PROLOGUE

      The customized fifty-foot yacht sat low in the water of Lake St. Clair, rocking back and forth with the regularity of the low-tide waves. The full moon overhead lit up the craft and the smaller vessel attached to its side, floating together several miles offshore from Grosse Point Park, Michigan, in the border waters between Canada and the United States. A dispute here might be adjudicated by one country or even both, depending on who claimed jurisdiction and had the precise GPS coordinates to make such a claim. Malick Yasim expected that the location itself might add a certain tangle to the web that was being woven around the city of Detroit.

      He skillfully climbed the rope ladder onto the sailboat, taking the lead ahead of his men. Stepping onto the deck, he flinched as a floodlight blinded him momentarily. “Assalamu alaikum,” he said, “now shut that damn thing off! It’s bright enough to be seen from shore.” His Afghani accent was barely noticeable.

      The light went out, and was followed by a familiar voice. “Wa alaikum assalaam. I see that Sayid sent the Mummy himself to take delivery.”

      Yasim scowled at the nickname. Some called him that because they were certain his body count rivaled that of the mummies in Egypt, but Yusef liked to use it because at six foot two and bald as an egg, Malick’s resemblance to the character in the movie was almost uncanny. There was little that he could do to dissuade the usage, but after this night he suspected others would make reference to it only in regard to his body count.

      He waited for his eyes to adjust and for the three men he’d brought with him to come up the ladder. “Have you traveled all this way to mock me, or did you bring the merchandise Sayid requested? We have no time for foolishness.”

      Yusef stepped forward and shook Yasim’s hand, kissing him on either cheek. “Do not be so temperamental, my brother. I have succeeded as promised. Come and see.” In spite of the bulk he carried around his waist, the short man pivoted on his heels gracefully and headed below deck. Yasim followed close behind, watching the tassels on the man’s red felt tarboosh swing to and fro.

      The loss of the night air and the horizon line combined with the rocking of the boat caused Yasim’s stomach to roll. It was the primary reason he hadn’t been chosen to retrieve this merchandise from halfway around the world. He’d have never made it that long on board a ship and Sayid Rais Sayf believed that getting the uranium into the country was best accomplished by sea through Canada and into the United States.

      To the naked eye, the main cabin of the yacht was nothing more remarkable than a well-furnished pleasure vessel, capable of long journeys. A kitchen, a galley, a table and benches that formed a U-shape in the corner. A short passage led to the sleeping quarters and a lavatory. Yusef walked to the table, unlocked the pins from underneath and revealed that it was actually a wooden top sitting on a large metal crate.

      The container itself glowed faintly from the light of an electronic keypad on one side. Yasim moved forward, watching carefully as Yusef punched in a combination. The electronic locks popped open and he lifted the lid to reveal the long, slender rods of enriched uranium that he’d purchased for them in Iran. The box itself was refrigerated for safety, and the mist from inside floated around, giving an ethereal appearance to the deadly substance.

      “You see, my friend? Everything is as I said it would be. There is nothing to cause you alarm.” Yusef closed the container and punched in the code to lock down the lid.

      “And the code?”

      “Ah, the only six numbers I knew we would all remember. The years of our prophet’s birth and death: five-seven-zero-six-three-two. Simple enough, yes?”

      Trying to ignore the faint roiling in his guts, Yasim nodded. “Simple enough.”

      “Then, as I can see that you are already—what is the saying?—green around the gills, let us return to deck and finish our transaction. I am certain that Sayid must be anxious to have you safely back in port.” He lowered the tabletop and replaced the pins. “Shall we?”

      “There is one other matter that I must discuss with you first,” Yasim said. “Privately.”

      “What is that?” Yusef asked, his eyes going a little white around the edges.

      “While we were waiting for you to deliver the merchandise, word reached us that you spoke to the Libyans about selling them these rods instead of us.”

      Yusef sputtered, his face turning red before he finally answered. “I... Astaghfirullah! I will not insult you by lying, Malick, and I am truly sorry, but I am a businessman and I thought I might make a greater profit by selling the rods to one of my contacts in Libya.”

      Moving like a striking snake, Yasim whipped a thin-bladed knife from his belt, grabbed Yusef by the collar and forced him back against the bench. “It was our men who sacrificed to get you this cargo. Our blood that was spilled. Our money that was spent.” He spat on the ground. “Subhan’Allah! If you were truly a believer you would not be seeking profit. You would give us the rods willingly, for our holy cause.”

      “Malick...you are right, I will ask for no profit. I will give this happily for the cause.”

      “You have no cause but yourself. Did you tell anyone else where you were delivering the rods? Or perhaps you told the rival who they were bidding against?”

      “No! No, I swear. I only explored the option, but I knew that this is where Allah wanted the shipment to go.”

      “You should have known that all along.” Yasim’s blade sank into Yusef’s throat, puncturing his larynx. The man thrashed and struggled beneath Yasim’s grip briefly, but only briefly. He slumped to the floor and Malick offered a grim smile to the body. That would be the end of Yusef’s whining and groveling. He was in Hell where he belonged, his passage to Heaven denied by his own traitorous actions.

      He wiped his blade clean, then climbed back up on deck. The two crew members who served Yusef were dead on the deck. He nodded in satisfaction to his team. “Let us finish this work and get back on land. My stomach does not tolerate this well. If I never step foot on a boat again it will be too soon.”

      One of the men muttered a short prayer under his breath as they moved to unload the heavy crate from the yacht. Yasim prayed, too. He prayed that Allah would be with them as Sayid’s plan was put in motion and that thousands of Americans would die because of his efforts.

      This was their jihad, their struggle. Justice would be visited upon them for all the wrongs done to their people by the Americans.