The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

the West’s capstone principles. A Muslim country in the alcohol business is unacceptable, an insult to Allah, May he favor our actions.”

     “Yes, that will come, Hussein replied. “There are more important things … I mean, you’re right. But don’t you think that petrol is where the power is?”

     Al Khalil didn’t reply. He thought Hussein’s common sense sometimes made up for his lack of true religious fervor.

***

They landed at Houari Boumedienne International Airport. Mediterranean sunlight flowed through large and high windows. Architecturally clean lines offered uncluttered and expansive spaces. Large posters from the Ministry of Tourism greeted tourists in several languages. However, al Khalil immediately felt the embattled atmosphere. The presence of countless military patrols—soldiers walking in pairs with leveled semi-automatic machine guns hanging from their shoulders—sent a clear warning not to abuse the welcome.

     Al Khalil chuckled. He turned to Hussein and said, “Our Salafist friends obviously have convinced these apostate rulers that their days are limited.”

     Hussein took his cell phone out of pocket.

     “Yes. When the Algerian Salafists became al Qaeda in the Maghreb, they became more aggressive, more deadly. It was a good idea to plan a meeting with them on our way south.”

     Following a two-hour wait, the Land Rover representative met them on the street side of the airport explaining the delay as the will of God, Insha’llah. Hussein took title to the car after another hour of haggling over the final price and a sizable bribe, or bakchich.

     Al Khalil saw the boxy-looking green car with outsize Michelin desert tires but was only interested in the brand name. As he got in the car, he asked, “Why a British car, Hussein? The British have troops in Iraq; their damn SAS commandos are fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

     Hussein’s shrewd eyes didn’t move from his maps as he replied flippantly, “I’m more concerned about being able to traverse the Sahara than who made the car.” He looked up at al Khali. “It’s a good car.”

     Al Khalil gave his deputy a sharp look but said nothing.

     They followed signs to Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, which became National Road #1 and proceeded south. The sign informed them that the distance to Blida was twenty-eight miles. As they neared the entrance to the town, they were stopped at a roadblock. They were let though after a check of their passports. However, off to the side, two soldiers had ordered the driver and passenger of the previous car to get out. There was yelling and one soldier, holding his weapon parallel to the ground, hit the passenger with the stock of his rifle, stepping forward with one foot for more force.

     Just like in training, al Khalil thought.

     The passenger fell, his head bleeding.

     Hussein, who drove, asked, “How well do you know the AQIM chief, El Maghrebi?”

     “Ibrahim El Maghrebi is more of a survivor than a fox. He was a sergeant in the Algerian army when he tried to enlist fellow officers to his Salafist beliefs. He was jailed, later released in an amnesty, and went underground. I agree with him on many things. The execution of uncooperative village officials, as the North Vietnamese practiced, is an effective path to control the population. Since 1991 when they started to fight, they have killed over two-hundred thousand. No wonder they convinced al Qaeda central to incorporate them.”

     “But will he help us?” Hussein asked. “And does he have the purity of spirit that you seek?”

     Al Khalil glanced at Hussein; his only response was a thoughtful nod. He knew that Hussein was still trying to convince him of his Muslim motivation.

     They found the small grocery store with the safety signal—a Coca-Cola sign in Arabic in its window, which signified to al Khalil and Hussein that the site was secure, and that the Algerian police was neither in control of the location nor surveilling it. Immediately inside the door, a bearded guard holding his AK-47 casually let them into the smoky and narrow room where a young boy swept the floor.

     After an exchange of greetings, the guard said, “He’s up there,” and looked toward the ceiling. He shouted, “They’re here!” toward stairs in the back of the store. Between coughs, a voice replied, “Bring them up.” They walked past shelves lined with bottles of Evian and cans of Petits Pois de Clamart to reach the stairs.

     Ibrahim el-Maghrebi sported an unruly mustache hiding his upper lip but not his tobacco-stained teeth. His dusty brown jellaba, the hooded garment that covered the body from the head to the ankles, couldn’t completely hide a sturdy physique. Al Khalil could feel El Maghrebi’s familiarity with command and easily imagined him in uniform.

     “Salaam Alaikum. We are honored by your visit. Your reputation precedes you. Your family is the royalty of our Muslim Brotherhood. We honor your grandfather, a man with the Quran in one hand and a gun in the other. He promoted the renaissance of a pure brand of Islam to reverse the perversions of Western ideology: Christianity, imperialism and nationalism.”

     Al Khalil waved a fly away from his face. “You are kind.”

El Maghrebi continued, “I’m sorry I have to receive you in this unworthy place. Please understand that we are at war. The next time we meet will be in my palace in Algiers.”

     They both chuckled.

     Asked to sit next to his host on a banquette against the wall, Al Khalil accepted. A blade of sun cut through half-closed curtains and lit part of the room.

     El Maghrebi reached for a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in the folds of his jellaba and held it in his hand.

     “AQIM is on the verge of victory,” he said. “A few days ago, we attacked a Coast Guard installation a hundred kilometers east of