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

     “You will realize our dream of recreating the time of unqualified glory when Islam ruled. Your mission must be to politicize minorities living on the edges of the Sahara. The way to attract them is to provide what they don’t have, starting with pharmaceutical goods. Your key to success may start with the lowly aspirin,” Salim laughed.

     Relenting a bit, Salim added, “Of course, your work in the Sahel can’t take all of your time. It will not help us for you to become forgotten in the sands of the Sahara. You must also continue your speaking and intellectual discourse in Europe. It’s what your uncle would have wanted.”

     Tariq furrowed his brow as he paced.

     “Islam is submission. Those who will not become Muslims must still submit―they will acknowledge the dominance, the superiority, of Allah, Lord of the World, the Merciful. Or they will die.”

     Tariq liked Napoleon’s characterization of his foreign minister, Talleyrand, as an ‘iron fist in a velvet glove.’ Talleyrand had begun his political career in the Church and al Khalil knew he could also use his religion as the path to power.

***

Until they neared the wilaya of Ghardaia, the view from the car was made up of rocky, sometimes gravelly, ground punctuated by tufts of brownish grass, bizarre black rock formations and leafless shrubs. At the initiative of El Maghrebi’s men, they had stopped once, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. However, they had almost immediately been surrounded by a dozen curious nomads. For a few dinars, they had gone about collecting enough twigs for a fire over which the driver of the lead car had made tea. The nomads had displayed a few items for sale, including “desert roses,” petrified sand shaped in the form of roses by the wind.

     The scenery changed as they entered the stony M’Zab Valley, a conglomeration of five walled towns each built on a hill and dominated by its own minaret. They drove into Ghardaia, the largest of the five and followed the lead car driven by El Maghrebi’s men. As they passed by the mosque, its height and location symbolic of its importance, it reminded al Khalil of medieval Europe when the church dominated society and its cathedrals commanded the skyline. Later, government buildings had grown higher, and today, all over the world, the highest structures were those of businesses. It was fitting, he thought, that the most horrendous blow against the West in modern times was the attack on the Twin Towers in New York City.

     Tariq noticed the different dress of people in the street. Men wore baggy trousers, beige was a favorite, and flat round hats. There were few women in the street, most totally covered in white cloaks, only one eye visible.

     That night, he and Hussein walked back from the house of a religious leader they were hoping would join them when Tariq said, “I’ve been thinking about Morocco. What’s going on there? I think you made a mistake in appointing this fellow Lahlou to run our operations there.”

     Before Hussein could reply, they heard singing and shouting. They turned the corner and saw two tipsy Europeans, probably French oil workers from the Total operation in Hassi-Messaoud about two-hundred-fifty miles to the East. Hassi-Messaoud was Algeria’s main petroleum center, operated by French, American, and Italian oil companies. These foreign expats did not normally come to Ghardaia for their R&R. Their companies paid their trips back home for a month before they returned to their oil camps in the middle of the Algerian desert for another month.

     In Brussels, when confronted with repulsive behavior, he had not been able to act. Here, he had no doubt as to what he must do.

     “Hussein, let’s go,” Tariq urged.

     They quickened their step to catch up. It was dusk and very few people were out. As the Frenchmen became aware of the approaching men, one turned to the other and said, nodding toward Tariq and Hussein, “Look, Arab indigenes—locals.”

     Addressing them, he said, “We thought your town was deserted. I am so glad to see a human, even an Arab.”

     He winked at his friend.

     “We came all the way from Hassi, you know, Hassi-Messaoud―we’re making Algeria rich! What is there to do here?”

     To al Khalil, the tone of their voices was insulting. Here were infidel outsiders, exploiters of Arab resources and defilers of Islamic law. Tariq glanced at Hussein. Each understood the other.

     In French, Tariq said, “It looks like you’re having fun. You deserve it. Hassi must be hard work.”

     The drunker one said, “Yes.” Tariq noticed that the other’s eyes were well focused and that he was evaluating the situation.

     “You won’t find any restaurants open now,” Tariq said, “None that serve liquor anyway.”

     The French spokesman said, “That’s right. That’s why we’re going back to the hotel. My room is the only bar in this damn town. Do you know of any place that’s open where we can have some fun? If you know what I mean?”

     Al Khalil smiled conspiratorially at the Frenchmen, and nodded at Hussein, who couldn’t understand French. “We know of a place where you’ll have the best time of your lives.”

     “Well, tell us. I guess you want money,” the drunker one grumbled. He reached for his back pocket.

     Tariq held up his hand. “Keep your money. We’ll take you there because otherwise you won’t get in. Besides, that’s where we’re going.”

     Once off the main street and into an alley, Hussein and Tariq looked around, and seeing no one, on cue, drew the knives Ibrahim El Maghrebi had given them in Blida. Hussein quickly took advantage of the element of surprise. Holding his knife with the point up, he stepped forward and immediately used a killing thrust