybe there’s more training that can’t be done here. Even Mohamed Atta had to learn to fly, and he couldn’t do that in a cave.”

Carlos smiled and, like a kid discussing college applications, said, “I sure hope so. Hussein, what are you doing? Did they tell you?”

Hussein nodded, his head bobbing over and over, as if he were trying to convince himself that what was occurring was real. Jacob thought he might start crying. He said, “Yes. We’re going to Jordan. It’s why they told me to keep my mustache. They want me to look like a local. Ringo’s in charge, and he’s taking the team to Ma’an, in the south. I’m going to Amman. To meet my father.”

“What is the target?”

“I don’t know, but my father works at a hotel. A fancy one.”

17

Watching the Lost Boys eat, Adnan al-Tayyib said, “My friend, I gave you permission to train and lead our external operations, not break them up as you see fit. You had two tasks to accomplish, and I didn’t give you the authority to use one of the untainted Americans for the false flag attack.”

Omar said, “You told me my mission, then said it was up to me to ensure success. I didn’t realize there were restrictions. The boy Hussein is weak, and his name is Muslim. I considered him a threat for the primary mission. His heritage alone will raise eyes, even with an American passport. Don’t listen when governments say they don’t profile. They do. On the other hand, he’s Jordanian, and his father still lives in Amman. He’s perfect for the false flag.”

“Don’t make it a habit of such decisions without consulting me.”

Omar said, “I won’t. I’m sorry if I seemed to usurp your authority, but because of Hussein I no longer think of the second attack as a deception. It may prove more instrumental than the primary operation.”

Adnan turned to him and saw he wasn’t fabricating a story to cover his disobedience. “You truly believe this?”

“Yes, especially since we control all of the assets. The city of Ma’an is ripe with recruits. Ever since the Jordanian pilot’s death they have been hounded by the authorities for their religious convictions. All they require is a catalyst, and we can give them that. It will provide a second front for the crusaders to fight. One in the backyard of Jordan, their favorite takfir ally. I’m more confident of it than the primary attack.”

Adnan said, “Come. Let’s not talk here, among the men.”

They left the ramshackle two-story building, the clatter of dishes and eating utensils fading behind them, the desert air rapidly cooling from the day’s heat.

They walked in silence, Omar patiently waiting on his emir to start the conversation. They crossed the compound, little dust devils swirling in the gathering gloom, formed by the wind of the temperature inversion.

Reaching the front stoop of a one-story brick building one hundred meters away, Omar finally decided to break the silence.

“I hope our accommodations are to your liking.”

Adnan opened the door, saying, “They’re fine. Come in.”

Omar followed, waiting on the man to speak yet again. When Adnan remained mute, he broke the silence one more time but stayed away from the mission, not wanting to antagonize his emir. “How did your recruit of the oil field technicians go? Is all well with that endeavor?”

Adnan adjusted several pillows and took a seat on the floor. He said, “Sit.”

Omar did. Adnan said, “The recruiting went fine. They’re flying into Turkey as we speak. When they get here, they’ll contact me, and I’ll put them to work.”

“How?”

Adnan pulled out two Thuraya satellite cell phones. “On this. Both are clean, and the other one is for you.”

Omar said, “You know how I feel about phones. Especially satellite ones. It’s how Dzhokhar Dudayev was killed in Chechnya. It’s how the crusaders kill everyone since they’re too afraid to fight man-to-man.”

“I know, but sometimes we take risks. In this case, minimal. These phones have never been used. Once I get my recruits, I’ll throw this one away. Once you get the material for the explosives, you can throw that one away.”

Omar studied the phone, then said, “Okay. This once. Who will be calling?”

“A man named Rashid al-Jaza’iri. He’s giving us the explosives.”

“Al-Jaza’iri? As in ‘the Algerian’?”

“Yes.”

“The French intelligence officer? From Jabhat al-Nusra?”