The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

ABDULLAH GLANCED AT HIS wristwatch every few minutes. He had heard nothing from Bashir since 7:30. They should be here by now. Did Bashir get lost or stopped by the police? The man lacked intelligence, but he wasn’t stupid enough to speed on the highway or drive recklessly. He shook his head in disgust.

  Earlier that day Abdullah arranged for the big meeting. Chairs circled the dining room table located next to the kitchen. He distributed bedding in the rooms upstairs and had spent an hour straightening up the place so it was less like a man's place of solitude and refuge and more like an orderly house. He hid his black duffel with the money high on a shelf in the kitchen pantry–after removing the handgun. He felt the need to arm himself, at least for now.

  The wooden barrel was a bigger problem. It actually had honey in it. A sticky mess that surrounded a container about the size of a standard suitcase. To avoid a protracted cleanup in the house, he disassembled the barrel in the backyard. He ended breaking the thing open with a hammer, and getting covered with the gooey stuff. After washing everything with a garden hose, including himself, he found a lead box inside the barrel. It had no handle or visible lock. The only opening he could find was a hinged cover, about one inch long. He picked it open and saw an electrical connection. Abdullah hid the box in the old hand-carved dining room buffet.

  Now, hours later, he waited in a darkened room next to the front window. Headlights of a car came into view but passed by and drove out of sight. A few minutes later, at 11:45 more headlights. This time the lights slowed and the car turned into his gravel driveway. He watched three men lumber out of the backseats of the car, a large white vehicle with storage containers attached on top. Bashir exited the driver's side and retrieved a big dog out of the rear compartment.

  Abdullah turned on the inside lights, opened the front door, and stationed himself about eight feet back, so he could inspect his visitors as they entered. He sensed an emptiness in his stomach and his mouth felt dry. He thought of his handgun behind him, tucked under his belt, and tried to relax.

  The first man to enter was large, older, and carried a briefcase. Abdullah challenged him, "Stop. What is your name?" The man stopped, and spoke. The words meant nothing to Abdullah, but the sneer on the man's face radiated disrespect. A second man, behind the first, leaned to the side and whispered in the big man's ear, then said in Arabic. "This is Alexander Kosloff. He's Russian and does not speak our language."

  Abdullah caught his breath. "I want him to tell me his code name." Without waiting for a translation, Kosloff spit out the word Pasol and advanced into the room. Abdullah pointed to the sofa for him to sit. The second man stepped inside. "My name is Rashid al Youris. My password is Magister. He moved to the sofa and sat next to the Russian. The third man entered. In Urdu, the common language of Pakistan, he said, "I am Kassar Suri, sir. My password is Khoon Gaha, and your name, please?" Before Rashid translated, Abdullah put his hand up. "No need to interpret. I understand basic Urdu having trained in a border region of Pakistan." He turned to Kassar. "My name is Abdullah al Jamal of the House of Prince Jamal. I am known as the Sword. Welcome, you may enter."

  Outside, Bashir took his dog around back and tied him to the porch. Then returned to the car to fill a box with items stored in one of the cargo containers strapped to the roof of the car. He stumbled up the front steps with the box of food supplies, greeted Abdullah with a nod and asked, "Kitchen?" Abdullah pointed over his shoulder, walked to the center of the room, and stood next to Rashid. "I don't know you. Your name is not on the list of members of this team. Are you the translator?"

  "Yes," Rashid rose to confront Abdullah.

  "I will deal with you in a moment, but first everyone must be searched. No weapons are tolerated and no phones." Rashid repeated the demand and received mixed reactions. Abdullah continued, "Explain to them this is a necessary precaution. No offense is intended." He then shouted, "Bashir, come here. You must search our guests." Bashir scurried into the living room and began a body search of each man. He found no guns, but recovered three phones. The Russian objected to this invasion of his privacy. Abdullah shrugged his shoulders.

  "Now for you." Abdullah glared at Rashid. "You are not the man I expected. Who are you and how do you know the password?" He dropped his hand to his side and thought of the handgun wedged in the small of his back.

  Rashid, still standing, reached inside his coat for the Letter of Introduction. Bashir stepped forward as if to stop him. "Relax, I have a letter to show you," Rashid said quickly. Bashir looked at Abdullah who motioned him to back off. "I'm an associate of Professor Maloof at the university. Danish asked that I substitute for him. He has fallen ill and is in an intensive care unit in Tehran under doctor's orders." He handed the letter to Abdullah, who hastily scanned it. He noted Maloof's signature scrawled across the bottom.

  "How do I know you are not lying? Not an impostor?"

  "For many reasons. First, I could not be here unless Danish had directed me. Second I know the password because Danish personally gave it to me. Third the letter introduces me and is signed.” With a bow of the head he said, “I am Rashid al Youris, at your service."

  Abdullah considered the claim. "Yes, but maybe you are a spy and Professor Maloof has been tortured and forced to cooperate with you and your masters. Prove me wrong."

  Rashid stepped back as if offended. "You have a great imagination, sir. If you read the letter you will see there is a telephone number for you to call to verify the truth. I would prefer you not disturb my friend who is sick, but if you have to...." His voice trailed off.

  Abdullah's eyes narrowed. "You think because we are out in the desert that I cannot make this call. You are a fool. This is the oil patch. It is served by many phone companies who bow to the wealthy interests in America."

  The Russian began to talk. He sputtered angry words gesturing at Abdullah, who asked, "What's he saying?"

  "He thinks your manner is unnecessarily rude, and wants to know why."

  "Then tell him. My suspicions are warranted."

  Rashid explained the situation. Kosloff laughed.

  "Why is he laughing?"

  "Because he thinks, shall I say–you are a silly man. You see, he knows me from before. I translated for him when this deal originated in Rome."

  "He spoke in Russian. You could be lying."

  Rashid smiled and extended his hand to the Russian, who shook it as if greeting an old friend. "If you need further proof, you should call Danish."

  Still suspicious, Abdullah nodded, "I will."

  Kassar Suri asked how long they must wait. After a long day, he needed to sleep. The Russian stated flatly they would meet tomorrow morning at the earliest. Both turned to Rashid to translate.

  Abdullah ordered Bashir to show the men to their rooms while he made the call to Tehran. He believed Youris to be legitimate, but he felt the need to confirm the truth, even if it meant disturbing a sick man.

  The call lasted only a few minutes and confirmed Rashid al Youris was trustworthy. Abdullah accepted the authenticity of Youris, but doubt still nagged at him.

  BASHIR CARRIED THE luggage upstairs. The Russian occupied one bedroom, stating he would not share a room. Rashid and Kassar took the second bedroom that had twin beds.

  When Bashir returned downstairs Abdullah waited for him in the living room. "We must talk." He eyed the smaller man. Bashir glanced up, puzzled and said nothing. Abdullah slowly walked around Bashir as if inspecting spoiled goods. Facing him he asked, "How did you know this meeting would be indispensable to my mission?"

  Bashir appeared confused and perspiration formed on his skin. "I...I don't understand."

  "When I called you two days ago, I told you team members would arrive today, and you said this meeting was indispensable to my mission. How did you know that?"

  "I didn't know." He pulled back. "I mean, I assumed it must be important for you to call me. Why would you need my support if it wasn't important?"

  Abdullah frowned. "You said you would b
uy food for five people. How did you know how many people were on the team? I didn't tell you the number." He advanced on Bashir barely able to control his urge to shake him.

  "I made a guess at the number. If I had been wrong you would have told me. There are only so many people that can fit into one car. Why are you threatening me? I am your friend."

  "You said, 'including the Russian'. Abdullah grabbed Bashir and shoved him back. "Talk to me you slimy son of a whore! How did you know about the Russian?" He lifted his fist, his face flushed with anger.

  Bashir raised his arm to protect himself, and in a shrill voice screamed, "Yes, yes, I knew. I knew. Let me go. I can explain." Abdullah released him and Bashir fell back against the wall gasping for air. "Please, give me a minute," he pleaded.

  Abdullah stepped back and waited.

  Bashir straightened up, closed his eyes and took a calming breath. "It was for you. To protect you and our mission."

  "What are you saying?"

  "The truth."

  "Explain yourself."

  Bashir moved forward and began. "The Americans are good at spying.

  They spy on everyone even their own people and their allies. Our encryption is unbreakable, but can we be sure? Completely sure? No matter what you think of our enemies, they are smart, clever, and relentless." Bashir moved to the sofa and sat down. "If they broke the code, no matter how unlikely that may be, it would lead them to the recipient here in America. If that recipient were you, our mission would fail, and our investment would be lost. That’s a hundred million dollars in pure gold and an opportunity to shift world power to Islam."

  Abdullah wondered how Bashir knew something he didn't know. A hundred million dollars in gold?

  "So our leaders built a safeguard into our communication. All instructions would be sent to me, and I would relay them to you. If by some chance these godless capitalists penetrated our transmissions and followed them to their destination, our enemies would capture me. They would not know about you. You would be safe. Our mission would be safe."

  Abdullah stood dumbfounded. How could he not know all of this? Why was he, the chosen one, kept uninformed? His mind raced to understand. What Bashir said made sense, in a strange way. "And my reports to Rome, are they routed through you?"

  Bashir, relaxed now and in control, continued. "Yes. I am the information exchange agent for this undertaking. Please remember what is important, Abdullah. I am not important. You are not important. Only our mission is important. We are but a means to a necessary end: punishing the Americans for their sins against Allah, our Benefactor."

  "So you have known everything all along, from the beginning."

  "Yes."

  "And if the Americans captured you, what would stop them from finding me?"

  Bashir stood and looked into Abdullah's eyes. "My death would stop them."

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE FBI COMMAND CENTER had turned into a sleeping dragon, resting now but able to exert intense power when aroused. Like the dragon, Johansson sat slouched in his leather chair, his chin resting near his chest, an empty coffee cup wedged between his legs. Agent Ackerman hesitated to wake him, but knew the director would want to know. He touched him on the shoulder. "Director, sir. Sorry to disturb you. I have news."

  Dazed, Johansson opened his eyes and raised his head. "What? News?"

  "Yes sir. The call came in minutes ago. It went off pretty well."

  "Pretty well?" He pushed himself upright in the chair.

  "Yes. As planned, Agent Sharif answered the call. She had no problem with the language. She followed the script and forwarded the call to her husband, Mr. Sharif who pretended to be the sick Professor Maloof. They convinced the caller that Rashid was his substitute."

  "So we pulled it off?"

  "Yes sir, but there was one problem.”

  "Problem?"

  The man who called asked to verify the identity of a Rashid al Youris, not Mohammad Faisal.

  Johansson jumped up, fully awake. "Did you say Youris?"

  "Yes, sir. Rashid al Youris, but Mr. Sharif went along with it. He vouched for this Youris guy. I hope that was okay?"

  The Big Swede nodded. "Sure. Tell Agent Sharif and her husband we appreciate their help. Thank them.”

  Ackerman stepped away.

  Johansson felt a slight chill pass through him. So Rashid has changed the plan. He's using his identity. He must have also forged a letter of introduction with his name in it. I don't know why he’d do that. Maybe he feared his real identity might be recognized, and he didn't want to take a chance of our being discovered. I don’t know what's in his head, but he must have a good reason. I hope he had a good reason.

  FORTY-NINE

  ABDULLAH STARED AT THE CEILING of his downstairs bedroom. The revelation that Bashir shared communications between himself and Caliph Abd al-Ghayb in Rome made his muscles tighten. He felt anger because his importance became weakened by Bashir's involvement. He, the Sword, no longer was the sole warrior for Islam's advancement. With an inferior acolyte, he must share the glory and recognition that will flow from his accomplishments. This lesser man will stand in my shadow. A shadow cast by the bright light of my heroic deeds.

  He ran his hands through his hair. As much as he loathed to admit it, Bashir's intervention served a useful purpose. This insignificant person, who now sleeps on the sofa of his living room, will act as a shield against those who would do him harm. The American dogs would rip Bashir apart while The Sword stayed free.

  Other members of the team also contributed to his sleepless night. The substitute translator, Rashid al Youris, who appeared to be a trustworthy replacement, still made him uneasy. But Youris didn't trouble him as much as the Russian. The pompous Alexander Kosloff, irritated him by his appearance and his manner. Sleep finally came to Abdullah in fitful periods of shallow rest and troubled dreams.

  THE NEXT MORNING Bashir awoke refreshed and ready to begin his day of work. The house remained quiet as he set about preparing to cook a fine breakfast for the guests and Abdullah. He needed some items from one of the cargo carriers mounted outside. Slipping out of the house into the morning light, he opened the rear door of the car and reached for the roof container. He found several kitchen utensils and a canister of baking flour. As he closed the container he noticed a white vehicle parked across the highway in a grove of trees. It seemed like an odd place to park, since there was nothing around it: no pump jacks humming, no storage tanks or oil field equipment nearby. Probably lovers hiding their sins.

  Last night he had parked in front of the house without thinking how visible the Suburban might be in the daylight. He entered the car, started the engine, and moved it further down the side of the house. Bashir noticed an old car parked in the backyard, which he assumed belonged to Abdullah. He returned to the kitchen and his breakfast preparation duties.

  RASHID AND KASSAR Suri came downstairs at a quarter past nine o'clock. The smell of fresh bread baking in the kitchen perked up their appetites as they waited for the others to join them. At half past the hour Abdullah arrived a bit blurry eyed and unshaven. "Where's the Russian?" Rashid said that Alexander was still snoring when they came down earlier. "Well, we can't wait for him all-day. Someone needs to wake him."

  An hour later the Russian descended the stairs, dressed in a dark blue silk suit and carrying his oversized briefcase. Light bounced off his polished shoes. "I'm ready for breakfast," he said in broken English. Rashid crooked his head to the side and wondered if Kosloff had understood their conversations last night. As if reading his mind, he said to Rashid in his native tongue, "I only speak a few phrases in English. Your job is secure."

  Bashir had set the dining room table for what would now be a late morning breakfast. He began bringing out plates of food. He set before them a choice of pan-fried or fresh baked Pita bread. Then he arrived with bowls of black and green olives, turnips, pickles, tomato wedges, and hard-boiled eggs that prompted words of praise. White cheese made from go
at's milk and fresh jams complemented this Middle Eastern feast. To satisfy the Russian, a generous serving of chicken Shawanna was placed in front of him. "What is this," he asked. Rashid explained that it’s an Arabian sandwich–Pita bread filled with meat–rarely served for breakfast in the Arab world, but prepared for him on this special occasion. Wearing a pleased expression Kosloff caught Bashir's eye, and bowed his head.

  The small talk during breakfast consisted mostly of comments on how difficult it must be to set a civilized table in the land of fast-food and endless frozen meals in a box. When breakfast ended, everyone complimented Bashir on his culinary skills. "Wait until dinner," he said with a flicker of a smile, something he rarely showed.

  Abdullah, appeared annoyed by Bashir's morning success. "It is time we conduct the business that brings us all together."

  Alexander Kosloff removed his coat and carefully draped it over the chair at the head of the table. Pointing to Abdullah he commanded, "Produce the nuclear device." Rashid dutifully translated, softening the tone and sometimes the words.

  Abdullah opened the dining room buffet and lifted the lead container onto the table. In silence, everyone stared at the somber gray box. Kassar Suri, the weapons specialist from Pakistan, sat at one long side of the table. Abdullah sat across from him. Rashid, at the end of the table, sat opposite the Russian. Bashir lingered in the background.

  Rashid translated during the meeting as needed.

  Kosloff unlocked his briefcase, withdrew a small black battery-powered appliance and reached for the lead box. "As you may have noticed, this box lacks a handle or a lock. There is a purpose for this design. Only someone with a coded device like this one," he showed the black appliance, "can open this box without destroying its contents. It will self-destruct if opened with force." The Russian inserted the appliance into the connector hidden under the small hinged cover on the side. He flipped a switch and the lid snapped up. He lifted the lid and set it aside. Everyone peered into the opening. The Russian laughed. "What do you expect, a Genie to jump out?"