by Jay Deb
Halim didn’t just do business with oil. He diversified into many areas, including drugs. He had invested in drug smuggling from Afghanistan and Mexico to Europe, making good connections with the Mexican cartels in the process.
He had made a lot of money, but he was a man who didn’t do it for himself. He gave away most of his money to men who practiced the twenty-five rules to be close to Allah. The recipients included many mosques and mullahs in Pakistan, Indonesia, Malaysia and other countries. He was the intermediary for the money that had flowed from Saudi Arabia to al-Qaeda, and he contributed plenty of his own cash.
He delegated the business work to his brothers and took on more hands-on work with his terrorist brothers. He went to Somalia and received training in marksmanship and bomb making. He visited the mountains that bordered Afghanistan and Pakistan, considered the headquarters of terrorism.
After Osama Bin Laden was killed in 2010, Halim was in a total rage and was desperate to do something at the heart of America – Washington, DC. He thought Faizan would be the right person to execute his plan. The young man was bent on revenge and ready to do anything to bring Zionist America down.
Faizan had only one condition – he had to have a safe getaway.
Halim did not consider that to be a problem. He knew a handful of mullahs in the city, each of them more than capable of changing a young mind like Faizan’s.
AHMAD, HALIM, AND Faizan sat at a round table in a fourth-floor room in Al Shariba, a four-star hotel in Dubai, located about a mile from the office where Doerr and Kassem had met earlier. Ahmad, the wise, old, petulant man in his late fifties, never forgot to wear a clean white net cap, and today was no exception. Ahmad was a sort of advisor to Halim. Halim sat there, with his eyes slightly lowered, and took a curt glance at Faizan, the new young man from Egypt, who exuded confidence from his freshly finished training in Somalia.
Faizan looked very angry and said, “I am ready to attack the consulate in Cairo. Give me permission, Halim. How dare they reject my visa? I have never been rejected for anything, by anyone, in my life.”
Halim tried to calm him down. “How many Americans do you think work there?”
“Ten, fifteen. I don’t know.”
“Ten. And how many Muslim brothers work there?”
Faizan caressed his beard and said, “How many? Twenty? Thirty?”
“Fifty-six,” Halim said with a grin. “Now you realize why we shouldn’t bomb the embassy there?”
Faizan nodded. “I see your point. The death of ten Americans does not justify killing fifty-six of our own.” Faizan stood up and clenched his fists. “But I feel very angry and want to choke those ten Americans.”
“We have to think with our heads.” Ahmad, the elderly man, spoke for the first time. “And act with our hands. Planning is the key.”
“Cool down, Faizan,” the short and stocky Halim stood up and said. “Look at this man. His name is Ahmad. His son was killed by the Saudi Police. But he did not take up arms. He came to me.” Halim patted Ahmad’s shoulder, Ahmad nodded, and Halim looked at Faizan and continued. “By coming to me, you have taken the right step, son. If you go and attack the Cairo consulate, the Egyptian guards will shoot you and perhaps kill you, too. And those evil Americans will drink more wine and laugh at us.”
Halim paused; the other two men wore grim expressions on their faces. Faizan finally said, “What do you say we do?”
“The right way to hit them will be to strike them in their own country.” Halim went back to his chair and sat down.
“But how is he going to get there?” Ahmad asked, pointing his hand at Faizan. “His student visa was just rejected. Now he won’t even get a tourist visa.”
“I have already made plans as to how he can get there. I have some contacts with the Mexican cartels. They have assured me they can take Faizan across the border and drop him with a friend of mine in Augusta, Georgia. My friend is well settled there.” Halim turned to Faizan. “He will help you for a few days, but he won’t know your real purpose of visiting. He will think you are visiting the university for a project. After that, you will head for Washington, the center of all evildoers. But you will be alone, all by yourself. You will have some help from a man who goes by the name Sigma. I hear he is a CIA turncoat. But his help will be very limited. Most of the work you will have to do yourself. You think you can do it?”
Faizan pounded his fist on the center of the table, and the table vibrated. He rose and said, “Yes, I am ready to carry out Allah’s wish.”
“Very good, son. Now sit down and listen.” Halim opened a manila folder and took out a few pieces of paper. He gave some to Ahmad and some to Faizan. “Faizan, you will be headed for Mexico City in two days. Now, let’s talk about the details of everything that will happen.”
Chapter 17
Regina Rosania had been approached by the CIA after she had finished her incarceration in Italy for killing her stepfather, who had abused her both mentally and physically. She’d had a dream of becoming a model in Paris, but that had never become a reality. Her spy work had kept her busy twenty-four seven, and at Langley the beautiful twenty-nine-year-old woman had been recognized as the best foreign-born operative.
“Your next target will be Raafiq,” said Andy, Rosania’s boss, who had recruited her seven years back. “He is the brother of Abu Halim. Raafiq controls his family business from Paris. He raises money for terrorists. And one of the ways he raises money is by trading stolen paintings.”
“But didn’t you just say he has a big business?” Rosania cast a frown, swinging the leather chair in the safe house in Montreuil, located a few kilometers from Paris. “Why would he need to trade paintings to make money?”
“Okay, Raafiq is one weird man.” Andy lit a cigarette and offered one to Rosania. “He had a childhood ambition of becoming a painter. He moved to Paris years back, against his family’s wishes, hoping to become a famous painter. But his dream never came true. Then he moved into buying paintings, and soon he started buying and selling stolen paintings.”
“Interesting.” Rosania took a deep drag from her cigarette. “So I have to get rid of him?”
“Yes, but ‘get rid of him’ in this case doesn’t mean we have to kill the man. We have to find something bad, like drugs or stolen paintings, in his apartment and leak the info to the police. They should take care of the rest.”
“So how much time do I have to get rid of him?” Rosania asked as she rubbed the butt of her cigarette in the glass ashtray.
“That’s the other thing,” Andy said, looking straight into her eyes. “We have to take care of this Raafiq business in just a couple of days.”
“Are you kidding me?” Rosania sat up straight in her chair. “A couple of days?”
“I know, I know.” Andy stood up, took a few steps toward the small window and then turned back to face Regina. “The thing is, CIA is closing in on Abu Halim. They want to take Raafiq off the street. As soon as Raafiq is taken care of, Director Stonewall wants you to head for Dubai. One of our best guys is already there, leading an effort to capture or kill Halim.”
Rosania stood up and faced Andy. “Work to me is religion. I always do my best. But I don’t want to promise something that I may not be able to deliver. I can go to Dubai today if you want, but I may not be able to take care of Raafiq in just a few days. But I will try.”
“I have full confidence in you,” Andy said. “I myself will drive you around, and I will be available in case you need something from me. Stonewall wants Halim and his brother to be taken care of as soon as possible. She says the president is asking for daily updates on this.”
ANDY DROPPED ROSANIA at the bar in downtown Paris that Raafiq frequented. She walked inside the bar, wearing a black leather miniskirt and a skin-tight top. Once inside and seated, she took slow sips from a bottle of Carlsberg beer, her eyes scanning each person in the bar. It was eight p.m. The bar was not full yet; there were about thirty or forty customers who were d
rinking alcohol and watching the soccer game being shown on the large TV. As a player scored a goal and the customers roared in joy, her sharp eyes spotted Raafiq, who was sitting at a table in the corner all by himself, drinking red wine. The man was clean shaven, his hair curly, and he looked more like a white man than an Asian. His chin was long compared to the size of his head, and he had a prominent Adam’s apple that could be spotted from miles away.
Rosania threw him looks while sipping from her bottle. Raafiq noticed her. He grabbed his wine glass, walked over to her table, and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Raafiq.”
She looked at him, took the last sip of her beer, and placed the empty beer bottle at the center of the small wooden table. “I’m Rosania.” She made a face that told Raafiq that she was not too excited that he had come to her table, but for now she was going to tolerate him. She watched Raafiq take a seat.
Raafiq waved to a bartender, and the bartender came immediately. “My lady needs a drink.”
Raafiq turned to Rosania and asked. “What would you like to have tonight?”
“I would like to have a lot of things,” Rosania said, cocking her head. “But for now I need a glass of red Bordeaux.”
Raafiq nodded to the bartender, who left and came back within a minute with a glass of red wine and placed it on the table. Raafiq paid the tab with a ten-euro note.
“What else do you want?” Raafiq turned to Rosania.
“Tell me who you are.” Rosania thought she already knew too much about him. But this was a game that she had to play. “What do you do? Where are you from?”
“But before that, why don’t you say something about yourself first?” Raafiq lifted his glass to his mouth and took a quick glance at the TV, which pretty much everyone else in the bar was looking at as they were showing a critical soccer league game.
“Okay,” she said. “I wanted to be a model in Paris, but it’s so hard to break through.” That was not far from the truth. “It’s like all the good-looking girls of the world are here already. And I’m ready to give up unless I get a break.”
Raafiq eyed her like a hyena looking at a dead deer. “I can give you a chance. I’m a painter.”
Rosania straightened her face and tried her best to look surprised and hopeful at the same time. “Are you? Will you make me a model?” She knew he was a fake painter and was lying, but then she was too. She put on a bright smile.
“Of course I will. But before that,” Raafiq got off his chair and pulled it up close to her, “tell me more about yourself. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Italy. I grew up in Rome. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, but instead I went to the University of Rome to study the arts.” Even she was surprised by how easy it was to tell those lies. Earlier during the day, she had rehearsed all that. “I studied literature and poetry. After finishing my course, I wanted to be a model. I did some photo shoots in Rome but wasn’t paid much. Then I thought why not go to the place – Paris. Don’t you think I’m bold?”
“You are. Who said you aren’t?” Raafiq nodded. “And you are beautiful, too. How did you come to Paris? Did someone help you out?”
“Yes, my uncle Andy.” She gave him the name of her mentor at the CIA. “He helped me out. I’m actually living at his place till I make some good money and get a place of my own.”
“What does your uncle do?” Raafiq asked.
“He’s a magazine reviewer. Wait – I’m not really sure. He might have switched his line of work. Now it’s your turn,” Rosania said. “Tell me where you are from and how did you get here.”
Raafiq spoke for the next few minutes. Rosania knew that most of what he said was untrue. He said he had been born in France, but she knew he had actually been born in Dubai. He said he graduated from Paris Dauphine University, and although she knew he had a college degree, it was from Alfaisal University in Riyadh. He said he was a student of Corinne Tounsi, the painter. Rosania knew that was not true, either.
“I paint,” Raafiq said. “And I could use some help.”
“You paint what? I mean water or oil?”
“Oil mostly. Van Gogh is my favorite, but I want to paint like Picasso.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I think Picasso brought out the best in humans, especially the women. My paintings will be much better if I could use a model like you.”
“Why can’t you get one? After all, this is Paris, and you seem to have plenty of cash.” She waited for an answer.
“I don’t know.” Raafiq looked at the door. More drinkers were coming in. The bar was getting crowded. “I could never find a girl I like. Maybe it’s a curse.”
She knew it was all a lie, too. According to the dossier on Raafiq, he changed girls every other month, if not every other week, and he didn’t use them just as models. Rosania posed an innocent face and said, “Maybe I’m not as good as you think.”
“I’m sure you are good.” He rested his left palm on her shoulder and stroked her cheek once. “Why don’t we go to my flat and find out. It’s right around the corner from here.”
She knew even that was a lie. Raafiq’s flat was at least a kilometer away. “Are we still talking about painting and modeling or something else? It’s close to midnight.” She pointed to her watch.
“Of course I’m talking about painting.” He bit his lower lip and chuckled. “Artists are timeless. I can speak about painting the whole night. In fact, we can go to your place if you want.”
“My place won’t do. My uncle does not like strangers, let alone handsome young men like you.”
He smiled, obviously delighted by the flattery. “That’s a problem.” He had his eyes fixed on hers. “What do we do now?”
“Nothing,” she said and rose from her chair. She extended her hand for a shake. “I should be going. My uncle must be getting anxious. Why don’t we meet tomorrow, right here, at ten?”
Raafiq took her hand and held it between his hands. “All right. See you tomorrow.”
Rosania proceeded to the door. A few drunken heads turned to watch her walk away; she was used to that, and she advanced without looking back. She knew Raafiq’s gaze was attached to her rear end.
She walked through the door into the semi-darkness, and a blast of chilly air hit her in the face. She took her cell phone out from her purse and then dialed a preprogrammed number and whispered, “I’m out.”
She continued to trudge along the damp concrete sidewalk. She could see a man walking two or three hundred feet away. His gait told her that the man had more than enough to drink and was headed back to his wife or a whore. France occupied one of the top spots on the per capita alcohol consumption list, way above Italy or America, and just a shade below the king – Russia.
At the next junction, Rosania turned right. A black-tinted sedan was waiting. As she neared, the driver turned the ignition on. Rosania got in and immediately lit a cigarette.
“How did it go?” Andy, the driver, asked. The car started moving slowly.
“Okay.” She released clouds of tar smoke. “I like to paint like Picasso,” she said mockingly. “Picasso, my ass.” She jerked the cigarette butt, and the ash fell in the tiny ashtray. “Raafiq is a loser.”
AFTER ROSANIA LEFT, Raafiq stood up and walked to the empty table at the center and ordered a large glass of wine. He looked around for a single woman and located one, a blonde who looked to be in her mid-thirties. He stood up from his chair, heading for that woman’s table. As he took his first step, a man appeared at her side and sat next to her. The man was over six feet tall, and his bicep muscles were the size of tree trunks.
Raafiq sank back into his chair and ordered a double shot of Chivas Regal whisky. The bartender brought his liquor. Before he could enjoy the drink, he received a phone call.
“She is a mole,” the voice at the other end said.
“Who? The girl sitting in front of me?”
“No, the woman who you talked to for hours.”
“O
h, that girl. She will be a good fuck.”
“It will be a good fuck for her. She will fuck you. Now get the hell out.”
“Come on, man, she is just a woman. What can she do to me?”
“Don’t take her so lightly,” the voice said. “There are rumors that she is directly working for the CIA. The CIA – the silent killer.”
“Don’t be so afraid. When she comes to my flat, I will be awake and watching her hands. I can take care of her.”
“Listen, boss, we will be close by, and I will also give you a pistol for you to carry.”
“Okay,” said Raafiq, sighing. “But all that is not really necessary.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Andy dropped Rosania at the same bar. It was a few minutes to ten p.m.; people were coming in to get drunk, the bouncers looking busier than the day before. The bartenders were frantically taking orders and delivering drinks to their customers. It was a Friday, and the whole of Paris seemed to be warming to a drunken weekend.
Rosania slowly walked to the center of the bar and found Raafiq there. The son-of-a-bitch was settled with his glass of red wine. She wished the man would vanish or simply drop dead.
But neither of those things happened, and Raafiq smiled when he saw Rosania approaching. She had to face him. She showed him an index finger, indicating she would be back soon, and headed for the bathroom.
She straightened her clothes, put on a fresh layer of lipstick, and gathered up enough strength to face Raafiq.
“How long have you been waiting?” She forced out a smile.
“I came here at eight.” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a small sip. He waved to the bartender, who came promptly and took her order.