Том Клэнси - The Teeth of the Tiger

“There’s our boy,” Brian said, spotting him first. As with Sali, there was no neon sign over his head to mark him, but he matched the photo perfectly, and he had come out of the right apartment building. His mustache made an error in identification unlikely. Reasonably well dressed. Except for his skin and mustache, he might have passed for a German. At the end of the block, he boarded a streetcar, destination unknown, but heading east.

“Speculate?” Dominic asked his brother.

“Off to have breakfast with a pal, or to plot the downfall of the Infidel West – we really can’t say, man.”

“Yeah, it’d be nice to have real coverage on him, but we’re not conducting an investigation, are we? This mutt recruited at least one shooter. He’s earned his way onto our shit list, Aldo.”

“Roger that, bro,” Brian agreed. His conversion was complete. Anas Ali Atef was just a face to him now, and an ass to be stuck with his magic pen. Beyond that, he was someone for God to talk to in due course, a jurisdiction that didn’t directly concern either of them at the moment.

“If this was a Bureau op, we’d have a team in the apartment right now, at least to toss his computer.”

Brian conceded the point. “Now what?”

“We see if he goes to church, and, if he does, we see how easy it might be to pop him on the way in or out.”

“Does it strike you that this is going a little fast?” Brian wondered aloud.

“I suppose we could sit in the hotel room and jerk off, but that’s hard on the wrist, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Finishing breakfast, they left cash on the table but not a large tip. That would too surely mark them as Americans.

THE STREETCARwasn’t as comfortable as his car, but it was ultimately more convenient because of the necessity of finding a parking place. European cities had not been designed with automobiles in mind. Neither had Cairo, of course, and the traffic jams there could be incredible – even worse than they were here – but at least in Germany they had reliable mass transportation. The trains were glorious. The quality of the lines impressed the man who’d had engineering training a few – was it really just a few? he asked himself; it seemed like a complete lifetime – years before. The Germans were a curious people. Standoffish and formal, and oh so superior, they thought, to all the other races. They looked down on Arabs – and, indeed, on most other Europeans as well – and opened their doors to foreigners only because their internal laws – imposed upon them sixty years earlier by Americans after World War II – said that they must. But because they were compelled to do so, they did, mostly without open complaint, because these mad people obeyed the law as though it had been delivered to them by God’s own hand. They were the most docile people he’d ever encountered, but underneath that docility was the capacity for violence – organized violence – such as the world hardly knew. Within living memory, they’d risen up to slaughter the Jews. They’d even converted their death camps into museums, but museums in which the pieces and machines undoubtedly still worked, as though standing ready. What a pity they could not summon the political will to make it so.

The Jews had humiliated his country four separate times, in the process killing his eldest brother, Ibrahim, in the Sinai while he’d been driving a Soviet T-62 tank. He didn’t remember Ibrahim. He’d been far too young then, and only had photographs to give him an idea of what he’d looked like, though his mother still wept for his memory. He’d died trying to finish the job these Germans had started, only to fail, killed by a cannon shot from an American M60A1 main battle tank at the battle of the Chinese farm. It was the Americans who protected the Jews. America was ruled by its Jews. That was why they supplied his enemies with weapons, fed them with intelligence information, and loved killing Arabs.

But the Germans’ failure at their task hadn’t tamed their arrogance. Just redirected it. He could see it on the streetcar, the brief sideways looks, the way old women scuttled a few steps away from where he stood. Someone would probably wipe down the overhead bar with disinfectant after he got off, Anas grumbled to himself. By the Prophet, these were unpleasant people.

The ride took another seven minutes exactly, and it was time to get off, at Dom Strasse. From there, it was a one block walk. Along the way, he saw more of the glances, the hostility in the eyes, or, even worse, the eyes that took note of his presence and just passed on, as though having seen a stray dog. It would have been satisfying to take some action here in Germany – right here in Munich! – but his orders were specific.

His destination was a coffee shop. Fa’ad Rahman Yasin was already there, dressed casually, like a working man. There were many like him in this café.

“Salaam aleikum,” Atef said in greeting. Peace be unto you.

“Aleikum salaam,” Fa’ad said in return. “The pastry here is excellent.”

“Yes,” Atef agreed, speaking softly in Arabic. “So, what is new, my friend?”

“Our people are pleased with last week. We have shaken the Americans badly,” Fa’ad said.

“Not enough for them to disown the Israelis. They love the Jews more than their own children. Mark my words on this. And they will lash out at us.”

“How?” Fa’ad demanded. “Lash out, yes, at whomever their spy agencies know about, but that will only inflame the faithful and drive more to our cause. No, our organization they do not know about. They do not even know our name.” This was because their organization did not really have a name. “Organization” was merely a descriptive word for their association of the Faithful.

“I hope you are correct. So, do I have more orders?”

“You have done well – three of the men you recruited chose martyrdom in America.”

“Three?” Atef was agreeably surprised. “They died well, I trust?”

“They died in Allah’s Holy Name. That should be good enough. So, do you have any more recruits ready for us?”

Atef sipped his coffee. “Not quite, but I have two leaning in our direction. This is not easy, as you know. Even the most faithful wish to enjoy the fruits of a good life.” As he was doing himself, of course.

“You have done well for us, Anas. Better to be sure than to be overly demanding of them. Take your time. We can be patient.”

“How patient?” Atef wanted to know.

“We have additional plans for America, to sting them worse. This time we killed hundreds. The next time, we shall kill thousands,” Fa’ad promised, with a sparkle in his eye.

“How, exactly?” Atef asked immediately. He could have been – should have been – a plans officer. His engineering education made him ideal for such things. Didn’t they know that? There were people in the organization who thought with their balls instead of their brains.

“That I am not at liberty to say, my friend.” Because he didn’t know, Fa’ad Rahman Yasin did not say. He wasn’t sufficiently trusted by those higher in the organization, which would have outraged him had he known it.

The son of a whore probably doesn’t know himself, Atef thought at the same time.

“We approach the hour of prayer, my friend,” Anas Ali Atef said, checking his watch. “Come with me. My mosque is only ten minutes away.” It would soon be time for the Salat. It was a test for his colleague, to make sure that he was truly faithful.

“As you say.” Both rose and walked to the streetcar, which fifteen minutes later stopped a block from the mosque.

“HEADS UP,Aldo,” Dominic said. They’d been checking out the neighborhood, really just to get a feel for the area, but there was their friend, walking down the street with what had to be a friend of his own.