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

woman sitting behind a small counter near the door and paid. As he turned toward the door, he heard two popping noises followed by the sound of a car accelerating out of the dirt and gravel parking lot. When Steve reached his car, Misha was dead.

     The next few hours had been a blur. The police had questioned him extensively about Misha: his background, his friends. Steve knew Misha had been in Afghanistan serving with a Soviet Spetsnatz unit, the Soviet Special Forces. Misha had talked about it openly. He had even given Steve his former uniform, at the time a souvenir of the Cold War.

     A police inspector had said, “Your translator was a KGB officer. How could you not know that?” Another had said, “This Misha was just another Russian trying to get rich by running guns to the secessionists.”

     His NATO boss had brought him back to Brussels twenty-four hours after the killing. Steve had forever been sorry that he had not stayed and seen the investigation through. He felt strongly Misha would not have betrayed him. But Steve would not have been surprised if Misha had been involved in the arms trade.

     Steve came to believe that the Moldovan Government had killed Misha and had orchestrated the subsequent character assassination campaign. He was convinced he could have done something for his friend had he stayed.

***

He shook off the memory and stood up. People continued to spill out of the ministry. Sirens wailed in the distance. With all the resolve in his body, he pledged to avenge this mindless act of terror. At the same time, he looked around with new apprehension. Who were these people? Why was he of such interest? He busied himself trying to help the wounded until ambulances arrived.

***

Hussein had driven from Casablanca to Rabat in record time and was soon in Lahlou’s apartment in Rabat’s New Medina. He was halfway up the stairs when the scratchy recorded voice of the muezzin called the faithful to prayer from overstressed loudspeakers at the top of the nearby mosque. He joined Lahlou in prayer as soon as he entered the one room apartment.

    Hussein held his anger in check until the end of prayers.

     “You are an incompetent idiot! You told me you had it planned to the minute. Now, not only is this American still alive, you’ve made us look like fools.”

     Lahlou, shoulders sagging, said, “It was fate. The American returned to Rabat. He got out of the car.”

     “All you did was kill a Moroccan government employee, wound a few others, and demolish one of the king’s cars. May Allah have mercy on you!” Hussein said, unable to keep his voice and anger down.

    “We used a timed charge. It was set with a ten-hour delay at one o’clock this morning. Ribb knew that the American had an appointment and would be in the car for about forty-five minutes on the way to the military camp where he had an appointment at 11:15—very precise timing. Not my fault. It was Allah’s will.”

     Lahlou was sweating.

     “A timed charge? Are you crazy? A timed charge robs you of control over the time of the explosion. Why didn’t you set off the explosion remotely? Further, why did you involve the Ministry? You could have killed the American in his room, on the street, anywhere. Why in a government car? Now Military Security is going to take this as an attack on them and put all of our people under great pressure!”

     Lahlou shook his head. “Security doesn’t know anything about the identity of our militants. We’re underground.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. The pitch of Lahlou’s voice went up as he continued his bluster. “They’ll huff and puff for a couple of weeks and then everything will be back to normal. Besides, we have our own informants in Military Security.”

     “I want you, Ribb, and your so-called explosives expert, and anyone else who knows about me, to get out of town and go into hiding. I’m leaving the country first thing tomorrow, while I still can,” Hussein said.

11. Marin County, California

Steve’s father, Marshall Church, just back from the gym, prepared for a TV interview. He looked at his red-walled office and didn’t even try to organize the papers and books on and around his desk. What might appear as confusion to an outsider made perfect sense to him.

     Since the CIA had approved Marshall’s request to drop his cover, the San Francisco media had discovered him and regularly contacted him any time there was terrorist-related news. Marshall initially found the sudden attention gratifying. But he became less available when he saw how the media cherry-picked sound bites to fit the anchor’s agenda.

     The phone rang. “Marshall, how are you?”

     It was Abdelhaq al Fassi. Marshall had recruited Abdelhaq for the CIA during the 1978-79 Islamic revolution that overthrew the Shah when both Marshall and Abdelhaq, a Moroccan intelligence officer, were posted to Tehran. They had contacted each other following their respective retirements, and their friendship had grown, transcending the typical case officer-agent relationship.

     “Abdelhaq, we’re all fine. In fact, my son Steve is in Morocco on business. I was going to call you myself to tell you.”

     “Well, it’s Steve I’m calling about. I haven’t spoken to him yet. But something has happened. Military Security is talking to him and that’s why he hasn’t had a chance to call you himself.”

     “What in the world does security want with Steve?”

    “An IED blew up a Ministry of Defense car he was using. Steve wasn’t in it at the time. He’s okay. We think it was a Salafist operation. It just happened so we don’t know much more than what I’ve just told you.”

     Marshall’s grip tightened around the phone.

     “Don’t