As the Man from Paris began his journey to Tel Aviv and the Man from Munich to D.C., the Bangladeshi drove west towards Rome. Since countries in the European Union did not require passport entry from country to country, as long as you were a member of the Union, the Bangladeshi had no problems as he was registered as a Parisian under an assumed name. So, with most of the obstacles having been rendered somewhat obsolete but not entirely dismissed, there were, on occasion, point stops due to driving a truck that transported perishable items like vegetables. But within the bed of the vehicle was a hollowed-out space that hid the suitcase of the False Prophet, a stash hole. After cursory checks from agents whose examinations didn’t amount to much, he was allowed to move along.
Taking periodic glances in the rearview mirror, the Bangladeshi noted the prosthetic pieces that adhered to his features as though they were a part of him. Even with his alterations, he believed that no man or woman who was under the microscopic eye of world authorities should simply be at ease with what they looked like. So, he reshaped his cheeks and his chin with prosthetic pieces with spirit gum adhesive, as well as to sport a faux moustache that was thick enough to overlap his top lip.
As the hours pressed on with the Bangladeshi careful to stay within the speed limits, he ended up in Lucerne, Switzerland. As the citrusy colored streamers of light started to show themselves along the eastern horizon, the Bangladeshi pulled over into a rest area and set up an Ismarsat BGAN satellite and laptop system. The benefit of this terminal was to connect a laptop computer to broadband Internet in usually remote locations. But as long as the system had a line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites that existed in order to receive a feed, then he could transmit and broadcast from any location without fear of appropriation from outside sources. Within seconds, as long as the battery lasted, the Bangladeshi would have global coverage.
Onscreen, as snow showed for a brief moment before the white noise disappeared, Ahmed Jaziri’s image came online. The man’s hair was in a wild tangle. Nevertheless, he still had the presence of mind to don sunglasses to hide much of his features when he answered the call.
“Bangladeshi,” was all he said, the greeting flat.
“Ahmed, my people are on the move. One goes to Washington, the other to Tel Aviv.”
“Excellent,” said Jaziri. “Excellent. Now that the pieces are moving into position, have you allotted a time for the detonations?”
The Bangladeshi nodded. “A synchronized strike will be timed accordingly to the time zones.” Then he spelled out the mission plans in detail, with Jaziri responding through the course of the discussion with slight nods of agreement.
And then from Ahmed Jaziri. “Excellent. But let it be understood, Bangladeshi, as much as I like you, as much as you’ve been a friend to me over the years, this is still business. And business changes everything. I will expect these units to go off as agreed upon since money has been paid. Remember what I said about failure—it’s not an option here. Your life belongs to me until the final stroke. Should you succeed, rest assured that you will remain safe. Fail me—” Jaziri let his words hang.
“There will be no failures. I’ve assured you of that.”
“I’m spelling out the facts of our agreement, Bangladeshi, should unknowns enter the picture that you did not plan for. In my life, I have come to realize that such interventions enter at times when you least expect them—things you cannot plan against.”
“I’m confident, Ahmed, that everything will go on without a hitch.”
“For your sake, Bangladeshi, I hope so.”
“And your associate in Tel Aviv?”
“He’ll be waiting for your operative—the Man from Paris, I believe he’s called.”
The Bangladeshi gave Ahmed Jaziri the location and time for the two to meet.
“My man will be there,” said Ahmed Jaziri. “And believe me, the Middle East will be celebrating once these matters have concluded.”
“Your man in Tel Aviv, does he know what’s about to happen?”
“No. Just that a great thing is about to happen. But he knows nothing.”
“And it’s to stay that way, too. The last thing we need is someone with a loose tongue to draw suspicion.”
“Stop being paranoid,” said Jaziri. “You worry too much.”
“Paranoia is what kept me alive all these years. I take nothing for granted. Nothing.”
And then from Ahmed Jaziri: “Perhaps you should get some sleep. You look tired.”
“I’ve been driving through the night.”
“Let’s not fall asleep at the wheel, Bangladeshi. Go somewhere and rest. And stay in contact. I want to know every move your people make, where they are and what they’re doing.”
“Understood.”
“I assume you can contact your team without the possibility of being intercepted.”
The Bangladeshi nodded. “Each man is equipped with a number of burners,” he told him. A burner was a cellphone that had no registered operator or purchaser, so a person could use the phone and then toss the unit away to assure the impossibility of being tracked.
“Excellent,” Jaziri answered. “And remember our deal and the consequences of failure. You don’t want to cross me otherwise, believe me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’m merely emphasizing a point, Bangladeshi. I think a half billion-dollar purchase gives me that right.”
The Bangladeshi stared at the screen with a flat appearance.
“Now,” Jaziri went on, “get some sleep.”
The screen went dead.
The Bangladeshi closed the lid to his laptop unit, fell back
