Canal, with its charming cafes and restaurants along the water. This was Muslim Europe, the heart of the struggle. It wasn’t just the Americans. The Europeans too would be punished, he thought. A more terrible punishment than they could imagine.
Near the corner, a group of tough-looking young Moroccan men were crowded under an awning, smoking cigarettes and what smelled like hashish. They watched him, saying nothing as he walked past, his posture utterly still even as he moved, something about that stillness precluding them from challenging him. He walked along the path beside the canal, raindrops making circles in the dark water, the ripples shattering the reflections of the streetlights. As he walked, he flicked the tiny ball of paper he had spilled the tea on into the canal.
Just as the Palestinian went up onto the bridge, a BMW sedan pulled up beside him. Two Arab men got out, hands in their raincoat pockets. “Get into the car,” one of them said in Arabic.
He got in the backseat, sandwiched between them. The car drove across the bridge, suddenly spun around on the other side and headed back onto the bridge going the other way.
“Lo tismah, we have to do this,” the first Arab apologized, putting a blindfold on the Palestinian. He sat quietly, letting them do it, swaying as the car made turns, changing directions so they couldn’t be followed and so he couldn’t find his way again.
After what seemed a long time but might have been less than half an hour, the car stopped and they led him out, knocked twice on a door and took him inside a building. The first Arab took off his blindfold. They were standing in the vestibule of an old-fashioned apartment building near a dimly lit staircase. He smelled damp rotting wood and water and thought they might be in an older part of the city, near the Oudegracht Canal.
“I leave you here. Go to the third floor. The apartment on your left,” the first Arab said, opening the door and going back outside. The Palestinian glanced around the vestibule and looked up the staircase. There were no obvious hiding places for anyone who might be waiting for him. He went up the stairs, knocked on the door and went inside.
The apartment was dark and sparsely furnished. A blanket hung over the only window, the only light coming from a candle on a wooden table. It was likely a temporary meeting place, only used this one time, he thought. The old man, in a round white taqiyah cap and gallabiya, sat behind the table with a glass of mint tea, and even in the dim light the Palestinian could see he was blind.
“Salaam aleikem, Imam,” he said.
“Wa aleikem es-salaam,” the old man said, gesturing for him to sit. “You will have shai atai.” It was not a question. The old man’s hands trembled as they found the battered metal teapot and poured the mint tea into the glass, adding lump after lump of sugar and stirring it with the spoon from his glass. The two men sipped their tea in silence.
“There is a hadith of the Prophet, rasul sallahu alayhi wassalam, peace be upon him, who instructed us that there is no faith for one who has no trust, and no religion for one who does not fulfill his promises. You do not need to tell me why it was necessary to kill the shopkeeper in Cairo,” the old man said, holding up his hand. “I know it was necessary or you would not have done it. You need not make explanations to me, now or ever.”
“It was necessary.”
“It is of no consequence,” the old man said, waving his hand as if brushing away a fly. “But are you ready for what is next?” he said, looking at him with his sightless eyes.
“I understand your meaning of the hadith. The warning has been delivered. We must fulfill our promise,” the Palestinian said.
“We shall teach the unbelievers a lesson they will not forget. Are your preparations ready?” the old man asked, the glass trembling in his hand.
“Phase one in America is complete.”
“How was it?”
“It went well. I entered California from Mexico, then shipped the parcel to New York. The Americans do not monitor internal package shipments.”
“I thought they had improved their security.”
“There are tens of millions of packages every day. It would be impossible. After, I went back to Mexico. There was only one casualty. A narco, a drug runner. He showed too much interest in my backpack. From the moment I hired him, I knew I would have to kill him. It was inevitable.”
“You did as you should. The Americans will learn fear. It will be their new home. What of phase two?”
There is still much to do, but inshallah, we will be ready,” the Palestinian said.
“And the main target?”
“That will be the greatest difficulty. They will tighten security. There will be checkpoints everywhere. Getting close will be almost impossible.”
“Is it impossible?” the old man whispered, his voice quavering.
“Inshallah, God willing, anything is possible. What is most important is that there is no photo of me. No one knows who I am,” the Palestinian said.
“No one,” the old man agreed. “You are invisible to them, but you will end the war against Islam in America and Europe.”
“Inshallah, God willing, all will be completed.”
“It is well. How you accomplish this, you will decide. Whatever you need will be supplied. Whatever orders you issue to our people will be obeyed without question. If you need to spend more, no matter how much, the money is at your disposal. If you need to enforce discipline, you must do as you see fit. And may the blessing of Allah be upon you.”
The Palestinian sipped the sweet mint tea and didn’t say anything. He watched the specks of mint in the glass swirl in the candlelight.
“You go to Russia next?” the old man asked.
“Not yet. There are things I must do. Then Russia.”
“Trust no one there. They are godless creatures, the Russians. For them is reserved a special place in jahannam…” The old man hesitated. “You have not asked about what is most important of all. I appreciate your discretion, but you should speak. We shall not meet again.”
The Palestinian stared at the old man’s blind eyes.
“You know what I want,” he said. “How is she?”
“She is well.”
“Swear it. Swear she is well.”
“It is not permissible to swear. But I assure you, she is well,” the old man said. “Here,” holding out an envelope. His hand was shaking, the skin spotted with age and waxy yellow, almost translucent, the veins clearly visible in the candlelight. “Here is your contact information. Memorize then burn it.”
The Palestinian took it and stood up.
“Ma’a salaama. Inshallah, we will meet in the world to come, in Jannatu al-Khuld,” he said.
“Alla ysalmak, my Brother,” the old man said, looking up with his blind eyes. “As of this moment, you are the most important man in the world.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Damascus, Syria
They were caught in a traffic jam on Choukry Kouwalty Avenue, the air shimmering from the heat rising from the pack of honking cars, yellow Star taxis and Service minibuses barely moving in the hot sun.
The taxi driver shrugged. “Ma’alesh. Damascus traffic is always shit.”
“Mafi mushkila,” Scorpion said. Not a problem. He glanced out the side window. In the distance beyond the buildings, he could see the brown slopes of Jabal Qassioun, the mountain looming over the city. In this most ancient of cities, it was said to be the mountain where Cain killed Abel.
He wasn’t concerned about the traffic; his errand wasn’t essential. He was on his way to 17 of April Square to interview the director of the Syrian Central Bank for Le Figaro. He had set up the interview because, as Koenig used to drill into them over and over, “Cover isn’t a false identity; cover is who you are.” The director was probably
