Terror Trail. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
come for him, but it would depend on how close they were at the time, even anticipating they knew where he was. It might turn out to be a close thing. The time it took Phoenix Force to show up had to be calculated against how long it took for someone to pull a trigger. Calvin James was no fatalist. He simply looked at the facts and took it from there.
Between a rock and a hard place didn’t allow much room to maneuver.
James figured around twenty to thirty minutes had passed before the door opened and Kerim stood there.
“My business took me longer than expected,” he said. “Now we must see to your needs, Ibrahim Hammid. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“My hunger is for enlightenment. My thirst for knowledge.”
Kerim smiled. “All well and good, Ibrahim, but even the most devout must nourish his body as well as his soul.” He stepped outside the door and called to someone to bring tea and bread. “Here in the mosque we have only simple things.”
“Thank you, brother. Your kindness overwhelms me.”
Kerim sat across the table, his lean hands flat on the surface as he studied Calvin James. His gaze was fixed, his dark eyes fiercely penetrating. James held the man’s scrutiny, aware he was being assessed.
“I sense there is much conflict within you, Ibrahim Hammid. Is this true?”
“As much as I am able I wage my personal struggle with America. But I am one man. Alone. I have neither money nor support, so my battle with this nation is little more than within my thoughts.” James gripped the Koran until his knuckles whitened with the tension. “But if my thoughts were reality, America would lie in smoking ruins.”
A tray was brought into the room. It held a copper pot of tea that allowed a rich, aromatic smell to fill the room. There was a plate of bread and a bowl of grapes and figs. Kerim reached for one of the two cups and poured the tea, passing one to James. He took his own cup and sipped the hot brew.
“Eat,” Kerim said.
James took the food. He acted the part of someone who had not eaten well for some time, while trying to keep his hunger under control. He knew Kerim was watching him.
“Here,” the man said, refilling James’s cup. “Tell me, where do you live?”
“I have a place in a rooming house. In the cheapest part of town.”
“Work?”
“In the kitchen of a large hotel. My responsibility is to make sure all the waste is taken outside. A menial job. The wage is small, but it helps pay for my room.”
“Are you treated well enough?”
“It depends on your interpretation of well enough.”
Kerim smiled at that. “Je comprends. Yet such an answer could be considered as paranoid.”
“If you are asking do I sometimes look over my shoulder to see if I am being followed, then yes.”
“And are you?”
“If I could identify them they would not be doing their job.”
“My brother, America is not as free as they make out. Democracy comes at a high price. The ones in charge view the world with suspicion and they feed that insecurity down to the streets.”
“To be directed at us. At Islam and everything it stands for.”
“The Americans want our oil. To get it they declare illegal wars that give them an excuse to invade. They send in their military. Their tanks and warplanes. Against what? Against civilians. Women and children. They destroy our cities. Our sacred mosques. Their disregard for our holy places is outrageous. I have seen the destruction. The death. The heavy boot of the American aggressor crushing everything we hold dear. The infidels want to wipe us out.”
Kerim never once raised his voice. He spoke with absolute control. Calm. Considered. And that made his words more powerful.
“How dedicated would you be to the cause?” Kerim asked, eyes fixed on James’s face.
“As dedicated as necessary.”
“Without question?”
“Yes.”
“To the death?”
“To the death. However Allah sees fit to use me. My devotion to Him has no bounds. If He requires my sacrifice then I am willing.”
“Have you heard of Hand of Allah?”
James shook his head. “I have little contact with anyone, or anything. What is Hand of Allah?”
“We oppose all things American. Our dedication is toward the glory of Allah. In whatever way we can manifest that dedication.”
“A great and good cause.”
“Hand of Allah may have the answer to your prayers, my brother.”
“Give me the opportunity to prove myself. If I can do something, anything, for Allah, then my life will not have been in vain.”
“There is a plan, Hammid. One that will bring much pain and suffering to this place of Satan.”
“Then allow me to become part of it, brother. Let me be one of those who will deliver Allah’s wrath to this godless place.”
“I am in need of believers such as yourself, Ibrahim Hammid. True followers of Allah who need a purpose in life.”
James clutched his Koran. “Where you go I will follow, Shaia Kerim. There is nothing here in this place for me. This desolate land of the infidels is dead to me. I have never been in the military, but if I had a gun I would strike out against the Americans.” He raised the Koran and held it to his chest. “This is my only weapon, but against the American war machine it is powerless.”
“What would you say if I offered you a chance to strike at America? To make a difference?”
“How?”
“By joining a group who are going to visit Allah’s vengeance against the Great Satan. In a way that will bring home the pain of war to Americans at large. Here on their own streets.”
James held himself silent for a heartbeat, studying Kerim’s face. “This can happen?” And when Kerim simply nodded, he asked, “But how?”
“Put your trust in me, Ibrahim Hammid, and I will make this happen.”
James smiled at Kerim. “Allahu akbar,” he said. “Then if He wills it I will follow you.”
“Then go and gather your belongings. Return in the morning and I will take you to a place where you can wait until I make arrangements.” As James stood, still clutching his Koran, Kerim added, “Tell no one. Stay faithful.”
They moved out of the mosque together. James walked away, aware that Kerim had remained at the entrance, taking out a cell and making a call. He did not look back but simply went down the street, maintaining his cover role as Ibrahim Hammid.
* * *
WATCHING FROM his car, Encizo reported in.
“Cal is leaving the mosque. Kerim saw him out and now he’s making a cell call.”
“Check no one is following Cal. T.J. can tail him. Cal should be going back to his room. If it’s safe he’ll call in and update us.”
“You want me to stay on Kerim?”
“If he leaves the mosque.”
Encizo saw Kerim complete his call, then turn and go back inside the mosque.
“Kerim has gone back inside.”
“Stay there. If you see anyone interesting try to get some shots.”
“I’m on