CHAPTER 64
The man standing in front of the mud hut didn’t seem capable of being the mass killer he had spent his lifetime becoming. Yousef al-Qadi smiled, watching Parker get out of the truck, but behind him stood a group of bearded, gaunt men with distrustful eyes. Some appeared old and some very young versions of the older ones, but all wore the same expression in their eyes.
“As sala’amu alaikum, good brother!”
Parker consciously forced himself to smile at the killer as he responded to the greeting.
“Walaikum as sala’am.”
The two men touched each other’s cheek from one side to another. Parker felt the man’s much smaller frame in his hands, caught the beginnings of gray in Yousef ’s beard. He squeezed the terrorist tightly, thinking, This is one of the killers of my mother and father.
“I have known about you for some time,” Yousef said.
“And I about you.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
Parker stood motionless for a moment. He allowed the thought of Zabara’s dead wife and adopted daughter to sink in fully, which in turn enabled his eyes to convey an honest, emotional reaction.
“Yes, yes.” He paused. “Yes.”
“The Jew-bastard Mossad.”
Parker nodded and looked away, hoping his body language relayed the proper reaction to Yousef ’s statement.
“They will pay, my friend. They and their sponsors will pay heavily. For your family and mine.” He took Parker’s arm. “Come meet my brothers and my family. Come meet the warriors who will avenge you.”
Yousef led Parker around as if he were a child, going from man to man, introducing each by name and explaining in detail the man’s family and his heroics on the battlefield.
“This is Muhammad Kundi. He has served since the Russians. He is a true jihadist, once wounded by an American Hellfire missile. But he survived.”
The nearly toothless man smiled and nodded.
“And this is Amir Parvez.” No smile here.
Yousef continued down the line, coming to a young teen with pimples on his face. “In his village he is useless, unemployed. He is an embarrassment to his family. He brings shame on his house. But here, he fights to protect the two holy places. Here, he fights for Riyad al-Jannah. Here, the world listens when he speaks!”
The teenager’s eyes shone with pride.
Yousef repeated the same message in different ways, accusing the Americans of occupying the land of the two holy places, stealing the oil of Saudi Arabia, and slaughtering the children of Palestine.
“There is another warrior I want you to meet.”
Yousef led Parker into the dim light of the cave.
“Get up, Patoo.”
A small boy struggled to stand up. Like Parker’s, his face was red and flushed. But unlike Parker, Patoo had a more advanced fever, his small, frail body soaked in sweat.
“This is my son, Patoo.”
“As sala’amu alaikum.” The boy’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Walaikum as sala’am.”
Parker hesitated.
Hugging the boy would guarantee his death.
Parker kept some distance away from the boy. He didn’t bend down to kiss the child’s cheeks.
“I hope he feels well soon.” Despite having the boy’s illness as an excuse for keeping his distance, Parker saw in Yousef ’s eyes disappointment at the less-than-warm greeting.
“Come this way for some chai.” Yousef led him to a fire pit in the shell of a mud house ringed by red-and-black and yellow prayer rugs.
“Have a seat, my brother.” Yousef crossed his legs and sat next to a smoldering fire. “Bring us some chai. Peshawar’s best! Have you had some?”
An old woman, permanently bent over with a round hump of a back, turned away and went back into the cave.
“You have fought a long and successful fight. You are our Sa’d Ibn Abi Waqqaas.” Parker used the name of one of the earliest companions of Muhammad. Abi Waqqaas had been the first to shed blood for the new faith. At the time other nonbelievers were setting upon Muhammad, but Abi Waqqaas stopped them with the jawbone of a camel. He beat one nonbeliever to a bloody pulp. And with this fight, violence became a remedy for all time.
“Have some.”
Yousef poured a cup of the tea and mixed sugar into it. It was a large metal cup shared by many in this dusty, dry mud hut. He gave the cup first to Parker, who drank from it.
Parker found that it had an odd lemon-ginger taste, but he welcomed any liquid in his quickly weakening state. He sipped the drink and then sipped it again, slightly turning the cup in his hand. His lips touched the cup again.
“This is good.”
Parker handed the cup back to Yousef, who held it on his lap.
Yousef didn’t drink, shifting the cup to one hand, using the other to stroke his beard.
“I have something for you.”
Yousef pointed to one of the younger ones. The boy brought their leader a brown manila envelope, which Yousef handed to Parker. Parker could feel a thick packet of paper inside.
“This is my fatwa.”
Parker showed surprise.
“You are giving it to me?”
“Of course. I have chosen you to begin it all.”
“And Al-Quds Al-Arabi?”
“Yes, I think it is fitting. Don’t you?”
Less than two decades earlier, the same newspaper had published the fatwa of another terrorist. The world had not heard of Osama bin Laden in August of 1996, when he wrote “Declaration of War against the Americans Occupying the Land of the Two Holy Places.”
“Yes, indeed I do. Excuse me, but last night they took my PDA.”
“Yes?”
“I record my interviews on my cell phone, but it was lost.” Parker was playing the part of journalist as best he could. “I have nothing even to write with.”
“Oh, yes.” Yousef signaled to Liaquat Anis to come over to the fire pit. “We have been rude to our guest.”
Liaquat frowned at the comment.
“Our journalist has nothing to write with. Bring him some paper and a pencil.” Yousef paused. “Tell me, brother, it is most important, but will you return to London?”
Parker hadn’t even given the idea any thought. Scott’s cover story had the newspapers of London quoting Scotland Yard as looking for the missing suspect.
“Given what has happened, I don’t know.”
Yousef looked at him strangely. The man had just been given his declaration of war.
“I do know this,” said Parker. “I will continue to write until I die. And Al-Quds will gladly print this story.”
Yousef smiled, then turned to shout at his men. “Where is his paper? Where is his pencil? Get it now!”
Liaquat scrambled back to the truck, yelling at others as they searched through the cab.
“And your fatwa?” Parker turned the conversation back to Yousef.
“Bin Laden became a house cat. He no longer knew how to hunt the rats. He became an easy kill.”
“And you do know how to hunt the rats?”
Yousef frowned at the comment.
“Yes, brother, I do.” Yousef paused. “In ways far greater than bin Laden.”
Liaquat brought back a pen with a small yellow pad with the edges rolled up in the corners.
“Yes, this will do.” Parker started to write. “So how do you begin to ‘hunt the rats’ in this day and age?”
Umarov sat down next to Yousef with his AK-47 lying on his lap.