Abdul started the recorder. “Very well, Ghazi, you asked for this meeting. What do you want to tell me?”
Ghazi thumped his balled fist on the table. “The time of creeping Israeli thievery of Palestinian land is past. The name of our organization is ‘Allah’s Revenge’. It is also an expression of our intent. Because the Jews only understand terror and bloodshed, we will take our revenge with Jewish blood and the blood of their American and British masters.”
The tone of Ghazi’s speech was more akin to a radical Imam stirring up a crowd than a man sitting five feet away from his sole audience member.
“Is your organization a part of al-Qaeda?”
“Those who use the name al-Qaeda defile the one God, Allah, by associating His almighty knowledge and power with their cheap tricks and foolishness, their shoe bombs and exploding clothing. Every street gang in Gaza hides behind the pathetic cloak of al-Qaeda.”
“You intend to commit terrorist acts in which innocent British, American and Israeli citizens will be harmed. Sounds the same as al-Qaeda. How will we know the difference?”
“Allah has blessed us with a terrible weapon. You will know us by its mark, Abdul-Haqq.”
“What kind of weapon?”
Ghazi raised his voice. “You will know us by its mark.”
Abdul changed tack. “Why did you contact me?”
“Your family is known to us. They are honorable people. You are in a position to communicate with those who must make the changes we will demand. You will be our messenger.”
“What are your demands?”
“The infidels must leave and return to the Palestinians the land that is their birthright. This is also your birthright, Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-Ahmed.”
Ghazi’s chair scraped the ground and he stood. The sudden change startled Abdul. Was this the end of the interview?
“Thank you for coming. I am glad to have met you, and I wish you a safe journey back to England. Ma’a salama.”
“Wait.” The brevity of the audience shocked Abdul. He sprang to his feet. “When and where will you strike?”
“The infidels will be given one opportunity to retreat. If they refuse, they will know the pain my Palestinian brothers suffer every day. Tell your people to heed our warning or face terrible consequences.” Ghazi turned and left the room.
Abdul shut off his recorder. By the time he’d packed away his unused laptop, the driver had appeared at the door. They returned to the hotel at speed and in silence.
When he got back to his hotel room, the message light on the phone was blinking. He’d received two calls: one from Rafiq, checking on him; the second was more interesting.
“Hello, Abdul. This is Adiba. I hope you don’t take offense, but my uncle has offered me his car tomorrow. If you like, I can drive you to the airport in the morning.” She left her number. The sound of her voice made him smile.
He called Rafiq.
“I’m happy to hear from you, Abdul. Are you okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine, but the meeting was strange, he—”
“Not over the phone. Let’s wait till you’re back at the office. And Scott wants you to call him right away.” Rafiq gave him Scott Shearer’s home number.
Abdul hung up from Rafiq and dialed the editor-in-chief. “Mr. Shearer, it’s Abdul.”
“I’m glad Rafiq reached you in time. Did Ghazi show?”
“Yes, I met him.”
“Okay, save it. Nazar Eudon has a press conference tomorrow afternoon in Israel. I want you to represent us.”
“Are you sure? I mean, that’s a business section piece.”
“Well, you’re there. You and Eudon have similar backgrounds. His parents were from Palestine. Try to get a more personal angle on his resignation.”
“His what?”
“Check the Internet.”
“But what if Nazar won’t spend time with me?”
“Bring home the press pack, and we’ll be no worse off. The meeting’s at the Dan Hotel in Eilat. Hire a car. It can’t be far.”
Abdul didn’t tell his dynamic boss he’d never driven a car — he didn’t need one in London.
Next he called Adiba.
A gruff male voice answered. “Alo.”
“May I speak to Adiba, please? This is Abdul-Haqq.”
“Who?”
Abdul was flustered. He’d expected Adiba to answer. He realized, too late, that was unlikely in an Arab household, and it may have been an insult for him to ask for her. He heard voices in the background, and she came on the line.
“Alo, who is this?”
“Hi, Adiba, it’s Abdul-Haqq. I hope I haven’t caused a problem by calling.”
“No, of course not. My father handles a telephone like a sheep with a saucepan.”
Abdul grinned. He pictured her wagging a finger at her father as she spoke. He said, “I picked up your message. A ride to the airport would be great, but I just talked to my boss, and I’m not returning till later in the week.”
“Oh… okay, I understand.” She sounded disappointed.
“Unless, that is, you happen to be driving to Eilat.”
The line went quiet. Shit, Abdul thought. “Sorry, Adiba, that’s my strange English sense of humor.”
“You are going to Eilat?”
“Yes, I’m due there tomorrow afternoon and—”
“Hold on.” Abdul heard a muffled conversation. Adiba had her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Okay, my uncle says I can take you.”
“No, I couldn’t ask that. I was joking.”
“You don’t want me to take you?”
“Ah… yes, of course I do, but it’s too much to ask.” Again the line went silent. Abdul realized he was making a horse’s ass of himself. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “Adiba, if you are sure, and your uncle says you can use the car, I would love a ride to Eilat. I’m supposed to be there by lunch.”
“I’ll pick you up outside the hotel at 7:00 a.m. The drive is about four hours.”
“Great, I’ll book you a room at The Dan Hotel. Bring an overnight bag. Oh, and bring your passport.” If they had time, Abdul wanted to cross into Jordan.
Chapter 11
The next morning, Abdul waited in front of the King David Hotel. After the idiotic way he’d behaved on the phone, he worried she might not show. At 6:55 a.m., a rusty two-door Datsun pulled up, and Adiba leaned over and opened the passenger door.
“Abdul, please put your luggage in back. The trunk lid is broken.”
Abdul tossed his bag on the back seat, next to hers. A worn spring poked up through a six-inch rip in the grimy fabric, and candy wrappers littered the rear floor. He climbed in, and Adiba pulled away with a kangaroo jerk. The speedometer didn’t work. The car had no air-conditioning, so all windows were open, and a sickening grinding sound accompanied each gear shift.
Adiba drove in silence through the city, hands gripped tightly to the wheel, concentrating on traffic. Once they reached the freeway, she turned to him. “I apologize for the car. My uncle is a pig. If I’d known it was this ugly, I would never have offered to take you.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment; Abdul thought she looked lovely.
“I’d ride in a donkey cart with you to avoid the vicious old cabbie who brought me from the airport.” She laughed. He loved the sound.
Abdul had to shout over the loud thrumming of the wind through the open windows. “Did I embarrass you in front of your family when I called last night?”
“No. Not at all. I am fortunate. My father is the most liberal man I know. He believes many problems of the Arab stem from backward-looking conservative customs. He trusts me, and I would never betray his trust.”
“Have you been to Eilat often?” Abdul knew it was a popular vacation spot.