the organization after talking him into deserting from his British Army unit stationed in Iraq. At the moment Farouk was in this seaside town on the Persian Gulf to recruit mujahideen for a special operation.
The terrorist agent's point of contact was Kaif Jamil, who was coordinator for several insurgent groups scattered throughout the Middle East. Jamil's specialty was the recruitment, training, and placement of suicide bombers. He did his work under the noses of the American forces stationed in the vicinity, and had even sent supernumeraries into Palestine to help out Hamas from time to time. The cover story he used to conceal his true activities from his neighbors was that he managed a labor-hiring contract firm that filled requests for semiskilled workers needed in both industry and agriculture.
At this point in time, Farouk and Jamil were seated in the back room of the latter's place of business, and Jamil stared in unabashed disbelief at Farouk. 'How many men did you say you wanted, Brother Farouk?'
'Fifty.'
Jamil stared at him open-mouthed for an instant. 'Uh . . . you said khamstash, correct?'
'No,' Farouk replied. 'I said khamsin. Fifty, not fifteen.'
'I never inquire into actual locales or purposes in these operations of martyrdom for obvious reasons of security,' Jamil said. 'But my curiosity is piqued to the extent I almost feel like asking.' He cleared his throat. 'Ahem. But I shall not.'
'How long will it take you to gather the martyrs, and where may I collect them?'
Jamil stroked his beard. 'Let me think . . . two weeks, I believe. There are several of our jihaden who are now planning attacks. I am sure they will gladly relinquish some of their shahiden if the cause is great enough.'
'I assure you it is a most vital and auspicious sacrifice the shahiden will make,' Farouk said. 'It will aid in the liberation of an entire Islamic nation from the cruel grip of the infidels.'
'I am not surprised, Brother,' Jamil said. 'The fact that you require fifty sacrificial bombers is most impressive.' He leaned back and let out a deep sigh. 'Where do you wish these martyrs to assemble for you?'
'In Pakistan,' Farouk said. 'They are to arrive at Ali Jinnah International Terminal in Karachi. They will fly PIA from two Saudi cities--Al Hadidah and Riyadh--as well as Qatar and the United Arab Emirates. Divide them any way you wish, but the sponsor feels that if they arrive from at least four different locales, it will assure complete security and secrecy.'
'That can be arranged,' Jamil said. 'However, there will be expenses-plane tickets, passports, logistics, rations, and other items. I estimate ninety thousand U. S. dollars.'
'The funds will go to your bank in Saudi Arabia, Brother Jamil,' Farouk said. 'Am I to assume your estimate of the price includes the explosive materials?'
'Of course,' Jamil said. 'I will see that all of that is dispatched to you in our usual manner. Now let us turn our attention to the shahiden. What day do you desire their arrival in Karachi?'
'You say you need two weeks, so let us allow a bit of extra time,' Farouk said. 'Is it possible for them to arrive on the twenty-fifth of July?'
'I see no problem with that.'
Farouk stood up. 'Excellent. If you have any questions or information, I can be reached the same as always. Ma'al salama, Brother.'
'And good-bye to you, Brother.'
.
ZAHEYA POSITIONS
9 JULY 1030 HOURS
SIKES Pasha was in a bothersome mood. 'I didn't think you blokes would ever do anything like that.' He was seated in Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah's bunker with Captain Naser Khadid.
'May I give you a bit of advice, Major Sikes?' the brigadier said. 'And please accept it as friendly counsel given from an older soldier to a younger.'
'Yes, sir,' Sikes said.
'Never commit yourself to one course of action in a strict style,' the brigadier said. 'It limits your options terribly. There are times when circumstances dictate changes in tactics and strategy.'
'But I thought one of the important decisions behind Iran taking over all Middle East insurgencies was to put a stop to the waste of people in suicide bombings,' the Brit said. 'It was even said wot a shame it was that them suicide blokes wouldn't be able to make no more babies to grow up for Islam's struggle.'
'The individuals who are going to be employed would martyr themselves within a few months at any rate,' Khohollah argued. 'If it will serve our cause to have them do it here in this valley to our front, then look upon it as Allah's will.'
'To tell you the truth, I ain't all that religious,' Sikes said.
'Well,' Khohollah said, 'at the present time we have much more to worry us than the fate of suicide-prone martyrs. We should turn our attention to how the arrival of the twenty reinforcements was discovered by the Americans.'
'And soon enough to do something about it,' Sikes added. 'It's a bit o' bother, alright. Those were twenty damn good blokes wot was wiped out.'
Khadid, who had been content to simply listen to the conversation, now joined in. 'There is a leak, no doubt. A turncoat somewhere within our organization, and I would think the traitor is back in Iran somewhere. Perhaps he's serving on or near the General Staff.'
'Whoever he is or whatever his position, it is baffling how he managed to get the information out,' Khohollah said.
'I'll leave them intelligence blokes to work on that,' Sikes said. 'It ain't my cup o' tea worrying about spies and the like. I'll put me mind on keeping me defenses proper and manned. I can you tell you one thing for sure, gents. This next attack against them Amercians is gonna be a sight to behold, hey?'
CHAPTER 10
WHITE HOUSE
OFFICE OF THE PRESS SECRETARY
12 JULY 0945 HOURS
OWEN Peckham, the White House Press Secretary, sat at his desk slowly sipping a cup of coffee. He was tired, but not so much physically as one would be from overexercise or hard work. His fatigue was mental and spiritual, and the man was emotionally beaten down. The problems of disaster relief, border security, crooked lobbyists, the war against terrorism, and a myriad of other unpleasantness he had to deal with were draining him of all enthusiasm for his job. He wondered what else would pop up to plague him.
Peckham checked his watch, noting that within a quarter of an hour he would have to go out into the press room, where eager denizens of the media were ready to fire salvos of provocative questions at him--each journalist able to gain prestige, pay raises, and career advancement from beating up on the poor White House Press Secretary.
His attention was diverted when Arlene Entienne stepped into his office after a couple of raps on the door. Peckham gave her a nod and a smile. 'How're you doing, Arlene?'
'Pretty well under the circumstances,' the White House chief of staff answered, giving him a close look. 'Are you coming down with a cold?'
He shook his head. 'I'm just way down-period.'
'Dear Owen,' she said, sitting down in the chair to his direct front. 'You've been through a hell of a lot.'
'Oh, it's no more than you do, except I have to deal with those birds of prey out in that press room.'
'And for that you have my sincerest sympathies,' Arlene said. 'But I think today they'll be beating a herd of dead horses. We've been through the same issues for several weeks now. The troubles in the Middle East are down to some suicide bombings, and that happens so often it doesn't attract much attention anymore. Those cold- blooded reporters are in a constant need of bad news to keep themselves in the limelight.'
'Yeah,' Peckham said, 'you're right. They'll even reveal classified information if they run across any they think is newsworthy. Today I'm going to disarm them with a string of terse announcements. Maybe I'll create a vacuum they can suffocate in.'
'I think you've got everything under control,' Arlene said, standing up. 'I just dropped by to see how you were doing. I've been worried about you.'
