Read Online Critical Mass by Whitley Strieber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Whitley Strieber
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Espionage, Terrorism, Prevention, Nuclear terrorism, Islamic fundamentalism
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languages of the deep mind. He and the men and women who were here read only the song of God, the Holy Quran. None of them ever ventured to the surface of the old installation. Nothing crossed there but dust, not by night or day.
The other benefactor of this place, the Persian Sayyad, whose son now served Aziz under his new name of Wasim, purchased their stores for them in a hundred villages in Khyber, in Malakand, in Kohat. From here came gourds, from there potatoes, from another place rutabagas. Water came from the wells within the fortress, dug by Russian engineers to provide for a force of a thousand men.
Only after the Crusaders came here in 2006 and mined the place and blew down the entrances with artillery shells had Inshalla ventured to occupy it. The Crusaders would not carry their own mines into the deep tunnels. Too dangerous for these precious sons of Europe and America. But rag-heads were another matter, so rag-heads had done the dangerous work. Rag-heads could lose their limbs or be killed. That was delightful to the Crusaders.
However, these workers, in the pay of the Crusaders but loyal only to Allah, had kept careful records. So each mine they had laid was now marked by a small fence, to keep the beloved of God from being injured.
Aziz preferred his tea sweet, and there was sugar enough for it today, for which he was glad.
He still indulged himself, but only a little—a bit of sugar here, some music there. He had no need to use the gadgets of the West, the GPS devices and iPods, the glittering cell phones, the CD players and televisions. None of them had need of these things. What they did need was the food of Islam,the food of prayer. They could live forever on prayer, he thought. They were that far from the material world. Although, of course, he did miss his iPod.
Now, though, he only listened to the radio station Burak Mardan, FM 104. And, at the moment, there was a song of Abu Shaar Thayir. Then came Hadiqua, singing of lost love.
“You enjoy Hadiqua,” he said to the young Wasim, who lingered nearby, waiting to take away the tea things.
“I thought I was here as a student. But you are not a teacher.”
“I am the Mahdi. Watch my life. My life is your teacher.”
“You don’t really know the Quran.”
“I love the Quran.”
“You teach me nothing.”
“Do you fear me?”
“I fear only God, the God, the one God.”
The Mahdi nodded. “See, you have been taught. That is a lesson important to learn.” He would not ask of the boy whether he was Sunni or Shia? Aziz knew that Wasim was Sunni. This eternal war between the Sunni and the Shia was certain to become history in a few weeks.
Aziz did keep one Western bangle, a watch, and he glanced at it now. Just after eleven, the Duhur Salat. In the Pacific time zone, just after 2100. The time was not far, now. Not far.
He motioned to Wasim, who at once brought him pitcher and towel. He performed wadu. “O you who believe, when you rise for prayer, wash your faces and your hands up to the elbows and lightly rub your heads and your feet up to the ankles.”
The boy also.
Then they turned to Mecca and performed the salat in the silence demanded of the noon prayer. How Aziz’s heart filled with love now as he began Al-Fatiha: In the name of God the merciful and compassionate, praise to God the Lord of the Universe, master of the day of judgment. Thee alone we so worship; thee alone we turn to for help. And then he drew himself deep into his heart, for he was a leader of men, hiding here in the kind earth, and needed God’s help always, could do nothing without it. Show us the straight path, he said in his mind, in his soul. Show us the path of those whom you have guided to Islam, not the path of those who earn your anger or go astray.
Over a thousand years since Charles the Hammer had led the childrenof Europe—God’s beloved children also—astray, Aziz was going to bring them at last into Islam. Now they held drunken sway,
The other benefactor of this place, the Persian Sayyad, whose son now served Aziz under his new name of Wasim, purchased their stores for them in a hundred villages in Khyber, in Malakand, in Kohat. From here came gourds, from there potatoes, from another place rutabagas. Water came from the wells within the fortress, dug by Russian engineers to provide for a force of a thousand men.
Only after the Crusaders came here in 2006 and mined the place and blew down the entrances with artillery shells had Inshalla ventured to occupy it. The Crusaders would not carry their own mines into the deep tunnels. Too dangerous for these precious sons of Europe and America. But rag-heads were another matter, so rag-heads had done the dangerous work. Rag-heads could lose their limbs or be killed. That was delightful to the Crusaders.
However, these workers, in the pay of the Crusaders but loyal only to Allah, had kept careful records. So each mine they had laid was now marked by a small fence, to keep the beloved of God from being injured.
Aziz preferred his tea sweet, and there was sugar enough for it today, for which he was glad.
He still indulged himself, but only a little—a bit of sugar here, some music there. He had no need to use the gadgets of the West, the GPS devices and iPods, the glittering cell phones, the CD players and televisions. None of them had need of these things. What they did need was the food of Islam,the food of prayer. They could live forever on prayer, he thought. They were that far from the material world. Although, of course, he did miss his iPod.
Now, though, he only listened to the radio station Burak Mardan, FM 104. And, at the moment, there was a song of Abu Shaar Thayir. Then came Hadiqua, singing of lost love.
“You enjoy Hadiqua,” he said to the young Wasim, who lingered nearby, waiting to take away the tea things.
“I thought I was here as a student. But you are not a teacher.”
“I am the Mahdi. Watch my life. My life is your teacher.”
“You don’t really know the Quran.”
“I love the Quran.”
“You teach me nothing.”
“Do you fear me?”
“I fear only God, the God, the one God.”
The Mahdi nodded. “See, you have been taught. That is a lesson important to learn.” He would not ask of the boy whether he was Sunni or Shia? Aziz knew that Wasim was Sunni. This eternal war between the Sunni and the Shia was certain to become history in a few weeks.
Aziz did keep one Western bangle, a watch, and he glanced at it now. Just after eleven, the Duhur Salat. In the Pacific time zone, just after 2100. The time was not far, now. Not far.
He motioned to Wasim, who at once brought him pitcher and towel. He performed wadu. “O you who believe, when you rise for prayer, wash your faces and your hands up to the elbows and lightly rub your heads and your feet up to the ankles.”
The boy also.
Then they turned to Mecca and performed the salat in the silence demanded of the noon prayer. How Aziz’s heart filled with love now as he began Al-Fatiha: In the name of God the merciful and compassionate, praise to God the Lord of the Universe, master of the day of judgment. Thee alone we so worship; thee alone we turn to for help. And then he drew himself deep into his heart, for he was a leader of men, hiding here in the kind earth, and needed God’s help always, could do nothing without it. Show us the straight path, he said in his mind, in his soul. Show us the path of those whom you have guided to Islam, not the path of those who earn your anger or go astray.
Over a thousand years since Charles the Hammer had led the childrenof Europe—God’s beloved children also—astray, Aziz was going to bring them at last into Islam. Now they held drunken sway,
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