Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (diy ebook reader TXT) 📕

“What is there?”

“Go now. It is a building site. A person will be waiting for you, to give you an address where to go.”

“What’s all this mystery about?” I asked, but he had already hung up.

I wondered who could have notified him? It couldn’t have been Alex or Aldo; they would never betray me. It couldn’t have come from my father, because come hell or high water, he wouldn’t want me to meet up with Yassin. Much later, I understood that it wasn’t coincidental. It was a test. I had made a promise to God and now he was testing me. I had permission to go ahead with the transaction and so the boy could be returned to me. He had to be returned to me. That was the deal I struck with God, and, in return, I had gotten my life back.

The guard at the site gave me a note with an address I didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t new. Yassin had the tendency to switch places often. What I didn’t like was the verbal instruction: “Come alone.” I gave the address to Aldo and we drove off. I wasn’t happy with the idea that I would have to go in without Aldo and Alex, but that was Yassin and his strange quirks.

The shop was located on the side of a fancy office building and served as a poor remnant of the neighborhood that was once there, a neighborhood of Asian immigrants. I opened the door and a bell rang. The sounds of it was nostalgic, reminding me of old movies. A wave of spices hit my nose. An old wrinkled man with a white head covering appeared behind the counter and gave me a toothless grin.

“Have you come to pray?” he asked.

I looked around. Maybe Yassin had made a mistake. This place was too small to hold seven people. The old man was also confused. How can one pray here if there is no place to cleanse oneself before praying, as is customary for devout Muslims?

I wanted to turn around and walk out. Just to be sure I asked first, “Yassin?”

“Who’s Yassin?” He asked in Arabic. “Which Yassin?” he asked again, in English.

I took the yellow note out of my pocket, containing only Yassin’s signature, and gave it to the old man.

He examined it thoroughly under the light of the lamp, and when he was satisfied that the signature was real, he looked at me and smiled. “Come in, come, come,” he said in Arabic. He lifted the wooden counter and signaled for me to follow him. Behind the hidden door was a stairway lit up by a single light that hung at a dangerous angle. It had probably hung thus since the building had been built, and would most likely stay that way, after all of us were long gone. The staircase was longer than expected and split at the top, each side leading to a door. By the smell, one of them was the toilet.

The old man knocked once on the left door, followed by two quick knocks, and then one final knock. The door was opened by a pious-looking Muslim I didn’t recognize.

“Salam aleikum.” He bowed his head.

“Aleikum Hasalam,” I answered.

“Do you have a weapon on you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I am sorry,” he said without contrition, “But this is a place of worship. You’ll have to leave it outside.”

I wanted to tell him that weapons are hid in mosques on a regular basis all over the world, but this wasn’t the time to argue. I showed my dissatisfaction and unwillingly pulled my gun from my waistband and gave it to the old man waiting to receive it. The old man stood by the wall and allowed me to pass. I went through the door, into a large, well-lit hall. It was a basement, which had been turned into a prayer house. There were mats spread out on the floor. Three basins for washing one’s feet before the prayer. Three tall basins for washing the hands and face. Cushions for the comfort of the men praying and shelves full of books that, from afar, looked like the Quran.

Yassin sat by the far wall on a light-colored couch. He patted the space next to him. I came closer to him. “Do you know why I love this place?” he asked, with no preamble.

“Because it is hidden?” I answered with a question. I wanted to ask what was so urgent that he had called even though we had agreed that I would call him when I had some news. But I played along with him.

He laughed. “Hidden is good, but that is not the reason.”

“So, what is the reason?” I inquired, without real interest. What I was truly interested in was that I was here in a hidden basement without my bodyguards, without a cell signal, without my gun and without food in my belly, surrounded by several men who would obey any command Yassin might give. And the boy I had left in his hands was nowhere to be seen.

“Also, because there is no internet connection and everything is done through notes. And the smell of the spices drives me crazy. It reminds me of home.”

“Home?” I lifted an eyebrow and looked at him, amused. “Your home was a British mansion and there was no smell of eastern spices there at all.”

“My real home is in Iraq. There in the training camp on the border. That is where I really found my purpose in life.” Yassin smiled and whispered in my ear, “And also my greatest love.”

“I didn’t know you were in love.”

“Yes. The best cook in the world.” He looked as if he was lost in an old memory, then added, “It was a pity she was a Kurd and I had to get rid of her. I could have taken her to England with me. Our cook doesn’t know how