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

outside after the ceremony, a knight who had introduced himself to Steve as Chevalier Desandre—“Antoine Desandre,” he had specified—walked up to them. Chevalier Desandre was probably in his early fifties and gregarious. His red cape came down almost to his ankles making him appear shorter than he was. His fleshy face was topped by short russet hair.

     “One other bit of history you Americans might like to know,” he said, “is that the French officers in Rochambeau’s army at Yorktown were all Knights of Malta. There’s a painting of the surrender ceremony that clearly shows that all of the French officers wore the Amalfi cross.”

     Steve was only half listening, searching for Kella.

     As the group milled around in front of the church, still dressed in their investiture regalia, a monk in a brown robe walked by. The monk was looking down in apparent prayer but his glance strayed to the unusual sight of the knights. Steve glanced at him and, for a millisecond, their eyes met. Steve felt an instant flash of recognition, but dismissed it, his mind on Kella.

     Later, in his room at the King David Hotel, Steve checked his email messages and found one from Karim:

Arrived Gaza with my UAV boss Rashid. The father is supposed to arrive in Israel this week with a team from the camp. They will be dressed as monks. I heard that a meeting will take place in Ashqelon before final event.

Steve had given Karim his email address although, at the time, Karim didn’t have his own laptop.

     He’s coming up in the world, he thought, pleased, but even his pleasure with Karim could not push away his disappointment at not hearing from Kella.

     He had told Marshall about meeting Karim in Geneva and how al Khalil was adjusting his sights from a long march out of the Sahara to a more instantly gratifying operation somewhere in the Middle East, probably Egypt or Israel. He had not, however, told him that he had decided to go it alone, without the stultifying oversight of the CIA.

     He started to tell Marshall about Karim’s latest information, when Marshall put his finger to his lips, pulled Steve into the spacious bathroom, turned on the shower, and said quietly, “The Israelis know of my CIA background. You never know,” he said pointing at the walls. “Although I hope they’ve got more important ways to use their time.”

     “Al Khalil now has a couple of UAV people in Gaza and he and his fighters are somewhere in Israel disguised as monks. I don’t know what they’re cooking up but it must be important for him to be leading the charge. There’s supposed to be a meeting in Ashqelon before the actual operation.”

     “Monks? UAVs?” Marshall asked. “We can’t go to the Israelis with this information. By itself it doesn’t mean much. Looks like we should go visit the sights in Ashqelon. We need more information for it to become actionable.”

     Steve nodded. “This message reminds me of something. Earlier today, I saw a monk walk by—when we were standing outside the church. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. Now I think it could have been Tariq al Khalil.”

     “That’s his cover to get into the country—‘cover for status’ it’s called. There are thousands of religious tourists in Israel every year, so hiding in plain sight is what he’s doing,” Marshall replied.

     Before they left, a special TV news bulletin announced that a suicide bomber had just blown himself up, killing twenty other people in a restaurant in Netanya, a resort town on the Mediterranean coast north of Tel Aviv. The TV station had live coverage of the tragedy. The area was cordoned off, but organized chaos reigned. Fire trucks, police vans, ambulances, and uniformed men and women worked amid shocked, sobbing, and wounded civilians, some lying in the street, some looking for friends and relatives.

     Steve took a drink from a bottle of water on the table. “Another suicide bombing. I don’t know how the jihadists convince these people to do it. I assume the seventy-two virgins story is just a product of the Western media.”

     Marshall took his shirt from the closet and started to put it on.

     “Don’t be so sure. More than one bomber, who survived for whatever reason, has talked about the seventy-two virgins as a bonus from God. For me, the greater puzzle is in the statements of support from parents. In my opinion, these young people are just handy weapons. They’re being used by Hamas, these…”

     He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Demagogues of death, who don’t volunteer their own bodies to be blown up. They manipulate these frequently impressionable, naïve youths.”

     Steve threw the empty bottle in the trash.

     “I wonder, is suicide the right word? Usually suicide is a very personal act. To me, suicide is the act of taking your life without being told or forced or convinced. Their society glorifies death. In their own way, they’re all Manchurian candidates. This is a lot more about power than it is about religion.”

     “Yes, as others have done before, Hamas and the others are using religion as a front, as a cover for their own ends, to gain and exercise power.”

    Marshall slipped his tuxedo jacket on and velcroed the red ribbon holding his Amalfi cross near the top button of his shirt in back of his neck.

     “Well, let’s go down to the dinner, the last official event in your investiture, and the last speeches. Maybe Kella is downstairs looking for you. We’ll go to Ashqelon tomorrow and try to get a lead on al Khalil. If he’s dressed as a monk and his team is using the same cover, they shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

     As Marshall walked out, Steve said, “I called Kella earlier. I left