It was an easy thing for Omar to do, though he had trouble believing he could so easily be forgiven for all the wrongs he’d done in the past. Al-Farrat reassured him, and promised that there were also things he could do to make the past right.
Years went by, and the little academy became a small community of more than sixty people. They prayed five times each day, and dedicated their lives to studying the scriptures.
Someone interrupted Khalif’s thoughts from the doorway with a clearing of the throat. “Excuse me, sir. Your coffee is ready.”
The rippling orange sun was setting behind the deserts to the west. Khalif turned away from the window and saw his assistant standing in the doorway holding a silver tray with a matching coffee pot and two porcelain cups. There were also two cigars on the platter.
“Please,” he motioned with his hand. “Come in, my friend. I was just enjoying this spectacular sunset.”
“It must be an incredible feeling for you, sir, to be able to look out on the city where you were born, especially after coming from such a lowly state.”
“Mmm,” Khalif nodded and looked over his shoulder again at the setting sun. A few miles away were the slums where he’d grown up.
Indeed, he had come far. From a poor boy on the streets of Cairo to one of the wealthiest businessmen in Pakistan. Pulling off that last trick had taken an incredible amount of work. And he had every disadvantage the world could have thrown at him. Fortunately, what the street-savvy Khalif had learned as a boy served him well as a businessman. Now he was worth billions. And when it came election time, no one could come close to whomever he chose to support.
Still, there were a few who’d crossed him in the past. Those people had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Winning a political office had little meaning to Khalif. He didn’t care about politics, and he certainly didn’t care about Pakistan. He preferred to stay in the background, a marionette pulling his puppets’ strings.
His assistant, Ahmed, brought the tray in and set it on a glass table in front of a plush sofa. He poured two cups and set one down on an end table next to a club chair. Then he picked up a cigar, clipped the end with a golden cigar cutter, and set to lighting it. He deftly spun the cigar in his fingers while barely touching the tip with the blue flame from a butane jet lighter. The white smoke circled into the air and formed a thin fog over the living room. When the tip was engulfed in bright orange, he blew gently on it and then passed it to Khalif, who graciously took it with a bow.
Ahmed repeated the process with his own cigar as his friend eased into the seat and took a long draw. He puffed the smoke out in little rings and then looked at the cigar with satisfaction on his face.
“So tell me, Ahmed, how are we progressing with the issue at home?”
Khalif’s assistant finished lighting his cigar and sat back on the couch, pinching it between his fingers. “The problem should be eliminated this evening. Our forces are moving in on Qafar as we speak.”
“Good.” Khalif took a sip of the dark coffee and licked his lips before putting the cigar back in his mouth for another draw. He released the smoke into the air. “And our team knows what to do?”
Ahmed gave a slow nod. “Yes, sir. They have cameras with them to document Qafar’s death.” He hesitated to say anything else.
Khalif saw through the facade and pulled the doubts out of his friend. “What is it, Ahmed? You look worried.”
The assistant leaned his head to the left and then rolled his shoulders. “We have been allies with Abdullah Qafar for many years. He has helped us in times when others would not. It seems we are biting a hand that has fed us.”
Khalif’s head bobbed up and down. “A valid point, my friend. Qafar has been a useful ally. And we rewarded him with asylum in our country where he has lived without worry for a good amount of time.”
“I don’t mean to question your leadership or your decisions, sir. But why are we killing him?”
Khalif’s mind veered off course for a moment. It drifted back to a night long ago, when he was still at the teacher’s academy. He’d gone out for a walk to look at the stars when the Israeli bomb hit the compound, killing everyone inside. The Israelis had called it a terrorist camp. They’d been misinformed. Or had they? Rumors abounded about Israel’s “accidental” attacks on such religious facilities. The precision of the attacks combined with modern warfare technology caused Khalif to believe it was less a mistake and more a direct, purposeful strike.
Khalif grieved for days at the loss of his mentor and the other students. When the time for grieving passed, he’d sworn to avenge their deaths and make those responsible pay for what they’d done.
“Because,” Khalif said, returning to the conversation, “sometimes the best way to attack an enemy is to go through a friend.”
Ahmed was still puzzled and cocked his head to the side.
“The Americans have supplied us with weapons. They want Qafar dead. I’m willing to trade his life to get what we need.”
Khalif’s assistant was the only person on the planet who knew the motive behind the elaborate plan. It was years in the making. And now things were being set in motion.
“I see,” Ahmed said. “We eliminate Qafar and look like heroes to the Americans. And while it looks like we are doing our part to rid the world of terrorists, we hit Israel while nobody is looking.”
“And when the attack happens, we will be the last ones they suspect. The world will look everywhere for the culprits. Of course, we will happily give them information that suggests some of Qafar’s generals carried out the attack.”
“Brilliant. But one part of it still doesn’t make sense to me. Why involve the Tanzanian?”
“Ah,” Khalif raised a finger in the air. “Because we can’t have those weapons coming directly to our front door. We needed an intermediary. Toli provided the perfect cover. In exchange, we give him a few dummy missiles, which he believes will make him powerful. He delivers the other weapons to our ships, which take them to Arish, just a few miles from the Israeli border.”
“Won’t their defenses shoot down the missiles?”
“Some, perhaps. But not all. Those missiles were designed to fly at low altitude. The Israeli defenses won’t have enough time to adjust and take them all down. And the warheads are equipped with enough nerve gas to kill hundreds of thousands. Possibly millions.”
“And all the while, the Americans will be chasing ghosts to figure out who is to blame.”
Khalif took another puff on the cigar. “Exactly. Of course, we will offer any assistance we can provide to bring those responsible to justice. They will eventually find a scapegoat and eliminate them.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But it won’t save Israel. The West Bank will be overrun, and Islam will once more rule the land that belonged to our ancestors.”
14
A hard knock came from the front door of Abdullah Qafar’s hideout. He’d been stuck there for nearly ten months, lying low to keep the Americans and all their toadies off his trail. The noise interrupted his evening tea as he sat with some of his guards in the bonus room upstairs.
He’d been the brains behind a major attack on three different European cities almost a year before. The attacks were so spread out, and looked so random, it was difficult to track down the mastermind behind it all.
Of course his men took the fall. The ones with the guns were always the first ones to get taken. Two of the shooters killed more than fifty people in a playhouse in Frankfurt. The city’s police were on the scene before the men could escape. They were shot and killed just inside the theater.