The Muslim Brotherhood and Islamic Jihad went their separate ways by the mid-1980s. Zawahiri’s group eventually merged with Bin Laden, creating the multi-national terrorist organization whose main objective was to strike the United States. The Brotherhood continued operating strictly as a local group. Anna looked around at their handy work. The Muslim Brotherhood received enough funding from outside donors to sprinkle money throughout small enclaves like this area. It provided the locals just enough on which to get by, but the funds were small enough to keep the population weak and complacent.
At the same time, the Brotherhood blamed the people’s plight on the autocratic government- which was partially true-and preached to the people that the only way to escape their situation would be a return to strict Islamist rule. The plan was slow and methodical, but after twenty years it was finally bearing fruit. The Muslim Brotherhood ran Islamic Cairo the way a mafia family runs the Bronx; with an iron fist, and answering to no one. If absolutely necessary, a dead body was used to keep the locals in line. Twenty yards in front of her the boy slowed his pace, ducking off the main thoroughfare and into one of the tiny alleys that intersected this part of town. It was an area the tourists did not venture. The smell of human waste and breakfast cooking wafted through the enclave, creating a disgusting concoction. The boy continued plowing ahead, single-mindedly determined to get to his destination on time. The alley was empty so she backed off, not wanting to alert him to her presence. Whenever he stopped or slowed down she stepped behind the clothes put out to dry that were draped between the buildings just above her head.
The boy made one more right-hand turn, disappearing around a bend. Anna crept up to the corner and cautiously poked her head around the building. The boy walked into a dead end. The smell here was even more pungent than the area through which they just passed. He stood at an empty doorway, waiting for someone. An average sized man in his mid-twenties with curly black hair and a coarse black beard appeared. He flashed an AK-47 from underneath his robe in a show of power. The boy was clearly used to the show of force and did not seem intimidated in the least. He handed the older man a piece of paper and waited while the man vanished into the building.
A few minutes later Quasim’s short figure appeared in the doorway, a broad smile on his face. He angrily growled an instruction to the bodyguard who headed down the alley in a sprint. Anna quickly ducked inside the closest doorway, escaping just in time as the bodyguard dashed past her previous lookout point. She heard him cursing in Arabic to himself. He was being ordered back to the Sultan Hussein Mosque. A few seconds later the messenger boy appeared again, sprinting past her tiny hideout, looking to fulfill the next errand Quasim gave him. It was time to make a move.
Chapter 33
Anna ran quickly to the entrance and peered through the open window. The dirty hovel yawned back at her. It showed no signs of being an important hideout for a supposed terrorist group. The interior of the room was just as poorly maintained as the cracking brick façade of the exterior. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
The floor was mostly dirt, with only a few lone pieces of tile lying erratically over it. There were four, weather-beaten, dirty prayer rugs in each corner of the room. A small table surrounded by two rickety old wooden chairs sat in the middle of the room. A half-eaten meal of fuul, small brown beans soaked during the night and then boiled, sat on the table, along with a few pieces of colorful fruit. Fuul was the everyman’s dish of the people of Cairo, and often eaten for breakfast and lunch. She closed the wooden clapboards to cover the window, and made her way towards the back of the building with her pistol raised. Her slim figure made no sound as it stepped across the dirt floor. Her ears perked, listening for any noises.
Incantations echoed from one of the other rooms, and she realized Quasim was praying. He had most likely been interrupted by the boy’s visit, and was now finishing his religious task. She was about to go get him when the voice stopped and footsteps announced he was heading in her direction. Taking four steps backward to the center of the room she stood and waited. He stepped through the threshold.
“Sabah il khayr,” (Good morning). She broke the silence with her perfect Arabic. She continued in his native language. “Drop the gun,” Anna ordered. If Quasim was startled, he did not show it. “Just drop it down those baggy pants of yours and let it hit the floor. I’m sure it won’t break. It’s a short trip to the floor.” Anna immediately took command of the situation with the insult. He obeyed, and the Russian made 7.62mm Tokarev pistol dropped onto the dirty floor, throwing up a small cloud of dust.
“You should consider cleaning this place more often. It’s not very hospitable for guests. Sit,” Anna ordered, and gestured towards the chair with its back to the window.
He gave her an icy stare before obeying. She guessed his mind was racing through his list of enemies and trying to figure out who she could be. A rope appeared from her pocket, and she expertly bound his hands and feet to the chair. She used the second chair as a barricade, jamming it into the entrance of the building.
“You have anyone else coming to see you?” Anna asked. Quasim continued his silence. His head was bowed. He stared at the floor, refusing to acknowledge her. She knew he had probably been tortured by some of the Egyptian governments’ finest. No one was better at administering torture than the Arabs. There was an excellent chance he had been thrown in prison along with hundreds of others after the assassination of Sadat. If that were the case, he would be next to impossible to break.
Anna quickly surveyed the other rooms of the small apartment and found nothing more than a few prayer rugs and an array of assault weapons, pistols, and rifles in a haphazard pile on the floor. The apartment probably served as a small weapons depot for Quasim. The entrance she just barricaded appeared to be the only way into the apartment. She strode back into the room with a strut of confidence. She did not know how much time she had so she knew she must ramp up her style. She walked directly over to Quasim, whose eyes were closed in prayer, and unleashed a punch across his face that did not seem possible given her figure. Quasim toppled onto the floor, unable to keep his balance because his appendages were all tied to the chair.
“We can either do this the easy way or the hard way, Quasim. You give me the information I need up front, and you can remain a man. Otherwise, I’ll be sure to hand you over to my friends in the Saudi government. I know they are after you for the little excursions you’ve been running into their country. They don’t appreciate you meddling with their affairs.” She hoped the statement would put him on notice that she knew who she was dealing with.
She propped him back up, this time delivering a knee to the groin. It was the biggest advantage she possessed over men, and she never failed to use it if necessary. He winced in pain, his chest heaving as he tried to come to grips with the situation. A small smile creased his lips.
“Fine. You don’t want to talk. I’ll get right to the point then. What is Aziz A’zami’s position in the Muslim Brotherhood?” Anna asked.
Quasim raised his head for the first time and stared at her quizzically. Her upper torso coiled for another strike, but Quasim finally spoke.
“You are mistaken. He’s not a member. He disagrees with our use of violence. Tells us we should not be killing our fellow Muslims.”
“I’ve been watching you for over a week. Either myself or an associate of mine has seen you meet with him on several occasions.” She embellished her success, trying to make him think she was an omnipotent observer. “If you’re going to lie, this will get painful.” Anna traced her weapon up and down his legs in a menacing manner. She then leaned over him and let the swell of her breasts lightly brush against him in a teasing manner. Sex mixed with the fear of death. One of the most basic human needs converging with one of the most primordial fears were powerful weapons to use on a prisoner. They played havoc with the mind.
“I’m not lying. I know him. I don’t deny it, but he is not a member of my
organization,” Quasim answered hastily.
“That’s not what I hear on the street, Quasim.”
“Someone has given you bad information then. He was, or I guess he still is, a member of the Brotherhood of the Caliphate.” Quasim looked at her with a renewed look of confidence as he realized the interrogation was not about his activities.
Anna paced the room, gathering her thoughts. “You’re talking about the other offshoot of Sayyid’s group? Quasim, they have not existed for years.” She smacked him across the face. “You’re going to have to do better.”
“No, it is true. There are a few who are still alive. Not many. Just a bunch of crazy old men whose time has past. Sayyid cursed them from his jail cell for choosing the path of non-violence.”
Sayyid Qutb, Anna knew, was the spiritual godfather of the Islamic fundamentalist movement. He held a well paying job in the Ministry of Education in the Egyptian government in 1948, and was also a semi-famous writer in the country. His criticisms of the Egyptian government brought him unwanted attention from King Farouk. Sayyid was on the verge of being arrested when his friends arranged for him to visit the United States to study abroad. He spent several months in the U.S., where he witnessed the decadence and corruption of the West for the first time. He stayed in New York City and watched the Americans indulge their every desire. The brand new skyscrapers shooting to the sky, alcoholic bums in the alleys, and pimps on the street corners stunned his senses and his virtues. He was appalled by the melting pot of nationalities in the city: Russians, Germans, Jews, Poles, Chinese laborers, all fighting over their piece of the pie.
Against this backdrop, Sayyid believed he had a choice. He could both fall prey to the same desires and abandon his principals, or he could take a stand for Islam. He had already been leaning towards a strict interpretation of Islamic law when he arrived in the United States. Now his decision was final.
He returned to his native country eight months later, convinced that America was the number one enemy of Islam. When he arrived in Cairo he found that many in the city were leaning towards his own way of thinking. Sayyid and his friends co-founded the Muslim Brothers, and began acting as a de facto government, funding hospitals, factories, and schools. The Muslim Brothers began quietly fomenting a revolution, which finally came to fruition in 1952. That year they assisted in a military coup that brought a young army colonel named Gamal Abdul Nasser to power.
The Muslim Brothers lust for power quickly caused fissures in the group. Nasser formed a secular government, as opposed to the Islamist theocracy that many of the Brothers had planned. This led to an internal struggle during which most of the members of the Muslim Brothers formed what would eventually become known as the Muslim Brotherhood. Sayyid followed this path. He was eventually tossed into jail by Nasser, released for a short period of time, and then picked up again on trumped charges. He was put to death by hanging after he refused Nasser’s offer of release. The government refused to hand over his body for burial. By then, his writings, many of which were smuggled out of his jail cell, served as a rallying point for thousands of disgruntled Muslims.
In addition to the Muslim Brotherhood, two other factions emerged from the splitting of Sayyid’s organization. One of these factions surrendered its overt revolution, and went to work for Nasser’s government, hoping to change it from the inside. The final group, a handful of his closest advisors, formed the least known, and as far as Anna knew the least influential of the offshoot organizations. They called themselves the Brotherhood of the Caliphate, and their ultimate goal was the return to power of one ruler over all the lands of Islam.
She took a piece of bread off the table and chewed slowly before asking another question. “What other members are still alive?” She did not want to admit that the old man was the first confirmed member she knew of. The movement had been obscure, and from what the CIA knew, it appeared to have died out soon after it began.
“None that I know by name. I’ve heard the old man claim that some of his friends are still around, but I have never been able to confirm it.”
“You’ve never met any of the other surviving members?” Anna asked.
“No. He claims they are not in Egypt.”
“If Aziz is just a crazy old man why do you meet with him?”
“It’s part of my job. The members of the Brotherhood of the Caliphate were all very close with Sayyid, despite their differences. For the last forty years there have been strict rules about treating them with respect and doing favors for them.”
“How long have you been dealing with the old man?”
“Myself? I’ve been doing him favors since the early 1970s.”
“Right about the time you first joined the Muslim Brotherhood then?” She peered out the wooden shutters and confirmed the alley was still empty. Quasim stiffened at the comment.
“Yes, Quasim,” she said as she approached him from behind. “I know all about you. Did you really think that awful story you’ve been using for years actually fooled anyone? We know all about how you got your start.” She watched the beads of sweat appear on his forehead. He was clearly anxious.
“He has friends somewhere high up. I know that. He passes on some useful information to me when he feels like we need to know something.” He quickly offered the additional information.
“How do you even know he is really a member of the Brotherhood of Caliphate? They were almost like ghosts as far as I can tell. This is the first time I have been told a member’s name.”
“Years ago…one of my bosses…he refused one of Aziz’s requests. He ended up with his head chopped off. Aziz has been a cripple for years, so someone had to do it for him.”
“You didn’t answer my question. How do you even know he is really a member of this group? I doubt the Muslim Brotherhood simply does favors for any old man that comes in off the street and asks.”
Quasim continued his game of playing hard to get. She started towards him again, ready to cause more pain. “Wait,” he pleaded. “The members of the Brotherhood of the Caliphate have one distinguishing feature so they can be recognized. They have a tattoo on their inner thigh. There are two letters on the thigh. Two Arabic symbols in green. It means Caliphate Creation. When I first became one of the leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood I was told that there was a select group of men for whom we had to do their bidding if they showed us the tattoo. Aziz is the only man who has made any requests of me as long as I have been overseeing this area. I heard some rumors about other Caliphate members during the late 50s and 60s requesting the kidnapping of orphans. Very strange stuff. I never asked any questions. It was no longer going on by the time I joined so it did not concern me.” Quasim continued to rattle off as much information as he could recall. Aziz was nothing but a thorn in his side anyway.
“They were kidnapping kids off the streets of Cairo?” Anna knew she should not be surprised. In the late 1940s and early 1950s half of the city’s kids died from a lack of basic nutrition. This made for fertile ground for kidnappings, blackmails, and other despicable acts against children.
“That is what I was told. Obviously it was before my time, so I’ve never been able to confirm the stories. Why they wanted to do this, I don’t know. My own belief is that the few men who started this little group were all crazy, and Sayyid was just doing a final favor for some of his friends. Maybe they liked sex with young children. Why else have someone kidnapping children for you? If there was any record of the kid being alive, they would have one of Sayyid’s allies within the government make the birth records disappear. Now the poor child never existed,” Quasim continued in an animated tone. Maybe he could even get her to kill the old man, he thought to himself.
Anna listened intently, and for the first time realized the possibility that Zach could be one of these kidnapped children. He was approximately the same age, and she had come up empty in her search for birth records. “And they just kidnapped and killed children at the whims of these men?” Anna asked.
“They followed the orders of Sayyid, as the Muslim Brotherhood continues to honor him to this day. What are a few wretches in the streets dying compared to our ultimate quest? If we ever achieve Sayyid’s dream of a truly Islamic government in Egypt, there will be no children on the streets to pick up. The ones who follow the true path will be in the madrassas, and the ones who refuse will die. It is Allah’s way.” The tone of his voice indicated he was not to be argued with.
The statement was typical of the Muslim Brotherhood, and Anna saw it coming. The thought process still infuriated her. She buried her emotions. There would be a better and more productive time for them to be unleashed. She had one more question she wanted to ask before she could get out of here.
“Has Aziz asked you for any favors during the last few years?”
“Yes, and some of them have been troublesome for my organization. He once requested certain members of the U.S. government be tracked when they came to Cairo. I was never told exactly who it was. He would only pass on the information to the person chosen for the job. It was presumably done to make sure they did not cause any trouble.” Quasim hesitated before continuing, “I was concerned he was spying on the U.S., and if our man was caught the blame would undoubtedly fall back on us. Aziz even asked that we follow his contact in the embassy,” Quasim continued spilling the information. He knew if the previous news was not enough to get her to do something about the old man, then this last piece should set her in motion.
Anna leaned against the interior wall, silently cursing Colin. “How long has this American contact been under Aziz’s watch?”
“A few years now, I believe. In addition to having access to some of my best men, Aziz also has a young boy who runs errands for him.”
“Is it the same boy who just left here?” Anna queried.
“Yes. The kid has been following me around even more than normal the past several months. He is the eyes and ears of the senile old man.”
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 24
