A mission from God

It was her second night in America, and as Fatima bin Laden fell into her new bed, things were falling into place as if by divine plan. And against all odds, Allah be praised.

It started badly. Chinese secret agents her uncle hired to meet her and offer such assistance as she required were arrested hours before she arrived. But then Allah sent the unlikely angel Jennifer Hira to the rescue. Without Jen, Fatima would not be here in her new cottage -- and more importantly would not have met the handsome young Marine who would be in her journalism class that started tomorrow. Fatima was quite sure he was Muslim. And Uncle Osama said a Muslim in the American military should be her first target.

There was something else about the Marine. From the first time she saw him -- a glimpse on TV just hours after she arrived from Manila, he was in the background as Mayor Mufi danced with some Sufis at City Hall -- there was something about him. He'd rescued her that night, given her something pure and hopeful to focus on as she was forced to dance at Club Le Boing Boing. In her mind, she'd already danced for him. In her heart, she wished to truly do so as his wife.

Yes, that's it! They would fall in love and attack America together! And if they did not die as martyrs, they would live happily ever after. Allah willing.

Lying in her bed, Fatima wondered what her future husband's name might be, and looked forward to the formal Muslim minuet of unspoken signals, glances and guarded words that subtly speak of attraction and intention. As a dancer, she understood choreography, and would dance this one very carefully, very purposefully.

Fatima's heart fluttered for another reason on this night. Tomorrow she would start college. Her mind, as she told Jen, was thirsty. She had no idea how long it might take to recruit the Marine and carry out an attack against America, but for as long as she was in school, she would be like a hummingbird, gathering as much nectar from as many flowers as she could.

"Fatima San Marcos," she whispered in the dark. Her new name. She said it again. She grew up in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, but her Filipina mother and auntie made sure that she learned the ways and words of their homeland too. And that was her cover. Still, she did not stop at the Filipino Students Association table at registration earlier today. Where would she tell them she was from? How soon before they discovered she wasn't from the Philippines, or any other place she could mention?

Fatima rose, knelt facing east toward Mecca, and as it happened just across the bay toward the Marine base where her future husband slept, and prayed. Then she slept the blessed sleep of a woman on a mission from God.