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

Steve then related his suspicions about the silver SUV and asked him to trace the plate.

     “I can do that. You think they’re that organized they would follow you to the end of the earth to get you? Probably not. But I’ll do it. In the morning.”

     Steve went to bed feeling calm.

     Gordon called the next day.

    “The SUV was a rental,” he said. “However, the guy who rented it is on the terrorist watch list: Rafiq Jallad, aka Jabril al Jihad. He’s been here two years, from Tunis. Unemployed. Lives in Herndon and frequents a mosque in Herndon that’s a center for Muslim activists. He has a bank account and gets money from a bank in Qatar.”

     “Activist! I love your official euphemisms. Is that a politically correct term to stay under the ACLU’s radar?”

     “You’re welcome. This guy is probably part of a support mechanism responsible for surveillance, renting safe apartments and cars, et cetera. The hit team arrives after all the groundwork is done.”

     “So, what are you saying—don’t worry because the hit team’s not here yet? Are you going to arrest him?”

     “He didn’t do anything illegal. I’ll pay him a friendly visit, which should calm him down. In the meantime, maybe you could live somewhere else for a while.”

     Steve felt hunted. These guys didn’t give up. It only reinforced his determination to take the initiative. The next day, he moved into his father’s townhouse and decided to speed up his trip to the Middle East and Geneva.

***

Two weeks later, Steve was in Cairo with two days of meetings left on his schedule to try to move the Egyptian military toward West Gate’s services. At Van Diemen’s recommendation, Steve stayed at the Talisman Hotel de Charme on Talaat Harb Street. It called itself a boutique hotel. Steve assumed Van Diemen had chosen it because it was cheaper than the grandiose Hilton and Marriot where most American businessmen stayed. His main point of contact was an Egyptian armor colonel with a Sandhurst pedigree. Steve concluded that, as a “Yank,” he had the wrong accent to be taken seriously by this anglophile officer. He would find someone from the West Gate staff with a British background.

     Checking his email after he returned to his room, he found a message from Kella that said in part,

How about meeting in Geneva next week? I can get away from Thursday through Sunday. I have to be back at work Monday. I have another message for you. Last time I was in T, I met with Mother Catherine. She had a message for you from someone named Karim who needs to hear from you urgently. Who is Karim and why don’t I know him?

Steve was nonplussed by mentions of Mother Catherine and Karim and himself all in the same sentence. Perhaps he hadn’t been as clandestine as he thought, after all, while he was running Karim.

     He replied:

You caught me in Cairo where, professionally speaking, my progress is under-whelming. But at least no one is trying to kill me. Your message raises a thousand questions on how people in your message are connected – Later.

     PS—It’s okay to pass my cell number to Karim. Maybe I could stop in Bamako on the way back home but I’d rather not.

Karim called the next day.

     “Monsieur Christophe. I am so happy we are talking, grand merci a Dieux,” he began.

     Steve picked up on the French equivalent of Al Hamdu’llah: “Thanks be to God.” He wondered why Karim wasn’t using the Arabic, as he had so many times before.

     “And I am happy we’re talking also. It’s been a long time. How is your brother?”

     Steve was mindful that, even in urgent situations, family was always the conversational priority.

     “Oh my brother, he is dead. He was killed in a firefight between Algerian soldiers and the Salafist rebels, the AQIM. I don’t know what happened. He was supposed to travel to France the next day. I wanted him in France working while I earned enough money to send him to America. But Monsieur Gregoire, he is not a good man. But that is not why I need to talk with you. I think that something important is going to happen. I remember that you said to never talk about these things on the telephone, so I don’t want to. But how else can I tell you? I am flying avions sans pilotes, and they will be part of the plan, I think.”

     Steve was thinking fast, balancing the need to finish his business in Cairo, and his plans to go to Tel Aviv next, against what he was learning from Karim.

     “If you have any excuse to go to Europe, I could see you there next week,” Steve offered hopefully.

     “How did you know? I am traveling to Geneva with Hussein next week. He is taking me with him because I know about these planes without pilots and Rashid is traveling. He wants to buy some more.”

     “Since you’re probably going to be busy during the day, would it be better to meet at night do you think?”

     He waited for Karim to answer, but Karim hesitated, so he continued.

    “Take this down. I’ll be in the bistro section of Le Chat Noir, Rue Vautier, in the Carouge section at 11:00 in the evening on Tuesday. It’s a jazz cabaret. Look it up in the tourist information they will have at your hotel. If one of us can’t go, then I’ll be at the Place du Marché, also in Carouge, not far from Le Chat Noir, the next day at 10:00 in the morning and the day after that. Do you know where you’ll be staying?”

     “No, Monsieur Christophe.”

     “It’s important for you to come to Le Chat Noir—the first