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

City in a one bedroom apartment that belonged to one of the council members. They were all sitting at a wooden table each with either water or tea. As usual, the smoke was thick.

     Mahmoud had already given its five members the background of the operation.

     “With the help of our brother Arabs who work in Israeli vehicle registration offices and using surveillance as well as the Internet, we have been able to connect vehicles that entered the agricultural compound with personal addresses. From there, using the utmost discretion, we were able to determine that the drivers of these vehicles habitually went from their homes to the Dimona Nuclear Center, to Israeli Defense Forces Headquarters in Tel Aviv, and to major defense-related companies, including Aeronautics Defense Systems Ltd, in Yavne, Elbit Systems in Haifa, and Tadiran Communications in Petach Tiqwa. All of these companies produced high tech items for the IDF, Israeli Defence Forces. None had any connection to agriculture.”

     He stopped to take a puff on a Camel and gather his thoughts.

     “We have concluded therefore that we were right, that the agricultural center is a front for a secret defense installation operated by the Rafael Armament Authority. I request the authority of the council to contact Tariq al Khalil through our Muslim Brotherhood friends to propose he funds and provide the men and materiel for an operation against the secret installation in Ashqelon.”

     He stopped and took another puff waiting for the council’s reaction. Since Mahmoud had already briefed and obtained the support of each individual member of the Council, he expected approval and he was not disappointed.

     On his way home, Mahmoud planned how he would exit Gaza without alerting Israeli authorities. He would go out through one of the tunnels under the Egyptian border. The sea was too well patrolled by Israeli gunboats. He would lay out the information to Walid Fahmy first, the Ikhwan chief in Cairo.

36. McLean

Steve mulled over his options as he drove to his apartment. As usual the George Washington Memorial Parkway was crowded with commuters. Van Diemen wanted him to prepare for another trip, to Tel Aviv and Cairo. Should he try to fix the operation in Timbuktu?

     The car on his right, a silver SUV, pulled even with him although he could have kept moving ahead another twenty feet in the daily driving competition over inches. This unusually laid-back behavior interrupted Steve’s thoughts and he looked at the driver, a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair who had been looking at Steve but turned his head back to the front. He was alone.

     Steve took note of the car and dropped back to see its license plate. Probably nothing, he thought, but he maintained a closer eye on his environment as he drove home. The silver SUV pulled ahead of him and took the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge exit into the District of Columbia, while he stayed on the parkway toward Alexandria.

     He parked near his apartment thirty minutes later and wrote down the plate number. He wasn’t sure whether to follow-up on the SUV, but his recent experiences in Paris and Morocco didn’t allow him to dismiss it. He would keep the number until he decided what to do.

    He changed into running shorts and went out, again considering his situation. He was doing well at West Gate. He probably would be offered a higher position and a better salary in the near future. Should he fit a trip to Timbuktu to see Karim on his way to or back from the Middle East? How did West Gate fit into his determination to do something concrete, something that would blunt the ambitious plans of the Salafists and their killing spree? He no longer wanted to put his life in the hands of people like Mel and now this Gregory. If so, it meant his work for the CIA was over. But how could he possibly fight the Salafists single-handedly?

     As he closed in on his apartment after a seven-mile run, he saw the silver SUV turn into his street half a block away. He ran past his block and made two rights to circle back. The silver vehicle was nowhere in sight. He nevertheless ran past his street again and came at this apartment from the back by cutting through a neighbor’s yard. He wondered if the Salafists, armed with his name and picture from the Paris newspaper, had tracked him down. It would have been easy to do. All they needed was a phone book.

     Once upstairs, he called Gordon, an FBI agent he had met at the gym, and left him a message.

     He took a quick shower, put on old jeans, and grilled a steak, taking care to season it liberally with garlic. He also prepared a salad and opened a beer. The scent of garlic quickly took over the kitchen, and Steve felt his problems were no longer insurmountable.

     Beer in hand, he went to the living room, sat at his computer, and sent Kella an email:

Hi, I’m making plans for a Middle East trip. Any chance we could meet? Paris is not on my itinerary for obvious reasons. If it doesn’t threaten to discombobulate your life, how about meeting me in Geneva? We could have some fun and I have an idea that needs the intellect of an ENA graduate. All this on the assumption that you’re not yet president!

Then Gordon called back.

     “Hey Steve, what’s going on?”

     “Just one second.” He took the steak off the grill and returned to the phone. “I have a favor to ask. Did I tell you I was actually famous, that I appeared in the international press?”

     “You mean the Quran project? You didn’t say a word about it to me. I know about it anyway. The FBI knows all, sees all.”