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

meeting. There is a bistro and a nightclub. I’ll be in the bistro at 11:00. Do you understand?”

     “Yes, of course.”

     “Okay, I’ll see you on Tuesday night.”

***

Steve arrived in Geneva on Monday morning. In the afternoon he took a cab to the Carouge section and had the cab drop him off at the Place du Marché, about three miles south of the southern tip of the lake. He walked the three blocks to Le Chat Noir and ordered an Orval beer in the Bistro section. He followed a sign down a circular stairway for a visit to the men’s room to case the nightclub on the same level.

     His waiter seemed in his early twenties, with intelligent eyes and dark hair that was a bit too long to be neat.

      “Not too crowded tonight,” Steve said, in French.

     Tomorrow night is when it’s going to be crowded,” the waiter replied, in English. “The club usually serves up alternative music. But tomorrow is for local Rock/Pop groups. Who knows if someone will be discovered?”

     “Are you a student?”

     “Yes. Tell me if you need anything. My name is Luke.”

     He left to attend to other customers.

     Before leaving, Steve paid with his credit card.

***

The following night, Steve returned to Le Chat Noir and sat at the same table. But the atmosphere, dominated by the loud rhythms and sounds of people talking and laughing downstairs, was radically different.

     At 11:30, on the off chance that Karim had somehow walked past him, or rather improbably arrived early and was in the nightclub area, he went downstairs. The decibel level increased geometrically with each step. It reminded Steve of the increasing water pressure on a diver going deeper.

     The loud, funky music came from a trio on a stage lit by a square framework of overhead lights. The rhythmic dissonance of the band moved the profiled bodies on a small dance floor. But only the band was visible. The rest of the room was dark. As he headed back toward the bathrooms, a man with twin lightning bolts on his black muscle shirt, leather wrist bands, and a belt made of three-inch-diameter iron links came downstairs and went by him toward the pulsing pandemonium of the club. Steve went back upstairs.

     A few minutes later, the band stopped playing and Steve returned downstairs. The lights were on. He could now see that a car, highlighted by colored spotlights, hung from the ceiling. Underneath sat Karim near the dance floor with an older man, wiry with hard features, who he assumed was Hussein. There were no unoccupied tables near Karim. Steve also assumed Hussein must have seen his picture, so he knew he was taking a chance Hussein would recognize him. About a dozen people were standing, perhaps waiting for a table to clear, and he went to stand near them. He would wait for an opportunity when Karim was alone.

     Then Steve saw Luke and intercepted him as he went by.

     “Do you think a table might clear soon?”

     He quickly considered and dismissed the thought of sending Karim a message through Luke, but too many things could go wrong.

     Luke recognized him, smiled, and gave him a victory signal. A few minutes later, Karim summoned Luke to his table and whispered something in his ear while pointing at Hussein. The three of them smiled conspiratorially. Five minutes later, Luke brought their drinks. Hussein tasted his and grinned at the waiter in thanks. Steve was guessing there was more than Coke in that glass. Maybe it was a Mazout, he thought, Coke with a shot of scotch, a drink popular in Morocco.

     Steve decided to make his move before the lights went out again. He walked near Karim’s table but kept in back of Hussein. Karim glanced up and Steve headed toward the men’s room, hoping that Karim would follow for a quick meeting, during which they could decide whether and where they could safely meet before Karim left Geneva.

     In the men’s room, he got busy washing his hands after confirming he was alone. A mop was left leaning in a far corner. A few seconds later, the door opened and Steve looked in the mirror in front of him expecting to see Karim. Instead, a determined-looking Hussein walked in. He began washing his hands next to Steve and said in French. “Haven’t I seen you before? You’re a famous person. Am I right?”

     Steve assumed Hussein was trying to confirm his identity before killing him. “No, I’m not famous.”

     Hussein, standing between Steve and the door, continued.

     “Don’t be modest. Yes, I know who you are now. You were in a French newspaper, yes?”

     Steve stepped back from the sink and turned to the left to get around Hussein and leave, however, a hunting knife appeared in Hussein’s right hand. Hussein blocked his exit.

     “You’re making a mistake. I’m not the person you think I am.”

     Steve tried to keep his eyes on the knife and still look around for a weapon. The utility closet was behind Hussein. However, he remembered the mop leaning against wall beyond the stalls. He started backing up. Hussein was in a crouch now with his knife held low, his thumb up and his left arm extended toward Steve.

     “You will no longer insult Islam by claiming that the Quran is a fake,” Hussein said.

     He lunged forward, sending the knife on an upward arc meant to penetrate under Steve’s ribcage. Steve jumped back and caught Hussein’s wrist in the V of his two open hands with the opposite thumb on each side. He gripped the wrist tightly and kicked Hussein in the crotch then swung Hussein’s arm over his head in a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.

     In one motion and with all of his