At that moment Sharazi dipped his head, it meant he now had doubts about what he was getting into, his natural inbuilt beliefs were now resisting the path Kazeni had mapped out. It went deeper than the mere dogmas of Islam or Christianity...it was a feeling, and feelings if they were intense enough, over ruled everything else including the intellect. Despite of all the intense meditation and total compliance with Allah human emotions still came to the surface and would not be quelled. It was the sort of thing that revolutions were all about.
Kazeni touched his lips with a paper tissue, and sipped a little filtered water then stared reflectively at Sharazi.
‘You realise Habib...that we must now prepare, lest we be chosen for the task the Supreme Leader has in mind,’ Sharazi, rather than allow his mentor to see his open expressions, stood and turned -- walked a few paces, and looked at the backdrop of city buildings in the distance. Solemnly he turned and quietly nodded his compliance, inwardly he knew his strong doubts had to be kept in check for the time being -- but sooner or later, they would have their way.
Chapter Eight
Spiral Cafe Canberra
Roger Jansen, CEO of Jansen Associates, Private Investigators, sat at a small round table in the Spiral Cafe in Canberra supping his café latte, and reading the latest government anti-terrorist precautions. It was all well and good, and he applauded the governments initiative, but it did not address the real cause of the problem, such actions merely created a challenge for the ardent insurrectionist. In fact most terrorist groups tended to study government precautions as a training exercise for budding students in terror.
It all boiled down to mental acumen and agility in the long run -- a study for the subconscious to work on -- put the problem to the brain long and hard enough -- and up popped a possible answer the next morning...if you were lucky that is. If the brain could not solve the problem it became lost in the void of neural existence and died a lonely death, somewhat like sending an e-mail to a non existent address...nothing eventuated. Perhaps he was being too much of a smart arse, there was such a thing as too much thinking, after which, action had to take its place.
He looked up from The Canberra Times and thanked God he was no longer in the anti terrorist arena; good old fashioned civilian court cases were much easier, and indeed much safer. Dealing with the tit for tat of human cases made life simpler, these he could understand, and most important of all, they made one feel more human.
Although, he was aware of quite a few fatalities within his portfolio archives, but at least, you knew where and what you were dealing with most of the time. But the insurgent classes were faceless nonentities, murderers, thieves, and killer robots. A man or woman who strapped explosives to their bodies knowing full well that they would be blown to pieces only to find themselves in a Muslim paradise were clearly mentally ill. With this in mind he looked out of the window at the people hurriedly making their way to work and wondered how many of them could be trained to carryout an explosive suicide attack. Taken to its ultimate conclusion this corrupted way of thinking could eventually destroy the whole of humanity -- God had clearly given us too much leniency in our thinking abilities -- far better to be a dumb ass.
No...he would stick to good old human domesticity it was so much more acceptable.
The concept of domesticity caused him to look around the cafe and reappraise the venue, since the word domesticity always conjured up surroundings which echoed people and their most personal proclivities.
From a purely aesthetic point of view the actual ambiance was ghastly. The architectural prints on the wall were ancient, and politically correct to the point of gross inhibition. They reminded him of the past when P&O Lines ran immigrants from the UK to Australia, and it was fashionable for men to smoke brier pipes, and women had long flowing lace neck scarves with large unwieldy hats festooned with frightening steel hair pins.
A better time in fact, when people actually trusted each other to a larger degree. Secretly, he new this was why he habitually visited the cafe, it gave him a measure of safety and belonging, a feeling of being part of the human race once again. Yes...domesticity was definitely one of his buzz words.
The influx of younger men often made him feel old and out of place. There was a smattering of youthful hairstyles with the mullet cut predominating over the close cropped convict style. He decided that he would hang on to the thin layer of hair covering his pate, rather than resort to the convict shaven style, so reminiscent of the early Australian convict era. Sneakily he squinted at the mass of faces hoping to pick out someone of his own age or older. The man serving coffee behind the counter seemed to be the only one who could have been any where near his own age.
He felt sorry for the man having to sweat it out in a stuffy coffee bar all day in the worst place one could possibly be; behind the counter pumping hot coffee for the working masses.
The odour of brewed coffee drew him back to reality, and the human presence increased as the morning serge of thirsty working commuters invaded the small cafe looking for their caffeine fix. There seemed to be a point at which this conglomeration reached its human comforting best, then it went rapidly down hill.
That time had arrived and he carefully folded the paper in half and put it under his arm -- he would finish it off in greater comfort at the office. Reading the morning papers was an essential part of an investigators life, it highlighted and listed the most popular court cases, and the ebb and flow of human activity, all very essential ingredients in the private detectives portfolio.
He smiled smugly as he thought about the government and its politically intractable problems, and vowed never to get embroiled with another government case...they could pull their own nuts out of the fire from now on.
He switched the television on as he entered his main office and changed the channel to SBS, this was another highly interesting news source and was also compulsory viewing. He checked himself lest he marinated his mind in skepticism. It was a habit he had struggled against in the past, knowing full well that it tended to colour ones thinking. He shook his head, cleared his mind, and refocused on the TV screen.
The US President was addressing a gathering of university students protesting about the war in Iraq. The words of the broadcast were temporarily lost on Jansen as his investigative mind unconsciously studied the placement of security agents around their leading politician. It was another habit he had, of concentrating on the detail surrounding the main focus, rather than the subject at hand. Strangely, the surrounds often gave more clues about the what was happening than the actual propagation of the event itself.
It was easy to pick out each secret service agent. He settled on a female agent clothed in a brown flecked tunic and trousers, then switched to an older male, possible in his forties or even fifties, which seemed a little old for such a demanding job.
Three metres from the older man was a much younger, clean shaven agent, with close cropped hair. He stood out more than the others by virtue of his intent gaze and passionate rendition of the quintessential security man -- without doubt a product of his ever present ego and the American way.
They all obeyed an instilled code of behaviour and appearance setting them apart from everyone else. Non of them looked directly at the president, but scanned the surrounding people instead. It reminded him of a road sign with the central post being the president, and all the signs pointing away from him. All an external observer had to do to target the president was to trace the line of sight back from where all the agents were looking and they would see the big man himself neatly placed in the middle of the scrum. Locating most of the agents was very easy since they were all looking the opposite way to the general public, and if that wasn’t sufficient agent identification, there were many other clues -- all the agents were smart and well dressed, with a tell-tale earpiece, partially hidden by the collar of their suit jackets. A closed palm indicated a concealed miniature microphone, which was periodically brought up to the face for communicatio
n purposes. This collection of fine detail indicated a security agent was at work and one would have to be blind not to notice most of this tell tale behaviour.
This seemed to work on two levels -- either they intimidated the would be assassins to abandon their intentions, or it egged them on to greater efforts. Most of the security agents were literally standing targets. It was the latter possibility that intrigued Jansen.
This open tendency of gung-ho political operations showing the world what America was capable of, rather than good covert intelligence planning, always worried Jansen. Surely the Americans were aware of their fine upstanding secret service agents and their obvious presence to the general public (and therefore to their enemies as well).
In Jansen’s experience this overt aggressive stance annoyed the hell out of most antagonist. The whole security planning was clearly based on intimidation rather than covert undermining of their potential antagonists.
Still, this was the American way -- give the buggers an up front picture of your capabilities by concentrating on aggression, which seemed to be actually invoking it in the enemy.
For a determined opposition with terrorist capabilities, it would be a simple matter to pick off each security agent one by one, or even to take out most of them at the same time in one organised sting.
This would hold true, even with a cleared no go zone all around the president, which the Secret Service all ways aimed at anyway.
He took another look at the president who was now preparing to take his leave, and shook his head despairingly just as Lotte, his private secretary, pushed another cup of coffee in his hand. Jansen’s looked up at his attentive secretary -- one could learn a lot from the body language of others.
Chapter Nine
Sydney Australia
Jogging in Sydney’s Domain was one the great pleasures in Kazeni’s life, it kept him fit and active and ready to serve the BIB at a moments notice. It was a cool day and the leaves of the trees in the park were constantly falling. It was good to be alive and to have a life in the service of something that was greater than himself, but if he failed, if something or someone struck him down in his prime...then what?
He hated the idea of a successor or even a second in command, but he liked the idea of a fail safe operation, whereby once his plans were put into effect they would succeed, even if he were deposed.
There were lots of devoted Muslims in the BIB, in fact they were all devoted to the idea of the world wide Islamic state. After all, it was the Christians who first attempted world domination with their religious beliefs and every dog has his day. Christianity had had its day in the sun; it was now Islam's turn to rule the roost. The times were ripe for an Islamic take over, since Christianity was declining rapidly, and churches were having a hard time recruiting new parishioners and retaining the faithful.
The word faithful stuck in his mind and brought him sharply back to his original concerns...that of a suitable successor should he be struck down at a vital moment.
Any man in the group could be a figure head, but there were not so many with the passion and gift of devout leadership. It demanded total obedience to the cause, which was everything, including life itself.
His friend, Habib Sharazi, had shown enormous courage under great duress at Lexton detention camp, he could just as easily have given in to his human frailties, perhaps he had the right qualities.
A more exacting organisation would have to be constructed if the they were to succeed in any of their upcoming endeavors. Each man must know exactly what was expected of him. Sharazi was the natural second in command and possible successor to his leadership.
He stopped and rested at one of the great trees in the Domain and inadvertently looked up at Saint Mary’s Cathedral. The building always annoyed him because it was the centre of Christian worship in Sydney, and in a way, it reminded him of a miniature version of the Agia Sophia in Istanbul, even though the cathedral looked nothing like the Agia Sophia. Which was once a great Christian edifice and had lasted for nearly a thousand years, then fell to the Ottoman Empire and became the greatest mosque to Islam. This one piece of history proved without a doubt that Christianity could and would be overcome.
As sure as Stalingrad was the nemesis of the Third Reich; so the Agia Sofia would symbolise the nemesis of Christianity. How he wished this could happen again right here in Australia one of the youngest countries to be settled under Christian style democracy.
He gazed at the two recently completed spires and noted the lighter, mismatching, yellow sandstone brick work; why did they bother in the face of rapidly withering attendance. It was yet another reminder that Christianity was in decline and ready for Islamic take-over.
He smiled and saluted the cathedral spires, they would of course be demolished under Muslim tenure and replaced by two giant high-tech minarets, which would be seen and heard all over Sydney. Which reminded him about his necessary provisions for the decree, should chance favour the BIB.
He walked slowly along the foliage covered concrete pathways, carefully checking that no one was close by, then keyed an unlisted number into his mobile. A terse, deep male voice, come through.
‘Yep...Hamid speaking’
‘Farid here...I need a few items from the wish list,’ Kazeni reeled off a selection of weapons and associated ammunition, then thought for a few moments.
‘And can you get me three dozen military grade tear gas grenades?' there was a pause and Hamid came back.
‘Three days for the weapons...but we don’t have that sort of grenade in stock at the moment...we’re expecting another consignment from China soon...will send on arrival,’ his mobile went silent, and he continued jogging out of the park towards one of the less reputable Sydney suburbs.
Gas grenades had not been used to any great extent by most of the terrorist groups in the Asia Pacific region, but they were a popular instrument for crowd dispersion by the police forces of numerous countries. Kazeni had made a point of studying police tactics around the world and noted the results of such actions. He had often advocated using police methods against the police themselves, since this often had a shock effect, causing confusion and disorientation. A gas attack followed by a baton charge by terrorists was often the last thing they would expect; give them a taste of their own medicine.
One pointer that was always in favour of the militants was surprise, they could call the shots and dictate the weaponry, and it came as no surprise to find police outgunned in their own country. Many things could be practiced on an equal footing since suitable equipment could now be obtained. Acquiring arms was not a pressing problem for BIB and there were always ready sources available through negotiation and the right price. Weapons were a significant part of world trade both conventional and black-market sales. They tended to even the odds and made a country more powerful globally.
The world was becoming swamped with illegal arms of all kinds and contraband was off loaded from Asian cargo vessels along the east coast of Australia under darkness. Small high powered speedboats collected the booty, then transferred it to on shore safe houses, where it was transported to remote centres in the bush. It was then collected by couriers and distributed to individual active groups. The system had worked well, apart from the odd interception by the police, but this was no great worry since a major part of the law enforcement operations were being deliberately tied down by marijuana plantations in the bush and in private houses. It had taken some time to set up the diversion and it was now working extremely well, but it wouldn’t last forever. Several other police diversions were being conjured up and the latest was blowing up ATM’s with acetylene gas across the country. The money obtained was purely incidental and the dissidents kept the proceeds to fund other diversionary tactics.
Accelerating ATM destruction in all major Australian states was in the pipeline with a view to creating maximum damage to Australian financial centres and economic resources.
A think-tank had been set up in a country resi
dence set back from the main road away from prying eyes. Alternate unsealed dirt roads had been created for a quick get away around the house, should it be necessary. Regular sessions were held with ideas being passed back and forth -- nothing was ruled out -- until after substantial feasibility studies had been made.
Chapter Ten
Pentagon Washington
The Chiefs of Staff were already seated in the Pentagon meeting room when the president entered with the national security advisor, the director of the CIA, and an overweight secretary of defence in close pursuit. The meeting stood, and the president nodded a salutation; the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff then indicated a resumption of seating.
The President carefully arranged a collection of documents in front of him. He perused the papers taking his time, then looked up, studying the array of concerned countenances.
President Garner always preferred a full complement of advisors, so that he could bounce his ideas around the group until he got the best answer. From then onwards he would eliminate as many of his power brokers as possible until he had fleeced the entire room of useful information. He gave new meaning to the phrase ‘picking ones brains’.
Mindful of his veto powers and his last word on all major policies -- his final decision would them be made. Usually this was either in private, or in consultation with one of his closest advisor, which could be almost anyone from the White House gardener to the pet dog.
‘Thank you gentleman for attending this meeting so promptly and at short notice...as most of you are aware, the situation in Iraq has escalated dramatically,’ he gestured to the reports in front of him.
‘It appears that a contingent of our recent troop disposition in Northern Iraq were sent to monitor the border area, when they accidentally crossed the Iranian border at a crucial point.
The ten man patrol discovered a large artillery gun hidden within an old farm house...although this seems trivial by itself gentleman...they also found what appeared to be nuclear shells at the rear of the building. The existence of a big gun and nuclear type shells needs no elaboration for our troop security in Iraq, not to mention the implications for escalation of hostilities,’ the chief of staff grimaced.
Tehran Decree Page 4
