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

     Al Khalil sat behind a table rather than an office desk. In the corner was a locked metal cabinet. Because graven images were too close to Jahhiliya image worship, his secret was locked in the file cabinet. It held two prints, one an inexpensive engraving of Sheikh Abdelkader al Khalil, who had fought and died at the Battle of the Highway of the Martyrs in A.D. 732, when the Muslim armies had been beaten back by Charles Martel, who would become Charlemagne’s grandfather, and the other of Sheik Tariq Ibn Ziad, the Berber warrior who had led the Arab armies across the Straits of Gibraltar into Europe in 711, both in the style of Jacques Louis David’s painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps, a victorious warrior on a white horse. The hill, or jebel, overlooking the straits crossed by Tariq Ibn Ziad and his men had been named Jebel Tariq, later corrupted to Gibraltar.

     Out in plain sight on his desk was a sign in Arabic, quoting his grandfather, the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood.

     It is in the nature of Islam to dominate, not to be dominated, to impose its laws on all nations and to extend its power to the entire planet.

     Al Khalil looked up and said, “Amadou, what’s going on at the mines? The gold you’re getting for us is helpful. But you know that’s not why we’re here. The gold is only a means to an end.”

     Tariq looked down at papers in front of him, but before Diallo could say anything, he stood up with his hands on the table. “We need more recruits among the miners, not only the gold mines but the salt mines in Taoudenni. We need to organize special indoctrination for the more susceptible and transform them into dedicated warriors. We need to identify individuals from these groups for special training. They’re perfect recruits for our army. We must go faster.”

     His tone was commanding.

     “I know that and I’m working on it,” Diallo said defensively. “But these people are not like us, they’re Sufis. They even drink beer. They would rather play soccer than go to the mosque.”

     “At this rate, it’s going to take a hundred years. I’m taking the recruitment function away from you and giving it to Mohammed Lahlou. Maybe Moroccans are better at talking than at operations. You keep your focus on the money.”

***

Four days later, Lahlou walked into the IMRA building and went directly into Tariq’s office. Tariq closed the top drawer of his metal file cabinet and turned around to witness an agitated and sweating Lahlou.

     “I spent the last couple of days at Taoudenni, like you told me. I think we’re wasting our time there. The workers are the scum, the rejects, of every other possible employment possibility. Taoudenni used to be for political prisoners working off their sentences. I’m sure some stayed, if they didn’t die first, because that’s the only thing they could do.”

     “All right, let’s forget about Taoudenni. But I wouldn’t bring up Morocco if I were you,”

     “Going after that American so quickly, with no information and no planning, was not my idea. I could have done it very well by myself, and our best penetration of Security, Benjelloun, would still be alive today and working for us,” Lahlou said.

     “If you’re such a smart operator, how is it that you spent eighteen years in prison?”

     At that point Hussein came in and sat down. Tariq could see Hussein had better news than Lahlou, whom he waved out of his office.

     “I’m making arrangements for the Gao meeting next month,” Hussein said.

     Tariq tapped a finger on his desk.

     “I was just going to ask you about that. It’s going to be the first meeting of all of my key Salafist leaders from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean. I want to give them my orders for the next twelve months. Is everything ready?”

     “Remember the Tuareg rebellion a few years ago?” Hussein asked. “One of the concessions given to the Tuaregs was that the Malian Army would decrease its presence in the Northern region of the country. One of the forts they closed down was the one in Gao. That’s where we’ll meet. It used to be a French Foreign Legion Fort. I told the Malian colonel in charge of the Gao military district that IMRA needed it for its annual Saharan Conference. He’ll take five thousand to make it happen and clean the place up for us, but you know he’s going to pocket most of it.”

     Hussein went to get himself a bottle of water.

     “Good Hussein, I want you and Lahlou to make all the arrangements.”

     Tariq paused and looked down toward this desk on which several papers were lying.

    Frowning thoughtfully, he said, “Now, I keep hearing about the crusaders, the Western missionaries, and what they call NGO’s. How many are there in this area? What organizations do they belong to? Are they having any success turning our people away from Islam? Getting the Western influence out of our lands is our first priority. We need to eliminate these proselytizers. These infidel missionaries think that their blessings increase with their difficulties? I want to heap such blessings on them that they go straight to their heavens!”

     Tariq got up from his desk and walked toward the door. Hussein followed as Tariq said, “Hussein, work on it. Give me a plan. It shouldn’t be that hard. How many of these foreign preachers could there be? They need to be encouraged to go home.”

     Tariq opened the door and Hussein left the office.

     “You’re right. Eliminating the competition, priests and other do-gooders, should not be a difficult challenge.”

     Using more force than necessary, Tariq closed the door hard behind