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

Khalil is not happy with you. You have put me in a bad situation. I would be sorry to lose you.”

     In giving Lahlou his performance review, Hussein’s voice was sad, as if killing Lahlou was an undesirable but unavoidable event. Hussein knew his reputation.

     “Al Khalil doesn’t understand what’s going on here,” Lahlou said. “The Moroccan police are all over. Security has spies everywhere. But I have not been asleep. I have my own spies and we are getting ready. You will see.”

     They resumed walking and entered the back room of the mosque, normally used by pre-teen students to memorize the Quran. Light green tiles with arabesques covered the lower half of the otherwise white-washed walls. Worn rugs were strewn across the floors. The only furniture was a small desk and a chair in one corner. Two men in their twenties sat cross-legged on the rugs, waiting for Lahlou and Hussein. They got up when the two older men came in. They exchanged the traditional greeting, “Salaam alaikum,” and bowed slightly, their right hands brushing their foreheads and ending on their hearts.

     One of the young men wore a faded jellaba. He had the typical round Moroccan face and wore tinted glasses that made him look both studious and closed. Hussein thought he looked like an accountant, but Lahlou had told him that he was a law student and an explosives specialist. The other wore stained dark slacks and a gray shirt that once had been white. He seemed to be from Southern Morocco, a Berber from the Anti-Atlas Mountains.

     “This is Ribb, from the Ministry of Defense—the one I told you about,” Lahlou said to Hussein, gesturing toward the man in the stained western garb. “Ribb sometimes works in the kitchen, often as a messenger, and he unloads trucks. He knows the drivers at the Ministry and heard them say they had picked up an American who flew in from Paris, but the American told his driver he had started his trip from Washington.”

     Lahlou seemed pleased and nervous at the same time that he could report on a target of opportunity.

     “Repeat what you told me about the American,” Lahlou told Ribb.

     “I know that one of our drivers picked him up at the airport and took him to the Tour Hassan Hotel in Rabat. The drivers think that he’s here to set up a secret project,” Ribb said.

     “Is he CIA?” asked Hussein.

     Ribb smiled. “Of course.”

     “If he’s CIA, why didn’t the American Embassy send a car for him?” Hussein demanded.

     “The very fact that an Embassy car didn’t pick him up proves he’s CIA,” Lahlou said. “He’s hiding his American government connection,” he added, giving Hussein a knowing look to emphasize that he understood CIA methods. Lahlou felt he was playing at the top of his game. He was also nervous because he might be asked to mount an operation against this American. Taking on a dangerous mission had never been Lahlou’s strong point.

     “Well, I don’t know. He could be a nobody. Why focus on him? We would do better to go after the CIA chief in Morocco, or the American Ambassador.” Hussein said.

     He suddenly remembered al Khalil’s comments about the young American in Paris who was Coogan’s helper. He also started putting this information together with a conversation he’d had in Paris with a Moroccan diplomat who had met a young American at a cocktail party. The American was on his way to Morocco on business, allegedly.

     He asked the student with the tinted glasses, “Are you any good with computers, the Internet?” The law student nodded and Hussein told him, “A couple of days ago, there was a news report in a Paris newspaper about a Dr. Coogan who was killed by the Ikhwan. The reporter was close; the execution was ordered by al Khalil. Coogan was involved in the forgeries of the Quranic documents. I assume you know about it. There was a photo with the article. I want you to get the photograph through the internet. I want to know if Allah is smiling on us and answering our prayer.”

     The student took his glasses of and wiped one lens with his finger, “I’ll make a copy of the photograph.

     Ribb, the Berber, said, “I can find out from the drivers when they’re supposed to take the American back to the airport.”

     “I’ll get in touch with Tariq and see what he wants to do,” Hussein said. “Maybe we can kidnap him and get some of our militants out of jail in an exchange.”

     “A kidnapping will wake up the whole security establishment against us,” Lahlou said. “We would have to take him to Marrakesh and have our men hide him. Killing him is simpler and easier. We do it and it’s done.”

    Lahlou surprised Hussein by his boldness.

     “I didn’t ask what would be easier,” Hussein said dismissively. “Get more information on him and I’ll see what Tariq has to say.”

     “Take me to my hotel,” he instructed Lahlou.

     On the way, Hussein was surprised at the high number of Europeans, both men and women, in the street shopping or otherwise going about their business. He noticed that most women wore the usual loose jellabas down to their ankles, but that many were without veils. Some walked with long strides that revealed their high heeled shoes. In fact, it seemed to him that they wanted their European fashion to show. He was startled, to say the least, that one woman’s high heeled shoes were bright red.

     Al Khalil will go ballistic, he thought.

***

The next morning, Hussein and Lahlou met at the mosque and Lahlou suggested they go to a café he often frequented.

     “More comfortable,” he said.

     They walked out of the mosque into the maze of old