Nearing the beach, Al Zaroor saw the beam of a single flashlight. The crewman cut his motor, and the prow of the boat kissed the sand. The beam moved toward them. Al Zaroor tensed, his hand on the Luger wedged in his belt. Then the light traced a circle, and Al Zaroor stepped from the boat. “Allahu akbar,” a voice called out. God is great. Now Al Zaroor could see him in the moonlight. Stopping on the beach, he waited until the outlines of three other men appeared at their leader’s side. Quietly, the man said, “I am Omar Haj.” Stepping forward, Al Zaroor appraised him. “Haj” was a pseudonym. This man had brought it glory in Iraq; the smile that lit his bearded face did not extinguish the light in his eyes, the look of a fighter prepared to die. “How is it in the world?” Al Zaroor inquired drily. “I’ve been at sea.” Haj’s face became solemn. “The world is much changed. Osama has spoken. He lives, my friend.” Al Zaroor’s face showed nothing. Watching Haj’s men retrieve the cargo, he answered softly, “He will live for a thousand years.
