The Caliphate by André Gallo (books to read for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

in Gaza, in the belief that Hamas would weaken the PLO. Now we have actual control of the movement and the PLO is nothing. We own Gaza; we will own the occupied territories of the West Bank; the Jews have outwitted themselves.”

    Several boys were playing soccer in the street. By accident, the ball was kicked toward the Salah brothers and one boy came running after it. Mahmoud’s bodyguard quickly blocked the ball and kicked it back, shouting, “Stupid boy. My trigger finger is very nervous. Don’t ever kick a ball toward someone with a gun!”

     They reached the market and turned in between stalls loaded on one side with dates in wooden boxes and, on the other, with raisins in flat cardboard containers. The crossed the market and continued their conversation amidst the smells and sights of the temporary stalls. The strong and earthy smells of cumin competed with the lighter but equally fragrant sage and the smoky aroma of paprika. Rusty saffron sat next to vats of green and black olives.

     Najib and Mahmoud both believed that, in their own way, they were working so that the people behind these smells and colors could one day have the opportunity to support their families in dignity and under the laws of Islam. To reach that objective, the non-believers in and out of Gaza would have to submit and, with Allah’s help, would submit.

     They were still a block away from Najib’s apartment building when they emerged from the market, one bodyguard now twenty feet ahead and the other in back but much closer. There was only light traffic as they started to cross the street. Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupted and the front bodyguard went down. Another burst quickly followed as both Najib and Mahmoud dove to the ground. People on the near side of the market were all on the ground. Guns appeared in multiple hands. Several single rounds were fired, coming from the market toward invisible targets. The Gaza population had much experience with random acts of violence and weapons were plentiful; the attempted hit soon led to indiscriminate firing.

     This assassin had mistimed his hit. If he had waited for the Salah brothers to reach the middle of the street, they would have had no cover. Instead, they had only just emerged from the market and were now crawling quickly back toward the stalls. Najib was bloodied but moving. The rear bodyguard had come from behind and was down on knee looking for his target. He spotted the gunman lining up his own weapon to fire again, steadying his aim and using a metal light pole for cover. Both fired almost at the same time: the hit man at the retreating brothers in a scattered spray that belied his professional preparation, and the bodyguard at the would-be assassin, hitting him in the shoulder, causing him to spin and lose even the slim protection of the pole. The bodyguard then fired again at the now-easy target and cut him down.

     Mahmoud leaned down to look at Najib’s wound and muttered, “The al Aqsa Brigade. I thought we had killed all those Fatah dogs.”

***

The next day, Mahmoud went to visit Najib at the Shifa Hospital. From outside, he could see that most of the windows were shattered. Inside, the walls were dirty and too many people waited for medical care by doctors often forced first to take care of those most likely to live. But Najib’s and Mahmoud’s status as senior Hamas officials guaranteed priority attention.

     Najib was sitting in a green plastic chair in a room with ten beds, all of them occupied by patients with more serious problems. His upper body was encased in a cast to keep his shoulder and arm immobile.

     “Al Hamdu‘llah,” Mahmoud said. “You’re looking fine brother. If the doctors are done, you’re better off coming home. I’ll ask for some pain killers and we can go.”

     He disappeared and came back ten minutes later.

     “The doctor said that the hospital is virtually out of supplies. He had four of these pills. He said that each should last about two hours but to make them last as long as possible. He has no more.”

    As they walked out, Mahmoud said, “Are you okay? Listen to me. This cowardly al Aqsa attack has convinced me to act against that Rafael installation near Ashqelon. By winning the elections, we used the democratic weapon. We won international credibility. But we’re not going to get the Jews out through elections. The armed struggle continues to be the key. Look at the increased status of Hezbollah after their month-long fighting with the Zionist army in Lebanon. We can complete our capture of the Palestinian heart and mind with a major victory over the Jews. Your discovery of a Rafael installation is the ticket. I need first to get the political support and then I’ll collect the operational information for a plan. I’ll get Walid Fahmy or Talal Kawar, or both, the Ikhwan chiefs in Egypt and Jordan, to put me in touch with their boss, Tariq al Khalil. My guess is that he wouldn’t mind making headlines about now.”

     Najib walked firmly with Mahmoud out of the front door of the hospital but winced in pain as someone in a great hurry came in and pushed past him. Mahmoud put his hand on his holstered gun but Najib restrained him with his a stern look and a firm, “No.”

     After they were down the steps and on the street, Najib said, “Military operations are your responsibility, not mine. But my sense is that Hamas is going to let al Khalil fund this operation so you would be wise to get in touch with him soon.”

***

Mahmoud had called a meeting of the Izz al Din al Qassam Council. They were on the second floor of an apartment building in Gaza