Islam's Fire

1 Simon Rossman was eagerly waiting for the phone call that he knew would consume the rest of his life, possibly ending with his death. He was at home in Sacramento, California, playing with his two sons when the phone rang, answering it he heard the excited voice of Ken Barkley. “It’s done. The program worked. We’re rich!” “Where are you?” “I’m in Washington at a fishing resort.” “Be specific, I want to come up and see you.” “I’m at the Ferguson Fishing resort, Cabin 12, just a few miles north of Belfair, just off State Highway 300--can we talk?” “No. Not now. Not over the phone. I’ll fly up this afternoon, just sit tight, don’t talk to anybody, and don’t call anybody. Got it?” “Yeah, I got it.” Between the plane flight and the drive from the Seattle/Tacoma airport, it was late that evening before Simon drove onto the grounds of the fishing lodge. When Ken had arrived at the fishing resort earlier he had asked for a cabin toward the back of the resort grounds saying he was a writer and wanted privacy. After he had parked and taken his one bag into the cabin, he used his cell phone to call Simon. Since then he had been pacing his room like a nervous cat. By mid afternoon hunger got the best of him. He had to get out of the cabin that seemed to be closing in on him. He made a quick trip to a convenience store for junk food. Returning he resumed pacing the floor, watching game shows on TV, and munching on snacks. Finally, just as the 10 P.M. news came on he heard a knock at the door. “Come on kid, open the door, it’s me, Simon.” Ken yanked the door open and stood there with a wide grin on his face staring at his visitor. He reached out his hand to shake but Simon pushed past him and stood looking around the room. Simon was in his late thirties, tall, with light brown skin and a strong muscular build. He had a well groomed appearance but he was not what you would call memorable in appearance. Yet there was something about him that made people uncomfortable. His dark eyes seemed to bore right into you. He carried a twelve pack of beer into the kitchenette and placed it on the short counter. He took off his hat and black leather coat, threw them on the bed and looked around, his eyes taking in every detail. The room was clean with a rustic décor you would expect at a fishing lodge. He pulled two cans of beer from the carton, and smiling, tossed one to Ken. After putting the remainder of the beer in the refrigerator, he popped the tab on his can and took a drink. “Alright Ken, let’s hear all about it.” “What do you want to know?” Ken asked, after opening his can, taking a drink, and slumping into a chair. “Everything Ken. Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out,” said Simon, taking a sip from his can of beer. Ken began telling Simon about the computer program he had written and how he had recruited a friend, Al Genovese, from the production review section to run the program through the bank’s testing procedures, and then install it in the Wire Transfer System. At the mention of Al Genovese Simon grew tense but did not interrupt Ken. As Ken gave his detailed account, Simon kept the supply of beer coming. After another two beers, Ken described how they could transfer the money from the account in Panama to anyplace in the world that he and Simon wanted to go. They would have all the money they would ever need. Simon was familiar with the account at Banko de Panama since he had established it. He had already left instructions with the Panamanian bank to re-transmit the funds to an account he had set up in Bahrain. Ken would never know about this part of the plan. He forced himself to relax and let Ken continue telling his story. Simon patiently listened. He got Ken another beer and when he finished his story Simon began asking questions. “Tell me more about this person, Al Genovese?” “He’s the bank manager in charge of the production Wire Transfer System. He’s the guy who has the password that you need in order to upload a program into the production stream. I couldn’t make this work without his help.” “Is Genovese the only one at the bank who is helping you?” asked Simon in a tight voice. “Yeah, he’s the only one. Nobody else knows about this plan or the program I put together.” “How much did you promise to pay him?” “I promised him ten million dollars when we finally get settled someplace.” Simon studied Ken with unyielding eyes that sent shivers up Ken’s spine. Then he said, “I hope this guy can be trusted.” For the next two hours Simon asked questions, and prodded for details when Ken faltered. He took notes, asking more questions when necessary. He verified the account number Ken had sent the money to, and the bank’s location. As the questioning continued, Simon encouraged Ken to drink more beer. When Simon felt sure that he had an understanding of the banking details and how the system worked he went on to other subjects. “So exactly where does Genovese live? Do you have his address? “Yeah, sure,” replied Ken as he scribbled Genovese’s address on a note pad and handed it to Simon. “How about we have one more beer and call it a night?” He leaned back, folding the note with Genovese’s address and putting it in his shirt pocket. Ken got up and unsteadily walked to the refrigerator. He did not notice that Simon had also risen and was just behind him. Simon pulled a snub nosed .22 caliber revolver from his jacket pocket and, walking up behind Ken shot him in the back of the head. Ken slumped to the floor. Simon leaned over and placed the muzzle of the gun in Ken’s ear and pulled the trigger a second time. Neither bullet left an exit wound. Death was instantaneous. Simon returned to the table and sat down heavily, his hands trembling and his forehead glistening with beads of sweat. The training camp he attended twenty years ago, where he had been taught how to kill a person a dozen different ways, did not really prepare him for actually killing another human being. They did not teach him how it would feel to kill a friend. Maybe he had been in America too long and grown soft. He knew it had to be done. His plan was proceeding flawlessly. He could not allow emotions to get in the way now. Simon felt good about his plans to set bombs across the country that would kill hundreds, but that was different. Just strangers, never looking into their eyes or knowing their names, not friends, just people in the wrong place at the wrong time. He took a deep breath and willed his body to relax. Killing Ken was personal. They had been friends since Ken was a teenager living next door to him in Sacramento. Ken was a geeky kid, a nerd, and a loner, and Simon had just come to the United States from Pakistan, and didn’t know anybody. They had become friends through a mutual need for companionship. Simon’s orders had always been to get the money that was so badly needed. And now his friend was out of school and working for the largest bank in the country. Planting ideas in Ken’s mind wasn’t too difficult, he was easily manipulated. He began planting ideas about taking a very large amount of money and travelling the world. It started as a game to see if they could devise a plan to steal a billion dollars but over time they both realized that it could actually be done. They began talking over their different ideas, discarding some, further refining others until they had perfected a plan. Writing a program to steal the money while it was being sent over the Wire Transfer System would be difficult but not impossible. By the time anyone had discovered the theft they would have already moved the money to many different banks all over the world, making it impossible to trace. Ken was a genius programmer and he knew it, and here was his chance to prove it. Simon sat for a while thinking about Ken and the years they had known each other. He deeply regretted killing his friend but there was no other way. He would call Parviz Jalili, may Allah bless him, tomo