After they were down the steps and on the street, Najib said, “Military operations are your responsibility, not mine. But my sense is that Hamas is going to let al Khalil fund this operation so you would be wise to get in touch with him soon.”
***
Mahmoud had called a meeting of the Izz al Din al Qassam Council. They were on the second floor of an apartment building in Gaza City in a one bedroom apartment that belonged to one of the council members. They were all sitting at a wooden table each with either water or tea. As usual, the smoke was thick.
Mahmoud had already given its five members the background of the operation.
“With the help of our brother Arabs who work in Israeli vehicle registration offices and using surveillance as well as the Internet, we have been able to connect vehicles that entered the agricultural compound with personal addresses. From there, using the utmost discretion, we were able to determine that the drivers of these vehicles habitually went from their homes to the Dimona Nuclear Center, to Israeli Defense Forces Headquarters in Tel Aviv, and to major defense-related companies, including Aeronautics Defense Systems Ltd, in Yavne, Elbit Systems in Haifa, and Tadiran Communications in Petach Tiqwa. All of these companies produced high tech items for the IDF, Israeli Defence Forces. None had any connection to agriculture.”
He stopped to take a puff on a Camel and gather his thoughts.
“We have concluded therefore that we were right, that the agricultural center is a front for a secret defense installation operated by the Rafael Armament Authority. I request the authority of the council to contact Tariq al Khalil through our Muslim Brotherhood friends to propose he funds and provide the men and materiel for an operation against the secret installation in Ashqelon.”
He stopped and took another puff waiting for the council’s reaction. Since Mahmoud had already briefed and obtained the support of each individual member of the Council, he expected approval and he was not disappointed.
On his way home, Mahmoud planned how he would exit Gaza without alerting Israeli authorities. He would go out through one of the tunnels under the Egyptian border. The sea was too well patrolled by Israeli gunboats. He would lay out the information to Walid Fahmy first, the Ikhwan chief in Cairo.
36. McLean
Steve mulled over his options as he drove to his apartment. As usual the George Washington Memorial Parkway was crowded with commuters. Van Diemen wanted him to prepare for another trip, to Tel Aviv and Cairo. Should he try to fix the operation in Timbuktu?
The car on his right, a silver SUV, pulled even with him although he could have kept moving ahead another twenty feet in the daily driving competition over inches. This unusually laid-back behavior interrupted Steve’s thoughts and he looked at the driver, a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair who had been looking at Steve but turned his head back to the front. He was alone.
Steve took note of the car and dropped back to see its license plate. Probably nothing, he thought, but he maintained a closer eye on his environment as he drove home. The silver SUV pulled ahead of him and took the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge exit into the District of Columbia, while he stayed on the parkway toward Alexandria.
He parked near his apartment thirty minutes later and wrote down the plate number. He wasn’t sure whether to follow-up on the SUV, but his recent experiences in Paris and Morocco didn’t allow him to dismiss it. He would keep the number until he decided what to do.
He changed into running shorts and went out, again considering his situation. He was doing well at West Gate. He probably would be offered a higher position and a better salary in the near future. Should he fit a trip to Timbuktu to see Karim on his way to or back from the Middle East? How did West Gate fit into his determination to do something concrete, something that would blunt the ambitious plans of the Salafists and their killing spree? He no longer wanted to put his life in the hands of people like Mel and now this Gregory. If so, it meant his work for the CIA was over. But how could he possibly fight the Salafists single-handedly?
As he closed in on his apartment after a seven-mile run, he saw the silver SUV turn into his street half a block away. He ran past his block and made two rights to circle back. The silver vehicle was nowhere in sight. He nevertheless ran past his street again and came at this apartment from the back by cutting through a neighbor’s yard. He wondered if the Salafists, armed with his name and picture from the Paris newspaper, had tracked him down. It would have been easy to do. All they needed was a phone book.
Once upstairs, he called Gordon, an FBI agent he had met at the gym, and left him a message.
He took a quick shower, put on old jeans, and grilled a steak, taking care to season it liberally with garlic. He also prepared a salad and opened a beer. The scent of garlic quickly took over the kitchen, and Steve felt his problems were no longer insurmountable.
Beer in hand, he went to the living room, sat at his computer, and sent Kella an email:
Hi, I’m making plans for a Middle East trip. Any chance we could meet? Paris is not on my itinerary for obvious reasons. If it doesn’t threaten to discombobulate your life, how about meeting me in Geneva? We could have some fun and I have an idea that needs the intellect of an ENA graduate. All this on the assumption that you’re not yet president!
Then Gordon called back.
“Hey Steve, what’s going on?”
“Just one second.” He took the steak off the grill and returned to the phone. “I have a favor to ask. Did I tell you I was actually famous, that I appeared in the international press?”
“You mean the Quran project? You didn’t say a word about it to me. I know about it anyway. The FBI knows all, sees all.”
Steve then related his suspicions about the silver SUV and asked him to trace the plate.
“I can do that. You think they’re that organized they would follow you to the end of the earth to get you? Probably not. But I’ll do it. In the morning.”
Steve went to bed feeling calm.
Gordon called the next day.
“The SUV was a rental,” he said. “However, the guy who rented it is on the terrorist watch list: Rafiq Jallad, aka Jabril al Jihad. He’s been here two years, from Tunis. Unemployed. Lives in Herndon and frequents a mosque in Herndon that’s a center for Muslim activists. He has a bank account and gets money from a bank in Qatar.”
“Activist! I love your official euphemisms. Is that a politically correct term to stay under the ACLU’s radar?”
“You’re welcome. This guy is probably part of a support mechanism responsible for surveillance, renting safe apartments and cars, et cetera. The hit team arrives after all the groundwork is done.”
“So, what are you saying—don’t worry because the hit team’s not here yet? Are you going to arrest him?”
“He didn’t do anything illegal. I’ll pay him a friendly visit, which should calm him down. In the meantime, maybe you could live somewhere else for a while.”
Steve felt hunted. These guys didn’t give up. It only reinforced his determination to take the initiative. The next day, he moved into his father’s townhouse and decided to speed up his trip to the Middle East and Geneva.
***
Two weeks later, Steve was in Cairo with two days of meetings left on his schedule to try to move the Egyptian military toward West Gate’s services. At Van Diemen’s recommendation, Steve stayed at the Talisman Hotel de Charme on Talaat Harb Street. It called itself a boutique hotel. Steve assumed Van Diemen had chosen it because it was cheaper than the grandiose Hilton and Marriot where most American businessmen stayed. His main point of contact was an Egyptian armor colonel with a Sandhurst pedigree. Steve concluded that, as a “Yank,” he had the wrong accent to be taken seriously by this anglophile officer. He would find someone from the West Gate staff with a British background.
Checking his email after he returned to his room, he found a message from Kella that said in part,
How about meeting in Geneva next week? I can get aw
ay from Thursday through Sunday. I have to be back at work Monday. I have another message for you. Last time I was in T, I met with Mother Catherine. She had a message for you from someone named Karim who needs to hear from you urgently. Who is Karim and why don’t I know him?
Steve was nonplussed by mentions of Mother Catherine and Karim and himself all in the same sentence. Perhaps he hadn’t been as clandestine as he thought, after all, while he was running Karim.
He replied:
You caught me in Cairo where, professionally speaking, my progress is under-whelming. But at least no one is trying to kill me. Your message raises a thousand questions on how people in your message are connected – Later.
PS—It’s okay to pass my cell number to Karim. Maybe I could stop in Bamako on the way back home but I’d rather not.
Karim called the next day.
“Monsieur Christophe. I am so happy we are talking, grand merci a Dieux,” he began.
Steve picked up on the French equivalent of Al Hamdu’llah: “Thanks be to God.” He wondered why Karim wasn’t using the Arabic, as he had so many times before.
“And I am happy we’re talking also. It’s been a long time. How is your brother?”
Steve was mindful that, even in urgent situations, family was always the conversational priority.
“Oh my brother, he is dead. He was killed in a firefight between Algerian soldiers and the Salafist rebels, the AQIM. I don’t know what happened. He was supposed to travel to France the next day. I wanted him in France working while I earned enough money to send him to America. But Monsieur Gregoire, he is not a good man. But that is not why I need to talk with you. I think that something important is going to happen. I remember that you said to never talk about these things on the telephone, so I don’t want to. But how else can I tell you? I am flying avions sans pilotes, and they will be part of the plan, I think.”
Steve was thinking fast, balancing the need to finish his business in Cairo, and his plans to go to Tel Aviv next, against what he was learning from Karim.
“If you have any excuse to go to Europe, I could see you there next week,” Steve offered hopefully.
“How did you know? I am traveling to Geneva with Hussein next week. He is taking me with him because I know about these planes without pilots and Rashid is traveling. He wants to buy some more.”
“Since you’re probably going to be busy during the day, would it be better to meet at night do you think?”
He waited for Karim to answer, but Karim hesitated, so he continued.
“Take this down. I’ll be in the bistro section of Le Chat Noir, Rue Vautier, in the Carouge section at 11:00 in the evening on Tuesday. It’s a jazz cabaret. Look it up in the tourist information they will have at your hotel. If one of us can’t go, then I’ll be at the Place du Marché, also in Carouge, not far from Le Chat Noir, the next day at 10:00 in the morning and the day after that. Do you know where you’ll be staying?”
“No, Monsieur Christophe.”
“It’s important for you to come to Le Chat Noir—the first meeting. There is a bistro and a nightclub. I’ll be in the bistro at 11:00. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay, I’ll see you on Tuesday night.”
***
Steve arrived in Geneva on Monday morning. In the afternoon he took a cab to the Carouge section and had the cab drop him off at the Place du Marché, about three miles south of the southern tip of the lake. He walked the three blocks to Le Chat Noir and ordered an Orval beer in the Bistro section. He followed a sign down a circular stairway for a visit to the men’s room to case the nightclub on the same level.
His waiter seemed in his early twenties, with intelligent eyes and dark hair that was a bit too long to be neat.
“Not too crowded tonight,” Steve said, in French.
Tomorrow night is when it’s going to be crowded,” the waiter replied, in English. “The club usually serves up alternative music. But tomorrow is for local Rock/Pop groups. Who knows if someone will be discovered?”
“Are you a student?”
“Yes. Tell me if you need anything. My name is Luke.”
He left to attend to other customers.
Before leaving, Steve paid with his credit card.
***
The following night, Steve returned to Le Chat Noir and sat at the same table. But the atmosphere, dominated by the loud rhythms and sounds of people talking and laughing downstairs, was radically different.
At 11:30, on the off chance that Karim had somehow walked past him, or rather improbably arrived early and was in the nightclub area, he went downstairs. The decibel level increased geometrically with each step. It reminded Steve of the increasing water pressure on a diver going deeper.
The loud, funky music came from a trio on a stage lit by a square framework of overhead lights. The rhythmic dissonance of the band moved the profiled bodies on a small dance floor. But only the band was visible. The rest of the room was dark. As he headed back toward the bathrooms, a man with twin lightning bolts on his black muscle shirt, leather wrist bands, and a belt made of three-inch-diameter iron links came downstairs and went by him toward the pulsing pandemonium of the club. Steve went back upstairs.
A few minutes later, the band stopped playing and Steve returned downstairs. The lights were on. He could now see that a car, highlighted by colored spotlights, hung from the ceiling. Underneath sat Karim near the dance floor with an older man, wiry with hard features, who he assumed was Hussein. There were no unoccupied tables near Karim. Steve also assumed Hussein must have seen his picture, so he knew he was taking a chance Hussein would recognize him. About a dozen people were standing, perhaps waiting for a table to clear, and he went to stand near them. He would wait for an opportunity when Karim was alone.
Then Steve saw Luke and intercepted him as he went by.
“Do you think a table might clear soon?”
He quickly considered and dismissed the thought of sending Karim a message through Luke, but too many things could go wrong.
Luke recognized him, smiled, and gave him a victory signal. A few minutes later, Karim summoned Luke to his table and whispered something in his ear while pointing at Hussein. The three of them smiled conspiratorially. Five minutes later, Luke brought their drinks. Hussein tasted his and grinned at the waiter in thanks. Steve was guessing there was more than Coke in that glass. Maybe it was a Mazout, he thought, Coke with a shot of scotch, a drink popular in Morocco.
Steve decided to make his move before the lights went out again. He walked near Karim’s table but kept in back of Hussein. Karim glanced up and Steve headed toward the men’s room, hoping that Karim would follow for a quick meeting, during which they could decide whether and where they could safely meet before Karim left Geneva.
In the men’s room, he got busy washing his hands after confirming he was alone. A mop was left leaning in a far corner. A few seconds later, the door opened and Steve looked in the mirror in front of him expecting to see Karim. Instead, a determined-looking Hussein walked in. He began washing his hands next to Steve and said in French. “Haven’t I seen you before? You’re a famous person. Am I right?”
Steve assumed Hussein was trying to confirm his identity before killing him. “No, I’m not famous.”
Hussein, standing between Steve and the door, continued.
“Don’t be modest. Yes, I know who you are now. You were in a French newspaper, yes?”
Steve stepped back from the sink and turned to the left to get around Hussein and leave, however, a hunting knife appeared in Hussein’s right hand. Hussein blocked his exit.
“You’re making a mistake. I’m not the person you think I am.”
Steve tried to keep his eyes on the knife and still look around for a weapon. The utility closet was behind Hussein. However, he remembered the mop leaning against wall beyond the stalls. He started backing up. Hussein was in a crouch now with his knife held low, his thumb up and his le
ft arm extended toward Steve.
“You will no longer insult Islam by claiming that the Quran is a fake,” Hussein said.
He lunged forward, sending the knife on an upward arc meant to penetrate under Steve’s ribcage. Steve jumped back and caught Hussein’s wrist in the V of his two open hands with the opposite thumb on each side. He gripped the wrist tightly and kicked Hussein in the crotch then swung Hussein’s arm over his head in a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.
In one motion and with all of his strength, Steve forced the arm up behind Hussein’s back. They both heard a crack and Hussein grunted. The knife fell. Steve picked it up and let Hussein go. Hussein was still on his feet and he turned to face Steve holding his right arm with his left hand, his face a grimace of pain. But he made no sound.
At that moment, the man with the twin lightning bolts muscle shirt walked in and stopped at the sight of Hussein and Steve facing each other, the air virtually crackling with tension.
In French he said, “Dirty Arab! These Arabs don’t belong here, eh? Let me help.” He started taking the chain from around his waist with relish.
“Thanks,” Steve replied, also in French, “But I think that’s enough. He learned his lesson.”
He took his opportunity and left. The two deserve each other, he thought. He saw Luke in the hallway and stopped him. Now that the fight was over, Steve found himself breathing in quick shallow breaths.
“Call the police,” he said. “There’s a fight in the bathroom.”
He stopped a second to take a breath.
“Here, that’s for my bill,” and handed Luke fifty Swiss francs.
The band was playing again and he couldn’t see Karim but headed toward his table. Karim wasn’t there. He went back toward the hallway leading to the bathroom and saw him going toward the men’s room. He stopped him and brought him to the protection of the dark. He talked quickly, recalling the message he’d planned to give him.
“Your boss just tried to kill me. Where were you? The police are coming so you want to get out of here. Listen, I’ll be in the lobby of the Hotel Beau Rivage, Quai du Mont Blanc, tomorrow between 11:00 and 11:30. When I see you, I’ll get up and you follow me at a distance. Don’t talk to me. If you can’t come then, I’ll wait for you in the lobby of the Palace Hilton between 5:00 and 5:30, also tomorrow. They’re major hotels. You’ll find them. Okay? Where are you staying?”
The Caliphate Page 24