Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

Now, he wiped his pasty white forehead with a handkerchief. He adjusted his glasses. He looked down at his notes.

“I…” his voice broke. “I have just met with area leaders as well as civil rights leaders across the country. And I can say to all of you that our investigation will be full and fair, and that justice will be done…”

“WHAT JUSTICE?” Levon shouted at the top of his lungs. The shout rang out like a gun report in the cold night air.

“Justice will be done,” the mayor continued. “Officer Ricky O’Sullivan has been suspended from duty pending a full investigation. This deeply troubling incident has stirred the consciences of Americans from border to border. But I promise you, justice will not rest until the tragedy of Kendrick Malone…”

“WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE?” Levon was chanting now, at the top of his lungs. A few scattered voices joined in. Mayor Burns, momentarily flustered, clutched at the pages of his prepared remarks. The voices grew. Pounding. Angry. Steady. “WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE?”

Trying to be heard over the chant, the mayor continued now. Reverend Crawford began nodding softly. “Until the tragedy of Kendrick Malone is answered with truth. We must uncover all the facts…”

Burns suddenly stumbled backwards as a rock struck him in the scalp. Almost in slow motion, his arms stretched for air, circling in a nearly comic pinwheel. He teetered on his heels for just a moment, hung in midair, then fell directly on his ample posterior. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, his shattered glasses draped over his nose. He looked as though he was about to cry.

A pause.

Now Levon nodded.

One bottle, trailing flame, soared through the air from the middle of the crowd. Glass, filled with an opaque brown liquid, a rag stuffed into its mouth, burning. Its flight path formed a graceful parabola, sailed over the mayor’s head and, with pinpoint accuracy, smashed into the face of the Nordic Man, setting loose the gasoline within and setting the head of the statue into spontaneous flame.

Flames everywhere, flying toward the officers; canisters of tear gas; smoke filling the street; Levon screaming, his men ducking, throwing stones, charging toward the officers; random gunshots in the crowd; media members jabbering madly into their microphones, ducking, playing war correspondent; punches thrown, punches received, men lying on the ground, bleeding…

And then Reverend Jim Crawford, standing tall and proud in his immaculately tailored suit, at the mayor’s podium. Shouting into the microphone: “STOP THIS! STOP THIS NOW! WE WILL HAVE JUSTICE! I PROMISE YOU! JUSTICE! JUSTICE!”

And the street gradually went quiet. The young men stopped rioting and screaming, and turned their heads to watch Reverend Jim Crawford.

The cameras focused in on Reverend Jim Crawford, friend to the street, community leader. Big Jim Crawford. The man who just saved Detroit.

Levon smiled.

“AMERICA HAS FALLEN. THE TRANSFORMATION from dar al-Harb to dar al-Islam has begun.”

Mohammed watched, transfixed.

Ibrahim Ashammi’s eyes glowed brightly, as they always did when he was excited. It was a peculiar quality that attracted many of his followers—they saw in that glow a fiery hope, warm and consuming. Hope for a new world. The Teacher, they said, brought hope.

“Today’s attack has ensured that the crippled and weakened infidel giant that was the United States will never rise again. The emptiness and degradation of that perverse country has been wiped away, and the glorious reign of Allah has begun. Those that rejected Allah followed vanities, and Allah has destroyed them.

“Today, America has seen that those who reject Allah and hinder men from the path of Allah—their deeds will Allah render astray. Those who supported the Zionist entity have seen the consequences of their evil, and we will rain blow after blow upon them until they are utterly demolished.”

A drop of sweat rolled down Ashammi’s craggy face and embedded itself in his scraggly beard. Ashammi had lost weight in his three years in the mountains of Tora Bora, but he was finally putting it back on now that he was ensconced in his complex in Tehran. The government had granted it to him out of gratitude for his prior efforts against the Great Satan, with a yearly stipend that enabled him to live comfortably. In return, he had assured them that any efforts he put forth would be directed at non-Shia targets. It was a minor concession from him—his chief enemies resided in the West.

Ashammi wiped away the sweat. The flag behind him, green with white lines of Arabic, wafted gently to and fro as the rasp of the rusted electric fan pushed a breeze through its folds. Then his expression changed, just barely but noticeably—he was no longer the ardent zealot. Now he was the welcoming benefactor.

Mohammed was always amazed by Ashammi’s total command of his emotions. Ashammi as benefactor—that persona had drawn Mohammed to him in the first place. He wasn’t the only one; many of those who believed in him had come to him because of his outstretched hand. He looked into the camera and continued.

“But now I offer you the chance to meet your destiny under the one true religion by clinging fast to the word of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. For those who believe and work deeds of righteousness and believe in the revelation sent down to Mohammed—for it is the truth from the Lord—He will remove from them their ills and improve their condition.

“Together we will dance in the gardens and rejoice in the fields. The word from merciful Allah is peace, and together, we must embrace peace.”

Ashammi pointed at the camera. Mohammed, his youngest recruit—an attractive boy of seventeen, struggling to grow a scraggly beard—hit the stop button on the camera. Ashammi walked behind the camera, and Mohammed replayed the segment. After watching it again, Ashammi smiled. “Mohammed,” he said, “it will be a great day. A glorious day. The weapons we got from the infidels in Iraq will be deployed.”

Mohammed bit his lip. Ashammi saw it. “I see you are worried,” he said. “Do not fear. Does not the Koran say, ‘Those who have said, “Our Lord is Allah,” and then remained on a right course—the angels will descend upon them, saying, “Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise” ’?”

Ashammi walked to the window of the compound and threw it open. The sound of the afternoon muezzin wafted into the room. He took a deep breath. Then he pulled out a disposable cell phone and dialed.

A man’s voice answered at the other end. He spoke with a thick Russian accent. “Yes?”

“Tomorrow,” Ashammi said, then hung up abruptly. He turned to Mohammed. “Go, Mohammed,” he said, “and Allah will go with you.”

As Mohammed left, Ashammi knelt on his prayer rug.

When he got up, he turned to the door and smiled. There, standing before him, was a large American man in a military uniform. He wore a blindfold.

“Welcome, General Hawthorne,” Ashammi said.

Mohammed glanced nervously around Café Naderi as he sipped his nana tea. It was a classy joint, and everyone wore a suit—it was a business café, located in the lower level of a hotel. It wasn’t the kind of place that would kick up any sort of fuss in a Western city, but in Tehran, it was a rarity. In fact, it bragged that it was the last non-Islamic café in the city.

Which is why it was perfect for the meeting. It was crowded, so Mohammed wouldn’t draw any suspicion; there were many non-Iranians, too, so Andrei would fit in. It also had the benefit of maintaining a solidly anti-regime reputation, so there would be no connections to any officials who had approved the operation. Intellectuals and writers hung out in packs and talked treason. For that reason, regime informers populated the place.