Read Online The Terror Factory by Trevor Aaronson - Free Book Online

Hossain, wearing a taqiyah and a puffy jacket for the cold evening outside, sat in a chair on the other side of the desk.
    â€œWhere have you reached in your life?” Hussain asked, attempting small talk.
    â€œThere’s no praying or meditation or anything,” Hossain said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSo much running around here and there! I’m forced to be so busy with the world’s business—there’s no worship.”
    â€œBut we have to do something in this world,” Hussain said.
    â€œWell, I just say my prayers,” Hossain said.
    Hussain then brought up a conversation the two of them had had the last time they’d seen each other, about how serving God and making money weren’t mutually exclusive in Islam. “Do you remember the last time when we talked?” Hussain asked. “So I told you that there are two kinds of work to be done in the name of Allah—one is jihad and the other isthat one can make money. So what if both are done? So you said that both actions are right. Do you remember?”
    â€œYes, right, right,” Hossain replied.
    Hussain went on to explain that he was in the business of importing goods from China, pointing to different areas of the warehouse—a concrete room with bare, white walls and boxes piled in every corner. “All this that you are seeing comes from China, see,” he said, adding that among the items he imported were weapons and ammunition. Hussain then stood and pulled back a tarp covering something on the floor. “Do you know what this is?” Hussain asked, his hands on his knees, looking over at his guest. Hossain peered down at the floor, at what had been covered by the tarp. “Do you know what this is?” Hussain asked him again.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œThis is for destroying airplanes,” Hussain said, hoisting a device off the floor and placing it on his right shoulder. It was a metal tube, about four feet long, with a shoulder strap hanging from the center. Hussain placed his hand on the front of the tube. “Sensor heat, you know?” he said, holding a shoulder-fired missile he said he had imported from China. “This comes for our mujahid brothers,” Hussain said. “I have been doing this work for about five years.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œThis is Muslim work. Understand?”
    â€œYes, yes.”
    â€œFor all these Muslim countries. Today it’s going to New York. Today it came. This comes in our packaging, in our containers, see.”
    â€œI see, I see.”
    â€œFrom China, this will go straight to New York. It will be shipped.”
    â€œI see, I see,” Hossain said, repeating himself again and showing little interest.
    â€œSo, yes, I was thinking I’ll show this to my brother as well, that I also do this business for my brothers, my Muslim brothers … This is easily about $4,000, $5,000 worth of merchandise easily.”
    â€œThen from New York, it’ll be transferred to another place?” Hossain asked.
    â€œI don’t have anything to do with that. My job is to get it to New York. You’ve heard the term ‘stinger,’ right? This is a SAM, right? This hits planes.”
    â€œYes, yes.”
    â€œIt’s used for hitting the planes. All the mujahideen brothers, right?”
    â€œI’ve seen it on television,” Hossain said.
    â€œThey use these. This comes from China—it’s a Chinese product.”
    â€œI had never seen it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI had never seen it,” Hossain said. “I have—but on television.”
    â€œOn television,” Hussain responded. “Did you like this business? So this is one of my other businesses.”
    â€œHmm,” Hossain said. “Good money can be made in this?”
    â€œA lot,” Hussain interjected.
    â€œBut it’s not legal,” Hossain said.
    â€œWhat is legal in the world?” Hussain