Blown Coverage by Jason Elam Page B

to do something terrible, but this was
     violent beyond anything he had imagined. Stop it! Can you really be surprised? You are a warrior, and you are being asked to act like a warrior. This is not a time to question.
    But, oh, my Lord, this is so . . . so . . . hands-on! This is so bloody! Oh, Allah, can this really be in your will? Abdullah began pacing around the apartment. Remember who you are, he chastised himself again. You are simply a tool in Allah’s hands. People greater than you have been given the words of truth. They are the ones who can discern his will. Who are you to question them? You can do this! You will do this! Allah will give you the strength.
    Sitting back down, Abdullah reread the message, committing it to memory. Then he took the original notebook page and all the
     pages underneath, as well as the entire yellow pad, into his bedroom and ran them through the shredder.
    TUESDAY, MAY 12, 7:30 P.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
    Naheed Yamani put the copy of The Cairo Trilogy back onto the bookshelf. After rereading then destroying the message, she flopped herself down on her overstuffed Payton sofa
     and tucked her feet up. She ran her hands over the khaki linen material and enjoyed its coolness.
    Do I really believe in what I’m doing, or am I just bored? Naheed had always been somewhat of an adrenaline junkie. Summers as a rich, spoiled, semiroyal teenager on the French Riviera
     usually found her Jet Skiing, parasailing, or shoplifting worthless junk from the tourist stores. But no matter how much she
     tempted fate, it was never enough.
    Then one day she had been approached at a family gathering by her cousin, Saleh Jameel. Saleh had always been the one about
     whom the rest of the mothers told their children, “Why can’t you be more like him?” Good grades, impeccable manners, never
     forgetting to hold the door open for giggling old ladies—you name a positive quality, Saleh possessed it.
    But Naheed had always been suspicious of her cousin. Somewhere beneath that sickeningly sweet exterior, she knew there was
     a different Saleh. It could have been the quick flashes of anger on the soccer field or the way he sometimes was unnecessarily
     harsh to the servants. Whatever it was, it was enough that when Naheed and Saleh were sitting together on a bench at another
     overdone family feast, she was ready to hear him out.
    Saleh began by telling her that he had been watching her for a long time. He followed that with a long description of his
     recent involvement in a secret paramilitary organization. He finished by telling her, “You’re just the kind of person we need
     to defeat the Great Satan and to end the oppression.”
    Naheed’s interest had been piqued. Maybe this was the ultimate adventure she had been searching for. Maybe this was the piece
     of her life that had been missing—a purpose, a cause.
    Soon she began spending two days a week after school at Saleh’s family compound. His parents, who helped finance a budding
     terrorist group, willingly confirmed the lie that Naheed told to her father about being there to study.
    For Naheed, the only drawbacks to the training were the ranting sermons with which the mullahs began each session. Despite
     joining up with Allah’s army, she was not particularly religious. Of course, Naheed believed there was a God. She just didn’t
     buy the fact that he was quite so unforgiving with his people.
    So she had endured the preaching with an appropriately pious look on her face. She shook her fist and chanted when necessary.
     She endured the lengthy, repetitive tirades because she knew that afterward would come the training—how to kill with a gun,
     how to kill with a knife, how to kill with one’s hands. Naheed excelled at stealth, cunning, treachery, and violence. For
     once in her short life, she felt totally alive and in her element.
    Finally, the time had come when her preparation was at an end. She had far exceeded the others in her