Insurrection. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Patsy’s cheeks as Agbede jumped to his feet and grabbed her elbow. Hayat’s grin broadened even further. He liked playing these little psychological games with his women.
As Agbede pulled her toward him, the redhead looked over her shoulder and pleaded one last time. “Please...” she whimpered in a tiny voice.
“Go!” Hayat shouted, looking her directly in the eye. “And please him. Or you will be sold to the first trader who passes by, and live the rest of your short life in far more unpleasant surroundings than this.”
Laughing loudly, Agbede slapped her buttocks, then turned and started out of the room.
“You will be going out in public,” Hayat called after him. “Allow her some clothing for appearances sake, at least.”
A tall, long-legged blonde had anticipated the Boko Haram leader’s words and now appeared in front of Agbede holding two garments. The man set Patsy back down on her feet and waited impatiently while she twisted a wrapper around her body and then shrugged into a traditional Yoruba top known as a buba.
“Do not take too long with her, my friend,” Hayat called after him. “You have an American and a Boko Haram traitor to kill. And other attacks for which we need to plan.”
Hayat had settled back on his pillow as Agbede retreated, and was eyeing the women around him again, when Kamilah appeared once more. Stopping directly in front of him, she looked down and smiled. “The other man is here,” she said. “Sam.”
“Bring him to me then.”
She pivoted and walked off, her hips wiggling provocatively. Hayat knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude. He would offer Sam one or more of the women before the man left. But experience had taught him that Sam would not only not hurt them as Agbede did, the liaison to al Qaeda would politely refuse.
A few moments later, Kamilah returned, followed by a short, slightly built man. He was an Arab, originally from Yemen, but his skin was only a slight shade darker than the average Caucasian. His face, which was clean shaved, denoted no particular heritage. And in his work for both al Qaeda and Boko Haram, he made full use of the DNA, which allowed him to portray practically any race he chose to imitate simply by changing his clothes, language and attitude.
The bottom line was that Sam always looked like anything but what he actually was—a radical Islamic terrorist.
Hayat noted that this day, like most days when he was not undercover and gathering information within a specific ethnic group, Sam wore a gray pin-striped, three-piece business suit and a conservative burgundy-colored tie. His jacket was unbuttoned as usual, and Hayat saw the gold watch chain drooping across his abdomen from one pocket in his vest to the other.
Invisible at the small of his back, Sam would undoubtedly have his kris. The wavy, snakelike blade was encased in worn leather and secured by a steel clip to his belt.
Sam had used a wide variety of weapons during the time he had been liaison between al Qaeda and Boko Haram. But Hayat knew a .32 derringer and the kris were his favorites. They were simple, like Sam himself was simple, and they were always with him.
Although, as a member of al Qaeda rather than Boko Haram, Sam didn’t answer directly to Fazel Hayat, he had always treated the Nigerian with the utmost respect. So now, as he stopped in front of Hayat’s pillow and stood there looking more like some Latin American lawyer than the terrorist he was, he said, “You summoned me, sir?”
Hayat liked the man and liked his manners. They were in such contrast to Agbede’s. “Let us say I requested your presence,” he said now. “It sounds so much friendlier.” He indicated the empty pillow next to him where Patsy had been a few minutes earlier. “Would you like a seat?”
“No, thank you. I would prefer to stand.”
“As you wish, then,” Hayat said. “I have something I would like for you to do if you would.”
Sam nodded. “That is why I was sent here,” he said. “To assist Boko Haram in our mutual war against the West, Christianity and Judaism. To unite our two groups.”
“The bishop from New York City,” Hayat said. “The one who was born here and attended the local Christian seminary, then immigrated to the United States. He returned to be a speaker at their conference.”
“So I have been told,” Sam replied.
“And somehow,” Fazel went on, “he escaped both the bomb inside the chapel and our men outside.”
“So I also heard.”
“His name is Bishop Joshua Adewale, and how this happened, I do not know. Dhul and I were watching through binoculars from a few blocks away. And I had one man videotaping the machete executions as the bomb survivors tried to run out of the rubble. Dhul and I saw, and our man with the video camera recorded, Adewale clearly walking right between two of my other men and out of the picture.”
“I have watched the video,” Sam said. “I did not think you would mind.”
Hayat shook his head. “Of course not. I am happy that you are already familiar with the problem.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Sam said. “It appears that the two men he walked between were simply preoccupied with the killing of other bishops. And by the time they were finished, Adewale had left the scene.”
“Yes, that is the only answer I can come up with myself,” Hayat agreed. “But there is still something mysterious and unsettling about it all. Both men clearly looked at Adewale, but then seemed to immediately forget him and go back to what they were doing.” He cleared his throat. “Dhul and I saw Adewale leave the scene and head into a nearby neighborhood, walking unsteadily, as if in some kind of trance.”
Sam shuffled his feet slightly as if beginning to grow impatient. “And you would like me to find him and kill him?”
“Yes,” Hayat replied. “Dhul has gone after the American agent and the traitor who now calls himself Paul. He will be busy with them, I suspect.”
“Again, with all due respect,” Sam said, “I should have been sent after all of these men as soon as we recognized the threats they represented. In fact—and I do not wish to overstep my bounds—but I should also have been in charge of the strike against the university chapel itself.”
“You are correct,” Hayat said. “But I had Dhul manufacture the bomb, plant it and then position the men outside the chapel before he joined me on the rooftop. I thought that would be sufficient.”
Sam let a small smile of indulgence curl at the corners of his lips. “Would you allow me to speak freely, sir?” he asked.
“Of course. I value your input. And you possess the ability to disagree without being rude and offensive. Please continue.”
“Thank you, sir.” After clearing his throat, he said, “Dhul Agbede is an animal, sir,” he said. “A mindless mongrel dog more suited to the days of Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun or Shaka Zulu with his scorched earth policy. Granted, there is some use to be culled from the random and apparently conscienceless violence of which he is capable. And he does construct good explosives and forges fine-edged weaponry. Like this.” The wavy-bladed kris suddenly appeared in Sam’s hand, drawn from the small of his back so quickly Hayat saw only a flurry of movement as the man’s suit coat flared out and then fell back to his side. Sam rotated the kris into a reverse “ice pick” grip, then returned it to the sheath behind his back almost as quickly as he had produced it.
Hayat couldn’t help being awed. No one could forge steel into machetes and other edged weapons like Dhul Agbede, but he had never seen anyone who could use those blades with the skill that Sam possessed. The smartly dressed man from al Qaeda was famous for using his wavy blade. Many who knew him compared Sam to a mighty king cobra, who struck so fast with the kris that no man’s eyes could follow the movement.
Before Hayat could comment on his skill with the serpentine