Free The Terrorist Next Door by Erick Stakelbeck Page A

some black American converts—at his opulent residence in Lahore.
    â€œHe’s the leader of the group,” Mustafa said of Gilani. “He’s a former member of the Pakistani military. His father was one of the founding fathers of Pakistan. He has great connections to Pakistani intelligence, the ISI.”
    Given the history of corruption and pro-jihad sympathies among Pakistan’s military and intelligence services, Mustafa’s account of Gilani’s connections within those two entities did not surprise me.
    He went on to tell me that Muslims of America serves as a cash cow for Gilani and for Jamaat al-Fuqra. Each member is required to send 30 percent of his or her income to Gilani in Pakistan. The group even has a treasurer that checks members’ pay stubs.
    â€œ[Sheikh Gilani] said that the 30 percent is money that God has chosen to take from you,” Mustafa recounted. “And if you spend that 30 percent you are stealing from God. The money got to Pakistan through the [MOA] elders who traveled to Pakistan. They carried cash with them or they sent it Western Union. Since there’s Americans under Gilani’s rule who live in Pakistan, it’s like from one American name to another American name and it’s never linked to Gilani at all.”
    Sheikh Gilani uses these American dollars to help fund the Taliban and other terrorist groups, according to Mustafa. Group members hand deliver thousands in cash at a time to Gilani in Pakistan. Mustafa said the money is “earned” by MOA members through illegal means, and that male members often set up kiosks at local shopping malls or on the street to hawk their wares.
    â€œA lot of the guys will do bootlegging—you know, it’s all illegal—videotapes, CDs, clothing,” Mustafa explained. “The counterfeiting comes in with the bootlegging. It’s all counterfeit movies not sanctioned by Paramount or MGM or things like that—they’re not legitimate.”
    Now, as Sheikh Gilani Lane loomed before us, I replayed my conversations with Mustafa in my mind—he had confirmed that all MOA
members possessed at least one gun—and tried to summon any important details about the compound that we may have missed.
    Mike, however, was in no mood for baby steps. “Let me out,” he ordered. “It’s nothing but a bunch of women and children in there. I want to go get some footage.” We reluctantly agreed to let the old pro go and prayed silently to ourselves that no one would come charging out of the compound once they saw a white man with a $20,000 camera filming their private property. In the meantime, Daveed and I brainstormed about what I would say when I taped my report from beneath the Sheikh Gilani Lane street sign.
    Since we were constantly glancing over our shoulders to make sure Mike wasn’t dodging bullets as he filmed, I didn’t have much time to be clever or creative. Instead, I kept it simple, attempting to paint a picture for viewers of the jarring contrasts at work in Red House: on one hand, you had an overwhelmingly Christian, dirt-poor, southern town. On the other hand, you had a sprawling compound filled with radical, well-armed Muslims who had dedicated their lives to a terror-linked Pakistani cleric. “Red House, Virginia is as rural as it gets,” I began as Mike’s camera rolled. “There are no traffic lights, and the only signs of industry are a pair of convenience stores. So when a street sign popped up here named after a radical Pakistani sheikh—along with men and women dressed in traditional Islamic garb—locals took notice.”
    Just as I finished speaking, a carload of African-American women and children came driving out of the compound. We waved hello, and the car stopped at the entrance. A veiled woman in the passenger seat stared out at us bemusedly.
    â€œHi,” I said as I approached the car. “My name is Erick