The Caliphate André Gallo (list of ebook readers TXT) 📖

and help you establish that essential personal trust that is so important here. I can open doors for you, and, after you leave, I can carry the ball for your company.”

     Steve didn’t want or need the colonel to carry the ball but he did want to avoid a confrontation.

     “Thanks. Let me see how the initial meetings go first.”

     They both finished their coffee and Spaceck pressed two of his business cards into Steve hands.

     “Call me anytime. And how about giving my card to your boss back in the States? Maybe I’ll give your company a call next time I’m in Washington.”

     They got up to leave. On their way toward the door, Colonel Spaceck asked, “So your father is in the military? You said he was at the National War College.”

     “Yes, but he was a civilian. He was with the Agency, the CIA, but he’s semi-retired and no longer under cover. Rabat was one of his assignments. I was very young. In fact, he’s writing about radical Islam and terrorism, and he wants me to scoop up anything I can find in the book stores on the topic.”

     “It’s still dangerous for people in this country to be writing about the terrorist side of Islam,” Spaceck said. “There are Salafists here for sure, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

    “Well, thanks for spending the time with me. Appreciated it.”

     Spaceck favored him with another patented handshake then, seeming like an afterthought, he said, “If you hear anything at all about a Tariq al Khalil while you’re here, please let me know. He’s a Salafist leader with North African aspirations.”

     “Tariq al Khalil a terrorist?”

     He had no desire to prolong the conversation any longer and he restrained himself from sharing what he knew about al Khalil.

     “Why do you think he’s here?”

     “I don’t know if he is or not. We know that there are Salafists around who look to him for leadership. We just don’t know where they’re going to strike next.”

     Steve stepped outside and was half blinded by the sun’s glare. He put on his sunglasses. As he left, he noticed a small pick-up truck park in front of the Marine House next to a brash American car with “arrest-me” red metallic paint and a mean-looking grill. Steve guessed that the only person he had seen in the Marine House who could afford the car was Spaceck. He found the choice of car strange for an intelligence collector.

     The driver of the truck hoisted a gas cylinder on his shoulder and walked around the side of the building toward the kitchen. The sight reminded Steve that, in Morocco, all gas stoves worked off individual butane tanks, For safety reasons, the tanks were normally outside and grounded to prevent an explosion of the pressurized gas through a buildup of electrostatic charges.

     He walked away feeling that Spaceck didn’t fit into a complex North African environment that required cultural awareness and sensitivity. The man was as out of place in Morocco as al Khalil had been in Brussels. His thoughts turned to al Khalil and he wondered how successful he was at grafting his radical views onto a society with a fairly relaxed view of Islam. And, if he was indeed active in the region, what he was doing.

     The red car, with Spaceck at the wheel, pulled up as Steve walked back toward his hotel.

     “Can I drop you somewhere? I should have offered earlier.”

     “No thanks,” Steve answered. “It’s not far, and I need the walk.”

9. Casablanca, Morocco

Following the evening prayers at the Hassan II Mosque, Hussein followed Mohammed Lahlou, the Salafist cell leader, from the blue, white, and yellow geometric tile designs of the mosque through an archway that led to several study rooms. Lahlou was a grizzled and sad-looking man who’d spent eighteen years in Moroccan prisons. He looked older than his forty-eight years, the toll of a terrorist life without the inner flame of a fanatic. For both Hussein and Lahlou, their individual trials and lives in the field, in prison, or on the run, were taking their toll.

    Lahlou knew Hussein as a tough fighter, as ruthless in combat as with those in the movement who failed out of personal weakness or commitment.

     “Hussein my brother, your visit honors us. Thanks to Allah for sending you. You are not Moroccan. Do I detect a Syrian accent?”

     “Yes, I was born in Aleppo but my family moved to Hama. My father was with the Brotherhood. Hama was an important political center for the Ikhwan.”

     “Were you in Hama during the massacre?”

     “I was young, but yes, I was there. Those Syrian dogs felt threatened by the Brothers.”

     “And for cause, as I recall.”

     “Old man Assad was so scared for his life that he sent his brother Rifaat to kill us all—first with artillery, then with tanks. After the fighting stopped, they killed all of our fighters and their families hiding in the damaged buildings with cyanide gas. And only then did Rifaat’s Mukhabarat butchers arrive to eliminate those who were still alive.”

     “How many brothers were lost?”

     Hussein felt patronized. But he also never missed an opportunity to contribute to the Assad family dishonor.

     “Thirty-eight thousand! May Allah receive them in his house.”

     “But you survived, Al Hamdu‘llah.”

     “The soldiers caught me. I was fourteen. They put me to work with other prisoners to clean the streets of rubble and corpses. That’s how I found my father’s body, May Allah favor him. That’s when I made a covenant with Allah to revenge my father’s execution.”

     Lahlou shook his head.

     “May you achieve your revenge,” he said softly.

     Hussein stopped walking and held Lahlou by the arm.

     “Al