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

have told me to show you. Ever hear of non-lethal weapons? Sounds like an oxymoron but the military has been doing a lot of work in this area and so have we. We’ve adapted the technology that the military needs to stop a crowd at a distance without shooting and reduced it to something you can carry in your pocket with a range of thirty feet. It’s called Pulsed Energy Projectile, or PEP. I’ll show you after breakfast tomorrow.”

     Steve left the next day at 10 a.m. after two hours of instruction on the new personal weapon.

16. Paris: Kella’s Apartment

Kella ran down the stairs as fast as she could. The fear of Hamad behind her coursed through her veins. To get away from him, she thought of jumping down from landing to landing.

     Was it possible?

     She jumped and came down lightly, but Hamad jumped after her.

     He reached for her.

     She felt the touch of steel on her back.

     Was the knife in her back?

     Somehow she knew that her blouse had been cut open.

     She kept running down the stairs—for her life!

     How many flights of stairs so far? How long would it take to reach the street?

     She lifted up her robe with one hand to go faster.

    Hamad yelled, “Whore! Whore!”

     She tripped and Hamad suddenly was on top of her.

     He straddled her.

     She was terrified.

     Was he going to rape her?

     She couldn’t move her arms or legs.

     He raised the knife and shouted, “Allah hu Akbar,” his face a demon’s mask.

     The knife came down slowly but inexorably toward her heart.

     His face was closer, grimacing with anger, with the effort.

     Was she dead now? Bells were ringing. She must be in the Basilica of Saint-Denis.

***

The ringing woke her. She was in a sweat, her head turning from one side to the other. Her heart pounding, pounding, told her she was alive. Her phone was ringing. She put her light on. It was 6:30 in the morning. It was Steve.

     “Hey, I was hoping to catch you at home before you left for the day so I stayed up late. I’m in Virginia, at home. I’ve been thinking about you. How are you?”

     “I’m okay. Wait a minute, I’ll be right back.”

     She went to the bathroom and washed her face.

     “It’s early here you know. But I’m glad you called. I’m okay, but to tell you the truth I have problems concentrating, in my studies I mean.”

     “I have the remedy: a trip. I’ve just accepted a temporary freelance assignment as a photojournalist. I’m going to do the definitive piece on the Tuaregs. Come with me.”

     “What? The Tuaregs? It’s been done already,” she told him, laughing.

     “Maybe, but it’s not like I’m going to do it because you’re going to be my secret weapon. How about going with me? What better guide could I have? You even speak Tuareg, don’t you? Have you already taken your trip to Timbuktu? I hope not.”

    “It’s Tamasheq—the language, I mean.”

     She was glad to be distracted from her nightmare of Hamad, but Steve’s call was doubly welcome. She was attracted to the prospects of traveling with him in her native land. Yet she felt she had to put up a little resistance.

     “Steve, it’s a wonderful offer, but I can’t just pick up and leave my studies at a moment’s notice. I was planning a visit to my relatives in Timbuktu but not this afternoon. Are you going through an early mid-life crisis? I thought you liked your job.”

     “Trust me, Kella. I know this is sudden and you’ve got a ton of questions. I’ll answer them all when I see you in Timbuktu. Think of it as Fate. Think Lady Luck and the spirit of adventure. Think Baraka.”

     Without too much effort, he persuaded her to join him and they agreed to make their own separate ways to Timbuktu and meet there a week later.

***

In coordination with the central cover staff, Marshall, Phillip, and Mel had settled on Steve’s cover. Sitting in the staff’s conference room, Yukio, the cover officer explained.

     “Your photojournalism cover will give you a reason to be in Mali and to make contacts with just about anyone in the Timbuktu area. And it will provide a pretext to contact al Khalil and IMRA, which presumably provides assistance to Tuaregs.”

     “What about sending Steve into the lion’s den in true name?” Marshall asked. “The Salafists targeted him in Morocco. They know his name. Everybody has his name it was in the newspaper.”

     Mel interjected, “I’ll get the forms from State for Steve to fill out.”

     “I can’t very well contact al Khalil in alias since we’ve already met,” Steve spoke up.

    “An alias passport at this late date is out of the question,” Yukio said. “Passports are controlled by the State Department with an iron grip—you wouldn’t believe the red tape.”

     “Listen, since I have to travel in true name, and since I have to meet al Khalil in true name, I’ll use my middle name, Christopher, when making contacts in Mali just to keep a lower profile,” Steve said decisively. “I have a hard time believing that al Khalil has anyone actively screening the names of everyone arriving and leaving Mali; the risk must be minuscule. As far as Tariq himself, I’m sure I can convince him that I have no involvement with the Quran documents.”

     If I can actually reach him, he thought.

     When the meeting was over, Marshall pulled Steve aside in the hallway. His father’s face was drawn and serious.

     “As usual, the real cover will not be what the CIA provides, but what you