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

“I’ve decided that I have to stop to meet with potential backers in Adrar…”

     One of the AQIM men interrupted to say, “That’s almost a thousand kilometers south, on the edge of the Erg of Chech.”

     Tariq continued, “In Adrar, I want you, Hussein, to take the Land Rover with one of you,” and he pointed at the two AQIM men, “to go on to Timbuktu as fast as you can. You’re right, Hussein, nothing is happening in Morocco. Fly there as soon as you can. We need action. I’ll continue on with the other car on schedule. I need to gather supporters along the way.”

     Hussein sneezed. The air conditioning was still on.

     On their way to the cars, Tariq pulled Hussein aside.

     “Coogan, the American involved in the Quran documents, is dead, al hamdu Allah. It was on TV last night. And I recognized the guy working with him from a newspaper photo. I remember him from the university—from Brussels—another American. He was the son of a diplomat. I assume that our friends will have enough initiative to take care of him also.”

8. Rabat, Morocco

Steve was having lunch at the Marine House, home for the small Marine detachment assigned to guard the American Embassy. The U.S. Defense Attaché had chosen the venue.

     Air Force Colonel Dan Spaceck was in his late forties, tall and tanned, carefully groomed, although without a military haircut, and with remarkably white teeth. His double handshake—left hand on his opponent’s right elbow—was firm. Spaceck gave off a cloying scent that Steve guessed must be cologne—it was too late in the day for after-shave. Spaceck’s elegant appearance, Steve thought, was in contrast to the rather Spartan surroundings. A dour Moroccan cook had prepared and served their hamburgers and French fries from a menu geared to the taste of the young Marines who lived there. Steve detected the smell of stale grease when the door to the kitchen opened. He wondered why Spaceck had wanted to meet at the Marine House when there were so many more attractive restaurants in Rabat.

     Spaceck took a French fry in his fingers, looked at Steve, and said, “Tell me a little bit about yourself—how did you wind up in Morocco? If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem a little young to be talking to the Moroccans about such a major project.”

     Spaceck smiled to show no implied criticism.

     Steve hesitated a moment and said, also with a smile, “I guess West Gate thought I was right for the job. And the project is my idea. It seems to me that the Moroccans have a problem here with the radical Muslims. West Gate has considerable experience in counter-insurgency and counterterrorism. How long have you been in Morocco?”

     “Two years. I have another year, probably. I applied to the National War College at Fort McNair in D.C., and I’m waiting for a decision. Where else have you worked for West Gate?” Spaceck asked.

     “You’ll like the War College. My father did. I worked for West Gate in South Korea, Osan Air Force Base…”

     “Osan! Did you know General Adams? Bruce Adams? He was in my class at the Air Force Academy,” Spaceck said, animated.

    Steve nodded vigorously.

     “I worked for him! West Gate ran a major counter-proliferation exercise for him. I worked on it for six months just to get it set up and organized and, afterward, another month to analyze outcomes and make recommendations.”

     Steve didn’t mention that what probably had won him the job offer from West Gate was that he had opened a NATO office in Moldova and run it for eighteen months. Nor did he mention the reason for his sudden departure.

     Two young Americans walked in, wearing shorts. With their heads shaved on the sides, they could only be off-duty marines. They nodded to Spaceck.

     “Hi Colonel. We ran twelve miles this morning, on the road toward Kenitra. When are you going to join us?”

They looked at each other and grinned in a way that told Steve that Spaceck was the last man on earth they expected to take the offer seriously.

     Spaceck waved a greeting, “Hi Mike,” without replying to what was obviously a rhetorical question. Turning back to Steve, he said, “Well, I’m impressed. Adams told me the exercise was a big success. What did you do after Korea?”

     “I was assigned to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, working for Pacific Command. And now I’m working out of the Tysons Corner office in Virginia.”

     Steve guessed from Spaceck’s questions that the man wanted to befriend him. Spaceck was of the age and rank when he would naturally be thinking of retirement, and West Gate employed a good number of retired military. Steve wondered if Spaceck was trying to use him as a conduit toward a retirement job, which gave him pause.

     “What can you tell me about the Moroccan brass I’ll be meeting?”

     “The first thing you need to understand is that, to the extent the Moroccans think about the type of management consultants you’re talking about, those guys come from France. Except for the senior staff, the officer corps is now more oriented toward Arab countries. They speak less French and more English. And speaking of the younger officers, some are much more fundamentalist in their religious beliefs than the generals. But don’t worry about it. They’re more interested in stuffing their pockets than in the five pillars of Islam,” Spaceck said with a grin.

     Steve wondered at that analysis. He doubted that true Muslim radicals, young or old, could be bought. Besides, bribes were out of the question. Spaceck was becoming less solid by the second.

     “Trust me; I know how this place works. Since I know all of these people, I can go to your meetings with you