Carrie shook her head.
“No, thanks,” Justin said.
He inspected the sheikh’s face. The high brow with deep carved wrinkles and the receding gray hairline made him appear older than his late forties. He had a long hooked nose and a thick black moustache. His eyes were staring at Justin from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. Justin recognized the sheikh’s scar at the left side of his protruding jaw, where an Israeli-fired bullet had grazed the skin of his face. Five years ago, the Mossad had made an unsuccessful attempt on the sheikh’s life in Jordan.
“How was the trip?” the sheikh asked with genuine interest, turning around in his seat.
“Hot, very hot,” Justin replied. “I would have preferred we met at the Nile City Fairmont.”
The sheikh nodded. “That would have been my preference as well. We might have been able to prevent that bombing attack in Tripoli.”
Justin and Carrie exchanged a quick glance.
“You’re telling us the Alliance is behind those car bombs?” Justin asked.
The sheikh shook his head. “No, those car bombs are not the work of the Alliance.”
“But you know who did it?” Justin asked.
“Let me start at the beginning,” the sheikh replied. “But, before I do, come up here in front. I don’t like to twist my neck as I talk to you.”
Justin sat in the driver’s seat.
“First things first: the Islamic Fighting Alliance is
not
at war with and does not target Libya, its government, or any Muslim brothers in that country. We’re waging a holy war against infidels, against America and its bastard child, Israel, along with their many slaves who serve their insatiable greed for our oil and our wealth.”
That’s new,
Justin thought. He remembered reading scores of briefing notes and reports covering clashes between the Alliance and rebel groups in Sudan and factions of militants in Lebanon and in the Gaza Strip. The Alliance’s support for various groups fighting among themselves depended on their expectations of the most likely winner and the greatest gains to their cause in the long run.
New approach or new bullshit,
Justin wondered, but nodded nonetheless.
“Recently, a breakaway faction within the Alliance has supported an increase of attacks against Westerners’ interests in North Africa. America and Britain and their local dogs are crushing the bones of the people living in these lands. North Africa is soaked with billions of oil barrels, but the only ones enjoying the oil profits are the foreign companies. The poor go hungry and naked.”
“How large is this breakaway faction?” Justin asked, repeating the exact words of the sheikh.
“A few dozen people, but they’re well-funded and well-connected to certain organizations based in Afghanistan and Iraq. They have the resources and the willingness to turn North Africa into a bloodier and messier Middle East.”
“The bombing of the First Union Bank in Tunisia was their work?” asked Carrie.
“Yes. This splinter unit began targeting foreign investment firms, oil companies, banks, and their interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. Of course, they work together with local militia groups who hate the regimes in their countries.”
Carrie shrugged. “So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what jihad is all about?”
Sheikh Ayman smiled. “Yes, we want to spread our Muslim faith, fight back the occupiers and the oppressors of our people and bring the peace of Allah to the infidels. But the means of achieving these goals do not include the slaughter of innocents, people who share our same faith. Besides, we cannot allow things to get out of hand. Realistically speaking, the Alliance can fight only one war at a time.”
“So the Alliance, the part still under your command, refused to engage in this expansion of jihad in North Africa?” Justin asked.
The sheikh’s furrow at the bridge of his nose deepened. His eyes became narrow and his stern gaze fell on Justin. “The Alliance is under the command of Sheikh Issa Mahub Al-Arhabi, to whom I offer my humble support,” he said in a cold voice. “Most of the Alliance’s faithful members stand behind Sheikh Al-Arhabi’s decision
not
to take part in these attacks. This will break up our resources, which in turn will weaken our efforts and affect our expected results.”
Spoken like a true economist,
Justin thought, wondering whether Sheikh Ayman had received a degree in economics or had worked as an economist in a previous life. If he did, it would have been before he embraced a more radical approach to the redistribution of the wealth of nations than the one suggested by Adam Smith. Justin tried to hide his grin and asked, “This splinter unit is responsible for last afternoon’s attacks?”
“That’s correct. Regretfully, we were not able to stop the carnage.”
Justin peered at the sheikh, trying to read his face, taking advantage of a few seconds when he looked through the window’s dark glass.
He’s really regretting suicide bombings?
“Did you know about the intended targets of these attacks?” Justin asked.
“We had a pretty good idea. A couple of trusted men inside this faction keep us informed about their plans. And we know exactly who’s going to be the target of their assassination attempt.”
The sheikh casually brushed the left corner of his nicely trimmed moustache.
Justin rested his back against the door and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I suppose you’ll present us your demands before giving us the name of the target.”
The sheikh nodded slowly. “You’re right. I will ask for something in return, yes, but the information you’ll receive is more than worth it.”
“I’m listening,” Justin said.
Sheikh Ayman leaned forward. “Here is what the Alliance is asking from the Canadian government.” After checking that his guards were not standing too close to the car, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Tripoli’s explosions have unleashed the wrath of Libya’s mukhabarat upon the Alliance’s network of connections, not only in that country, but also in Egypt, Sudan, and elsewhere. They can’t tell between traitors and faithful members and don’t care who they slaughter. We don’t want our brothers to be gutted for crimes they didn’t commit.”
I’m sure your brothers are already guilty of a multitude of crimes even without these car bombings,
Justin wanted to explode in the sheikh’s face, but he just nodded in silence.
“Canada’s mediation between the Alliance and the Libyan government officials, especially the Prime Minister, will ensure the punishment falls on the true instigators and executors of these attacks. At the same time, this will help bring an end to hostilities already started against families and relatives of the Alliance members in Libya.”
Justin frowned. “Let me understand this: you want Canada to take the side of the Alliance in your war with Libya’s government?”
“Absolutely not. Libya’s government is not our enemy,” the sheikh blurted out, unwittingly grinding his teeth. Realizing his blunder, he flashed them a reassuring smile and added in a much softer, lower voice, “Libya is not our enemy. We simply want its government to understand our true position. We have no involvement at all in these explosions in their country. In exchange, we’re able to provide the Libyan mukhabarat with a list of names of those who are responsible for this bloodbath and where they can be found.”
The sheikh paused and stared into the agents’ eyes. Justin’s face betrayed no emotion. He was looking at the sheikh’s bodyguards standing about ten feet away from the car. Carrie seemed more concerned with wiping a stream of sweat from her forehead than giving any thought to the sheikh’s proposal.
“This is a very tall order,” Justin said. “Senior political figures will have to sign on to this deal. Concrete and valuable evidence will be necessary to convince them.”
Sheikh Ayman closed his eyes and nodded slightly. “You’re right, but we have a good chance of preventing further killings,
killings
that may lead to a new, bloody conflict.”
“Why haven’t you asked for help from the US?” Carrie asked. “They have much more clout than Canada in Libya now that their relationship is back on track.”
The sheikh sighed. “America is our greatest enemy. Plus, once I tell you the identity of the faction’s target, you’ll understand our reasons for not contacting the US. But before we go that far, I need some assurances that Canada will facilitate the Alliance’s negotiations with Libya.”
“You have my personal commitment that we’ll make our best efforts to clarify the Alliance’s position and to seek a peaceful solution.” Justin chose his words carefully, unwilling to make a promise he could not keep. “Still, I need the approval of my superiors, and they’ll have to agree on the next steps.”
Sheikh Ayman was nodding continuously, satisfied with Justin’s reply.
“Now who’s the next target?” Justin asked.
“The next target is the President of the United States of America.”
“What?” Justin and Carrie asked in a single voice.
“You heard me correctly. The breakaway faction is planning the assassination of the American President in Tripoli next week, during her visit for the G-20 Summit.”
“No freaking way,” Carrie said, “how can you be sure of that?”
“We know about their plans and their preparations under way to execute a very sophisticated assassination. I have them in my briefcase, here with me.” The sheikh pointed to a leather briefcase resting next to his feet.
“Is this intel true?” Justin asked.
“Absolutely. I trust these sources with my own life,” the sheikh replied.
Here the T-word creeps up again.
Justin pursed his lips. He always became tense whenever someone began to lean on the weak crutches of trust instead of the firm foundation of facts.
“I need to review these documents and verify this information,” he said, “if, and when, we are certain about their—”
A rumble from the sky interrupted him. The familiar rattle of heavy helicopters grew louder.
“What the hell is that?” the sheikh asked, rolling down the window.
Before anyone could reply, the screeching sound of a missile cut through the air. A second later, a great explosion rocked the sheikh’s car.
Chapter Six
Great Sand Sea, Sudan
May 14, 10:47 a.m. local time
The explosion sprayed metal shrapnel and rock fragments at the BMW. Its armored glass resisted the impact. Threads of cobwebs appeared in the cracked windshield. A long barrage of gunfire burst outside the car. The sheikh’s guards were responding to the attack.
“Everyone OK?” Justin asked.
Carrie nodded. Ducked behind the front passenger’s seat, her sweaty fingers wrapped around her rifle trembled slightly.
“You led those Egyptian dogs into my den,” the sheikh howled at Justin in Arabic.
Justin met the sheikh’s eyes. The air strike had enraged rather than scared the battle-hardened veteran.
“Of course not,” Justin hissed.
The bearded guard threw open the driver’s side door. He pointed his AK at Justin, who pressed his carbine into the guard’s chest.
“I’m not the enemy,” Justin shouted in Arabic.
The guard held his AK in place, inches away from Justin’s face.
Sheikh Ayman barked an order and the bearded guard stepped back and lowered his gun.
The rumble, which had begun to fade, returned. This time, it was an almost ear-splitting thunder.
“The chopper’s lower, much lower,” Justin said.
The sheikh glanced out of a clear corner of the windshield. “Two of them.” He pushed open the passenger’s door. “First one, ten o’clock; second one, two o’clock. Seven hundred yards away at the most.”
By the time Justin slithered outside the car, Carrie had assumed a firing position, kneeling by the rear wheels of the BMW. Her C7 rifle was pointed to the sky. She was waiting for the moment when the helicopters would appear in her sight. Justin pulled his carbine’s retractable stock, adjusted its length, and set it firmly against his shoulder. Then he sat back on his right heel, two steps behind Carrie. His index finger rested on the grenade launcher trigger.
“Who knew about our meeting?” Justin shouted at the sheikh.
“Your gun dealing friends,” he replied.
The sheikh had fetched himself an RPK machine gun. He was stretched over the sandy ground, holding his fire until the helicopters drew nearer.
“My gun dealing friends are getting hammered just like us,” Justin said
A missile exploded about fifty feet away from one of the Land Rovers. A few men scurried away from the tents in all directions. Two or three of Ali’s gunmen were spraying volleys of bullets against the helicopters dropping over the valley. Two rocket-propelled grenades screamed through the sky. Their smoke exhaust tinted the sky with a grayish hue, but both projectiles missed their swift moving targets.
“Sudanese?” Justin asked.
“No clue,” the sheikh replied.
The helicopters swooped over their heads. Carrie took a deep breath and swung her rifle, following the movements of the helicopters. She squeezed a rapid burst, emptying the entire 30-round magazine. She fed the rifle a fresh clip and before the empty magazine hit the ground, she resumed blasting at the first helicopter.
Justin took a little longer before firing his single shot. He aimed about half an inch higher than the second helicopter then pulled the trigger of his grenade launcher. The high-explosive warhead whooshed toward the target. It struck the helicopter at its tail shaft, under the three-bladed rotor hub. Black smoke swallowed up the helicopter, then bright yellow flames began licking at its long brown tail.
The helicopter dropped a few feet but was able to complete a one hundred and eighty degree turn. It rushed back for a second sweep over the valley, following the other helicopter.
“Hide, hide, hide,” Carrie shouted, sliding underneath the sheikh’s car.
The sheikh kept drumming his machine gun. A torrent of bullets poured forth from the weapon against the incoming helicopters.