Don Pendleton: Terror Trail

“I have seen you here before. Yes? On the sidewalk. But you have not entered. Why?”

“Because I was not sure my faith was enough to allow me to step inside such a holy place.”

“Did you not say you were of the faith? Then that is all you need.”

Kerim laid his hand on James’s shoulder and led him to the entrance.

“Will Allah accept me?” James asked.

“The faithful are never turned from his path, brother. Walk with me and we will talk together after I conduct my business. I am Shaia Kerim. And what are you called, my brother?”

“Ibrahim Hammid.”

* * *

AT THE FAR END of the street, Rafael Encizo lowered the binoculars and picked up the transceiver on the seat beside him.

“He made contact,” he said. “Have to give it to him. He worked it smoothly. Spoke to Kerim, then went inside with him.”

“Stay on watch,” David McCarter said. “If you get a clear opportunity when they come out, see if they leave together and follow. But don’t get made, Rafe. Slightest doubt, back off and we’ll have to wait for Cal to contact us.”

“That’s what I worry about,” Encizo said. “What if he can’t contact us?”

“We understood the risks right from day one. So did Cal. I don’t bloody like the way we’re having to go, but there’s no choice. Call if anything goes down.”

* * *

THE INTERIOR WAS cool. The tiled floor was smooth under James’s bare feet after he left his shoes at the entrance. The silence was broken only by the murmur of praying voices.

“Come with me,” Kerim said. “We will find a place where we can talk.”

In keeping with his character, James held the Koran open, reading in a low voice, speaking French as he quoted from the verses. He portrayed a humble man, someone carrying much unrest inside him.

Kerim paused at a closed door. “In here you can rest in solitude for a time.” He closed his hands over the book in James’s hands. “Seek the truth the Koran holds for you. Allow its strength to become your strength. Let Allah embrace you in all His glory. When I finish my business we will talk, my brother, and with Allah’s guidance we will find your path.”

Beyond the door was a plain room, empty except for a pair of wooden chairs set around a table. As James entered his eyes wandered around the walls and ceiling, but he kept his gaze low-key. He spotted a small video camera in the angle of the wall and ceiling, the lens trained on the table. He suspected there was also an audio link.

“Sit,” Kerim said. “I will be back soon.”

The door closed, leaving James on his own. He understood the restrictions the room placed on him, so he remained as Ibrahim Hammid and maintained his persona. He sat at the table, the open Koran laid in front of him, and began to recite one of the passages. If he was going to convince Kerim of his true faith he was going to have to remain vigilant. One slip and his cover would be gone. If that happened Calvin James would be forced to make a swift return.

James didn’t try to fool himself. If his cover was blown he would find himself in a fight for his life for as long as it took the rest of Phoenix Force to show up. He had no doubts his partners would come for him, but it would depend on how close they were at the time, even anticipating they knew where he was. It might turn out to be a close thing. The time it took Phoenix Force to show up had to be calculated against how long it took for someone to pull a trigger. Calvin James was no fatalist. He simply looked at the facts and took it from there.

Between a rock and a hard place didn’t allow much room to maneuver.

James figured around twenty to thirty minutes had passed before the door opened and Kerim stood there.

“My business took me longer than expected,” he said. “Now we must see to your needs, Ibrahim Hammid. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“My hunger is for enlightenment. My thirst for knowledge.”

Kerim smiled. “All well and good, Ibrahim, but even the most devout must nourish his body as well as his soul.” He stepped outside the door and called to someone to bring tea and bread. “Here in the mosque we have only simple things.”

“Thank you, brother. Your kindness overwhelms me.”

Kerim sat across the table, his lean hands flat on the surface as he studied Calvin James. His gaze was fixed, his dark eyes fiercely penetrating. James held the man’s scrutiny, aware he was being assessed.

“I sense there is much conflict within you, Ibrahim Hammid. Is this true?”

“As much as I am able I wage my personal struggle with America. But I am one man. Alone. I have neither money nor support, so my battle with this nation is little more than within my thoughts.” James gripped the Koran until his knuckles whitened with the tension. “But if my thoughts were reality, America would lie in smoking ruins.”

A tray was brought into the room. It held a copper pot of tea that allowed a rich, aromatic smell to fill the room. There was a plate of bread and a bowl of grapes and figs. Kerim reached for one of the two cups and poured the tea, passing one to James. He took his own cup and sipped the hot brew.

“Eat,” Kerim said.

James took the food. He acted the part of someone who had not eaten well for some time, while trying to keep his hunger under control. He knew Kerim was watching him.

“Here,” the man said, refilling James’s cup. “Tell me, where do you live?”

“I have a place in a rooming house. In the cheapest part of town.”

“Work?”

“In the kitchen of a large hotel. My responsibility is to make sure all the waste is taken outside. A menial job. The wage is small, but it helps pay for my room.”

“Are you treated well enough?”

“It depends on your interpretation of well enough.”

Kerim smiled at that. “Je comprends. Yet such an answer could be considered as paranoid.”

“If you are asking do I sometimes look over my shoulder to see if I am being followed, then yes.”

“And are you?”

“If I could identify them they would not be doing their job.”

“My brother, America is not as free as they make out. Democracy comes at a high price. The ones in charge view the world with suspicion and they feed that insecurity down to the streets.”

“To be directed at us. At Islam and everything it stands for.”

“The Americans want our oil. To get it they declare illegal wars that give them an excuse to invade. They send in their military. Their tanks and warplanes. Against what? Against civilians. Women and children. They destroy our cities. Our sacred mosques. Their disregard for our holy places is outrageous. I have seen the destruction. The death. The heavy boot of the American aggressor crushing everything we hold dear. The infidels want to wipe us out.”

Kerim never once raised his voice. He spoke with absolute control. Calm. Considered. And that made his words more powerful.

“How dedicated would you be to the cause?” Kerim asked, eyes fixed on James’s face.

“As dedicated as necessary.”

“Without question?”

“Yes.”

“To the death?”

“To the death. However Allah sees fit to use me. My devotion to Him has no bounds. If He requires my sacrifice then I am willing.”

“Have you heard of Hand of Allah?”

James shook his head. “I have little contact with anyone, or anything. What is Hand of Allah?”

“We oppose all things American. Our dedication is toward the glory of Allah. In whatever way we can manifest that dedication.”

“A great and good cause.”

“Hand of Allah may have the answer to your prayers, my brother.”

“Give me the opportunity to prove myself. If I can do something, anything, for Allah, then my life will not have been in vain.”