Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) George Wallace (the little red hen ebook .TXT) 📖

was still nobody in sight. “They are moving to a new allegiance with an imam, a man called Nabiin. He is promising to bring about the End Times. And he is willing to do whatever it takes to hasten this event. It is believed that you have the ability to get this word out and perhaps stop him before it is too late. Millions may die. You hear me? Millions.”

Tahib had stopped chewing and was no longer tasting his bread. Now, he almost choked on it.

The reporter had just come to the conclusion that he had a long and very dangerous trip ahead of him. And that he now had what could be the biggest news story in the history of the planet.

Ψ

Admiral Jon Ward stretched his legs as he walked down the long jetway. The non-stop United flight from Washington Dulles to Tel Aviv had taken just over twelve hours. That was a lot of time to be cramped up in the middle seat, even if he did rate Economy Plus. How high up the flag ranks did a man have to climb to earn at least business class? Ward promised himself he would check when he got back home to see if he now qualified for the upgrade.

Ben Gurion Airport was its usual bustling, busy self. Ward hustled through customs without any problems and headed toward the nearest taxi stand. His directions were relatively simple: go to Café Joe, just off Route One in the suburb of Kfar Habad, very near the airport, have a bite to eat, and wait until someone met him. Ward figured even the US Navy’s newest flag officer could manage those tasks. But, as it turned out, there were two very similar coffee shops. One was a Café Joe. The other was called Café Jo. And they were all of a hundred yards apart. Had he gotten the spelling right or not? Ward decided to flip a coin. But then he realized he had no idea which side of a shekel was heads and which side was tails.

He decided to not take the time to try to Google such a silly thing on his phone and to simply go with Café Joe. If he was wrong, he would only need to cross the parking lot to correct the mistake if nobody showed up within a reasonable amount of time. He ordered a cardamom coffee and a pair of cheese bourekas from the counter, then found an empty table in the less-crowded back of the sun-filled room. The shop was lively, the conversation among obvious regulars spirited but good-natured. He took a sip of the sinfully spiced mud coffee before biting into the poppy seed-encrusted pastry. Both were delicious.

Just then, a well-dressed elderly gentleman with a cup of coffee and saucer in his hand approached Ward’s table. He paused only a moment before asking, “May I join you, Admiral Ward?”

The man’s accent was faintly Eastern European, but Jon Ward thought that he detected a trace of Oxford in there somewhere. So, this was the mysterious and elusive Samuel Talbot. Ward waved his hand toward the empty seat across the table.

“Please.”

“Good choice,” the man said, nodding toward the coffee and pastry as he took a seat.

“I’ve been a part of a submarine cruise or two in the Med. As a married man, I left the usual sailor-on-leave shenanigans to the unattached crewmen. I stuck with the culinary explorations.”

“You have traveled a long way just to have a cup of coffee with an old Jew,” Talbot said, shifting the conversation not so subtly. “I can only hope that this proves to be a useful meeting for both of us.”

“That all depends on many factors, of course,” Ward answered warily.

The older man chuckled.

“The reports I have on you seem to be correct. You are direct and do not waste time on useless pleasantries.”

“As you said, it was a long trip and I confess I’m tired,” Ward replied. “That mixture tends to make me grouchy, I’m afraid. But this coffee and the excellent pastry may improve my world view. And I can only hope what you want to share with me will do likewise.” Both men simultaneously took sips of their coffees. “Now, why did I traipse halfway around the world? I trust it wasn’t for a conversation in a coffee shop when a simple phone call would have worked just as well.”

“Some things, in my estimation, require a personal, face-to-face meeting,” Talbot responded. “It is much easier to convey the real import of what is being said and to ensure that there are no inadvertent misunderstandings. I am also firmly of the opinion that more can be derived...”

His explanation was halted for a few moments as a jet on final approach into Ben Gurion roared by only a few hundred feet overhead. When the tableware, cups, and saucers quit chattering, Talbot continued.

“...that more can be derived, and trust established when two people can see each other’s faces. And especially the eyes.” Talbot looked pointedly into Jon Ward’s eyes as he took another sip. “Now, for some time my organization has been following the operations of someone who is called Shaikh Babar Khalid. He is better known in the press as Nabiin, which loosely translates as the Prophet. He has been very elusive and powerful, and, frankly, his influence and danger somehow eluded the oversight of some of the best intelligence agencies in the world, including ours and yours, Admiral. The Prophet is, in your American vernacular, a nut case. But despite this, he has also proven to be very persuasive in aligning the more radical outliers among the Muslims behind his cause. He is preaching what, in the Islamic religion, is called the End of Days. And his message is resonating with some very dangerous and ruthless people, each of whom has his own reasons for wanting this madman to at least launch his plan. And that plan? He is trying to