Jason took a right and began the ridiculously steep climb to a group of small cottages, the Village Saint-Jean. It had been the only place he could find without a reservation. Though the bedroom, bath, deck, and tiny two-burner-stove kitchen hardly warranted the price, the view of beach and sea were as magnificent as any on the island, with the airport thrown in. He parked under an arbor of bougainvillea and walked out onto the deck that would lead to his door.
He rounded a corner, key in hand, and stopped as though he had hit an invisible wall.
“Hello, Jason.”
Languishing on one of the two chaise longues was Dr. Maria Bergenghetti.
The ample amount of taunt skin revealed by a bikini was light olive-colored, the hair knotted into a bun black as a crow’s wing, so black as to be iridescent. Skin and hair betrayed her Campania linage. The blue eyes that were staring over the tops of the oversize Foster Grants, though, spoke of ancient Norman or Viking intrusion into the bloodline.
She took off the sunglasses. “You don’t look happy to see me.”
“I… I… I’m surprised. Astonished, actually,” Jason verbally backpedaled. “I mean, how did you…?”
Good question. Jason had both arrived on the island and registered at the hotel under the George Simmons identity.
“You don’t seem overjoyed that I did, find you, that is. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were here with another woman, but yours are the only clothes in the room.”
Better another woman than she find out why he really was here. An affair might be forgiven; planning violence would not.
She sat up straight, spreading her arms. “Aren’t you going to at least give me a kiss? We haven’t laid eyes on each other in, what, five or six weeks?”
That was one thing he could do. Stepping forward, he leaned over. Her arms encircled him. The next thing he knew, swimsuits were flying. He was kissing her nipple. “Shouldn’t we go inside?”
Her hand searched for and found his crotch. “Why? No one can see us up here.”
Jason wasn’t sure he cared.
31
Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian was puzzled by the nozzle’s inability to receive the proper pressure. Just this afternoon, the device had tested perfectly. Of course, under test conditions, water was used instead of the mercury particles that had destroyed Flight 447 and would soon bring down another planeload of infidels. Using the real ammunition for trial purposes was impractical for a number of reasons.
First, it had taken over a year to produce and accumulate enough mercury particles to destroy another airliner. Working with the volatile element was slow, tedious, and dangerous. Plus, there were few facilities in the Arab world possessing the equipment or know-how to make the production process work. Complicating that problem was the necessity for secrecy. Unlike those fools in Iran with their nuclear program, Abu Bakr had no intention of being in a position to have to claim his project’s use was peaceful. No one who had basic knowledge of chemistry or physics would believe the civilian use of reducing mercury to its basic atoms and propelling those atoms high enough to substantially reduce gravity and then cutting the nozzle pressure to bring them down on the target was peaceful.
Abu Bakr liked that: The idea of striking from the sky. Like the fist of Allah smiting the enemies of His people. Hence, the code name of the project, the Fist of Allah.
Second, the operation was not without risk. A malfunction or miscalculation could bring the entire mass of atomic-size mercury particles down on this very mosque. Abu Bakr was a devout Moslem, but he was no fanatic willing to sacrifice his life for a cause. That cause needed scientists like him, not jihadists willing to die for an unverified promise of seventy-two virgins. No, he could advance the cause of the Second Caliphate, the expulsion of the infidel Zionists from this part of the world, or whatever, much more effectively with science than an explosives belt.
That risk had been the reason he supposed Moustaph had chosen this place, whose very name was synonymous with obscure places.
It had not always been so. The courtyard of this mosque had been laid out in the eighth or ninth century. The present building dated back to the fourteenth. On the southern periphery of the Sahara Desert, Timbuktu had been a center of commerce and trading then, crossroads for the treasure of Africa to begin its journey to Europe and Asia. The city had been a center for learning, also. This mosque was one of three that had become a madrassa, a Moslem school. The Sankore Mosque had gone on to become not just a place for study of the Koran, but of science and mathematics as well.
That also might have been a reason for Moustaph’s choice.
Another might have been the unique minarets of the mosque. Instead of the needle with the bulging top common to most such places of worship, this one had thin pyramids towering above its walls, almost a custom fit for the giant nozzle.
Abu Bakr smiled. Even if the infidel should discover the existence of the weapon, the idiots would shrink from the prospect of damaging a UNESCO World Heritage site, as was the Sankore Mosque and all of Timbuktu. The infidel held places and things above Allah’s law.
The sound of a door opening at the bottom of the stairs that led to this room made him forget his thoughts. It was past the time for the Maghrib, the prayer said after sunset, and not yet time for the Isha, the call to the final of the day’s five prayers, so there could be only one person to whom the ascending footsteps belonged.
Abu Bakr hurried to undo the lock in response to the brisk knock on the door. Outside stood a man of indeterminate age, although his beard was more white than black. He wore the traditional Moslem clothing: a taqiyah, the small brimless hat; a thobe, the collarless long-sleeved robe, splattered with mud; and sandals caked with it. His only distinguishing features were a scar on his right cheek and eyes that seemed to burn with a light from within with such intensity that Abu Bakr found it uncomfortable to look the man in the eye when addressing him.
Mahomet Moustaph, now the most wanted terrorist in the world.
“Peace be upon you,” the newcomer said, giving the traditional Islamic greeting as he crossed the threshold.
Abu Bakr shot a quick glance down the steps, verifying Moustaph had not come alone. At least two figures stood in the shadows.
He gave the traditional response. “And may Allah’s blessing be upon you.”
Moustaph wasted no more time on the niceties. Crossing the room, he stood before the nozzle, an object shaped like what one might find on the business end of a fire hose. This nozzle, though, was the size of a mini bus and rested on a steel gantry, which had been assembled from pieces small enough to be smuggled into the mosque under coats, robes, or other exterior clothing. The mosque’s imam knew what was going on in the northwest minaret, but few, if any, of his congregation did.
Moustaph noted Abu Bakr’s stare at the muddy footprints he was leaving. “Mashā’ Allāh, it is God’s will. The river floods; the streets’ dirt has become mud.”
He was referring to the annual late-fall flooding of the Niger River Delta reaching Mali in January. It was paradoxical that an area so close to the world’s largest desert would flood.
Abu Bakr shrugged, a matter of no concern. “The reason I sent for you, Sidi, is that there is a difficulty.”
If possible, Moustaph’s eyes grew even brighter. “Explain.”
Abu Bakr indicated a low table surrounded by cushions. A teapot and several glasses were arranged on its top.