Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  WO Tom Wilkes felt completely outmanoeuvred.

  Via Veneto, Rome, Italy

  Tartufi was an elegant bar and gelateria just off the expensive Via Veneto in Rome. It was Kadar Al-Jahani’s favourite place for an espresso doppio for a number of reasons. Firstly, the coffee was worthy. Not as good, perhaps, as the thick sweet coffee brewed in the royal bazaar at Riyadh, but it was certainly acceptable. Secondly, Tartufi was owned by a holding company itself owned by various interests that earned income for the defence of Islam. It was a front, essentially, one of many that generated and laundered money for terror. Kadar Al-Jahani glanced around at the rich Romans and the American tourists sipping their macchiati and cappuccini, and smiled. ‘All for a good cause,’ he said quietly into his cup as he brought it to his lips.

  There was another reason he liked Tartufi. A pair of young Roman women two-up on their Piaggio scooters freewheeled down the narrow cobbled lane beyond the bar’s tables. Their breasts danced against the fabric of their thin shirts as their scooters bounced and vibrated along the rough stones. He felt his phallus roll lazily in his pants, like an animal waking from a sleep. They were all whores, these western women, on show for the taking. It was disgusting, but at the same time so very watchable.

  The day was overcast, but Kadar Al-Jahani wore sunglasses. They afforded some measure of anonymity while allowing him to appraise the parade of female flesh at his leisure, like a buyer. Another scooter came around the bend at the top of the lane; a woman on her own this time, wearing a very short skirt and high heels. He watched her large breasts sway and jiggle, beckoning him, their delicious shape clearly defined by the folds of the exquisite green silk shirt she wore. He crossed his legs to avoid the embarrassment of his own growing excitement.

  The three men he’d been expecting arrived together, distracting him. He put on his warmest smile. They were all Middle Eastern – a Saudi, a Yemeni and a Palestinian – but their specific ethnicity would have been impossible to determine. The men were all clean-shaven, tanned and dressed in impeccable Italian style. Kadar Al-Jahani knew these men well and no names were used. It was unlikely that the table itself would hide a wire, but telescopic microphones could easily pick up their conversation from any one of the many dark residential windows overlooking the cafe. An ongoing Darwinian-style form of natural selection had weeded out all but the most intelligent and, above all, cautious of terrorists. The ones left – men such as Kadar Al-Jahani – were wily creatures: ever wary and, of course, dangerous. Their talk would be guarded, for this was a work-in-progress meeting.

  The Yemeni, dressed in a beautifully cut microfibre Armani suit, offered a handshake to Kadar Al-Jahani as he sat. ‘It’s good to see that life continues to treat you well, my friend.’

  ‘And you, friend,’ said Kadar, grasping the hand offered. ‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ All three nodded. Kadar Al-Jahani summoned the waiter with a raise of his hand. Orders were efficiently taken and the waiter departed.

  ‘Well, how does the seed grow, my friend?’ asked the man sitting directly opposite Kadar, the Saudi.

  ‘The soil there is rich and so the seed has become a sapling that grows daily. Soon it will be a large tree that bears fruit,’ said Kadar.

  The Palestinian wasn’t so easily convinced. ‘Yes, but we’ve heard all this before. What makes you so sure your fruit will be edible? What has changed? There have been attempts in the past to cultivate this area profitably and yet…’

  Kadar Al-Jahani knew the Palestinian’s position well. Indonesia, while the largest Islamic nation on earth, had failed to rise as one in defence of Islam when called on to do so in the past. Why would Kadar’s plan succeed where others had failed? ‘Yes, your caution is well founded as I’ve said in the past, but my methods are different, and so is the climate today.’ Kadar felt it was time to change the subject. ‘Also, as you know, caring for the tree as it grows takes money.’ He leaned forward, and pulled a folded one-page bank summary from his inside coat pocket and handed it to the Yemeni. Kadar Al-Jahani had been cautious, photocopying the page but deleting the bank’s masthead.

  The Yemeni unfolded the page and put on his reading glasses. There were many satisfying zeros in several neat columns. ‘This is truly astonishing,’ he said, passing the sheet to his right, amazement lighting up his face.

  The waiter returned with their order. The men were silent while he placed the coffees on the table. The bank summary was held under the table. It wasn’t that the men were suspicious of the waiter in particular, they were suspicious of everybody in general.

  The Saudi examined the sheet quickly. He raised his eyebrows, impressed, and passed it on. ‘Allah be praised,’ said the Palestinian, dropping his guard for an instant, a mixture of wonder and disbelief on his face.

  ‘As I said, there would be a lot of money to be made in this kind of trade,’ Kadar Al-Jahani said, taking the printed sheet, folding it and returning it to his coat pocket. ‘I have found an expert banker in Sydney, who, for a small fee…’ He waved his hand in lazy circles.

  ‘You’ve done much in very little time, my friend. I congratulate you,’ said the Yemeni. The other two agreed.

  ‘Thank you. None of it would have been possible without your trust and support,’ Kadar said. This was not exactly true. Only the Saudi had been supportive from the start. The Yemeni had been doubtful, the Palestinian downright negative. Perhaps the bank statement would finally convince the Palestinian, where argument and reason had failed.

  ‘Have you received the special equipment you sent for?’ asked the Saudi, who was now feeling particularly vindicated by the bank statement.

  ‘I believe the delivery mechanism you obtained is in transit as we speak,’ said Kadar, wary of being too specific.

  The Saudi nodded. ‘Good, good. Yes, indeed. And I believe it was found in the skies of the Holy Land. Another fair omen.’ He loaded sugar into the small cup, stirred, then drank back his espresso in one mouthful.

  ‘And what of our main enterprise?’ asked Kadar Al-Jahani. He watched as two young Italians motored by, and the memory of the woman in the green shirt and the way her breasts aroused him forced its way to the front of his mind.

  ‘One thing at a time, Kadar, but your performance here keeps us well on track,’ said the Saudi, following Kadar’s eye line and appreciating the distraction.

  ‘And how are things back home?’ Kadar Al-Jahani asked.

  The Saudi nodded, his eyebrows knitting into an expression of sorrow. ‘The same as always. The Israelis fight with tanks, us with passion, blood and stones. The Roadmap is littered with the bodies of broken Palestinians. We fight back with brave souls eager to join Allah in heaven. And we have many lining up to make the noble sacrifice, but we are losing so many fine young men and women. And they leave behind mothers, sisters and brothers in grief. We are drowning in tears.’

  ‘What of the Americans?’ Kadar Al-Jahani knew the answer to that, but asked anyway.

  ‘Israel is the Christian dagger and, no matter what America says, they plunge it deep and repeatedly into the heart of Islam,’ said the Palestinian. ‘They still find it impossible to believe that their bias is what kills our women and children and funds an army of hate against them. They continue to act as if the war is solely our doing.’ As he spoke, the Palestinian became more animated, louder. A table of American tourists beside them hurriedly paid their bill and left. The Saudi placed his hand on the Palestinian’s wrist and gave it a firm squeeze, calming him. The Palestinian got the message. He breathed deeply and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay. We feel no differently,’ said the Saudi.

  As a boy, the Palestinian had lost his father and two older brothers to this struggle. And most recently, his only son had been killed by a rubber bullet fired by an Israeli soldier who appeared to have purposely aimed his weapon at the boy’s head, firing point-blank as the demonstrating crowd surged forward. The supposedly non-lethal round
had penetrated the skull as efficiently as lead. His son had died in his arms as he carried him, running from the crowd, blood pouring from the hole in the boy’s temple, the little body limp in his arms. A year later, the memory was still vivid in the Palestinian’s mind and the tears welled in his eyes. ‘All the money made should be invested in our struggle,’ he said, squeezing his fingers into a tight fist so that his fingernails cut into the palms of his hands and drew blood.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Kadar, feeling somewhat embarrassed by the display of emotion.

  ‘No, I mean all of it,’ said the Palestinian.

  Kadar couldn’t hide his annoyance. This was a new development. He was about to snap at the Palestinian when the Yemeni held up his hand discreetly, telling him to back off.

  ‘My friend,’ the Saudi said, his tone soothing, sympathetic, ‘your sacrifices have been greater than all ours put together. But we are your brothers and your pain is our pain. Kadar Al-Jahani’s plan will bring enormous benefits to your people, to everyone united in Islam, and to you personally. How we spend the income has yet to be fully resolved and there’s still plenty of time to go one way or the other. The more important issue at the moment is one of confidence. Kadar?’

  Kadar Al-Jahani nodded. ‘Yes, I’m certain of success.’

  ‘Then give us a sign,’ said the Palestinian, back under self-control. ‘I care nothing for the money. Prove to us – to me – that our efforts will not be wasted, not with zeros on a balance sheet, but in the blood of our enemies.’

  Kadar Al-Jahani did not like to be pushed around, but what could he do? One word of doubt in the wrong ear and the plans would be shelved. He’d find himself back in Gaza teaching boys how to handle explosives without blowing themselves, and him, up. ‘If you want a sign written in blood, then a sign you shall have.’

  The direction microphone was a masterpiece of engineering but, like any piece of precision equipment, it didn’t respond well to being dropped on the floor. Yet that’s exactly what the local CIA man had done, knocking the damn thing over when he burned his lips on takeaway cappuccino that morning. It had immediately stopped functioning properly, working only intermittently. He’d tried it out several times, pointing it at the tables below, and the thing only picked up scraps of conversation.

  And then wouldn’t you know it? One of the agency’s ‘Most Wanted’ had chosen that morning to show up. Jesus effing Christ! CIA was a competitive shop and his inability to capitalise on this opportunity would not go down well with the station chief.

  The agent did his best, setting up the mic on its stand, aiming and re-aiming it, tuning it, but the conversation between the known terrorist and the other three men coming through on the headphones was almost indecipherable, cutting in and out and full of static. He brought the Canon to his eye and adjusted the telephoto lens, the four men coming into focus. At least the camera worked.

  Kadar Al-Jahani was the first to leave Tartufi. He shook hands and departed, giving the others the opportunity to have another coffee and talk more freely amongst themselves about the merits and pitfalls of his scheme. A sign written in blood. Kadar congratulated himself for guessing that some dramatic demonstration of commitment would be asked for. He’d already planned for it and Duat had finally agreed to it.

  The clouds had burned off and it was a beautiful day in this most beautiful city. Of all the great cities of the world, Rome was his favourite. Kadar Al-Jahani walked briskly to the Spanish Steps and then cruised, windowshopping until he found the outlet he was looking for. It was a luggage specialist. He purchased a photographer’s carrying case, an aluminium one with high-density foam that could be cut to accept lenses and cameras. Next he went to a camera store he knew of nearby, and purchased three Nikons and a selection of lenses to go with them, explaining to the saleswoman that he was a photographer whose camera case with all his gear inside had been stolen. The insurance claim had just come through, and now he could return the equipment he’d begged and borrowed from associates and repurchase the items stolen. The saleswoman feigned interest. That sort of thing happened all the time. This was Rome.

  Nam Sa River, Myanmar

  Away in the distance where the jungle was virgin, white tendrils of mist rolled over the top of a hill like a ghostly octopus and clung to the wet valley below.

  Duat and his three bodyguards sat uncomfortably with the general on an open veranda two floors above the grounds. The jungle pressed against the retaining wall that ringed the compound like a besieging army. Contained within this wall was the sprawling Roman villa complete with marble columns and grand marble staircase that had, apparently, been imported from Carrara, Italy. There was also a nine-hole links-style golf course the general bragged had been designed by some Professional Golfing Association champion, sprawling gardens, a fifty-metre swimming pool, spa, plunge pool and grotto, a gym complex, a greenhouse, garages, and at least half a dozen other significant buildings whose functions were not immediately obvious.

  ‘Don’t let the trappings fool you, I’m a virtual prisoner here,’ General Trip admitted when he’d caught the looks of astonishment on the faces of his guests as they surveyed the wealth within the compound.

  ‘I keep the CIA, DEA and several other acronyms on their toes, giving them something to do, a reason to be funded. And what do I get in return?’ he asked with mock displeasure. ‘This,’ he said spreading his arms wide. ‘Paradise.’ He laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made the fat under his chins quiver.

  The general professed to be Buddhist, a doubtful claim. It didn’t fit with the four-bladed helicopter on the landing pad – the aircraft that had brought them from Thailand – the collection of Ferraris in the garage, and the enormous gold rings on his grub-like fingers.

  Bells tinkled and four pre-pubescent girls in sheer silk saris entered bearing trays of cakes and a selection of local coconut-based delicacies. They glanced at the general with smiling faces but their chests heaved like frightened birds. Duat caught the lust in the general’s eye as it ran over their little bodies.

  ‘Ah, delicate treats for our pleasure.’ He motioned at the girls to attend his guests.

  ‘No thank you, General,’ Duat said. It was obvious the general was not referring to the sweets on the tray.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Women are like any kind of meat – best when young and tender,’ he said, grabbing the youngest girl, who was no more than seven, by the waist and sitting her on his lap. He rocked her back and forwards several times. His eyes lolled dreamily in their sockets while the girl looked left and right, desperate to find an escape but seeing none. ‘Ah, there’s a time and a place for everything, and you will have to wait, my little imp,’ he said. The general allowed her to spring off his lap, but not before giving her a slap on her tiny rump. He then rearranged his genitals.

  ‘You know, it was Freud who said that children were sexual creatures from a very young age. Coffee, my new friend?’ he asked, oblivious to the tension in the air. ‘We grow it and roast it here. It’s as fine as any you’d find anywhere.’

  Duat nodded cautiously, as did his bodyguards. He was not interested in sex. He wanted to talk business, but he sensed the general was not in the habit of being rushed.

  ‘How would you have it? As the Italians drink it? Macchiato, cappuccino, et cetera…Indonesian style, perhaps? I myself have taken to the Vietnamese brew as enjoyed in Saigon. Thick and very sweet. It’s so strong it makes my hands shake. One almost has to take something to come down off it.’ He giggled.

  ‘Yes, Vietnamese. That would be good, thank you,’ said Duat. He glanced around to see what his men would have and was startled to discover that he and the general were alone.

  ‘Don’t be concerned, Duat,’ said the general. ‘Your security here is assured. We’ll catch up with your men later.’

  Duat wondered how his men had been removed so soundlessly from the veranda. The sweat on his forehead was not from the temperature, for the elevation of
the hill made it quite cool.

  The general eyed him quizzically. ‘Ah yes, I know why you’re feeling ill at ease,’ he said. ‘It’s my accent, isn’t it?’

  No, it wasn’t that, but Duat nodded anyway. It was the fact that he had the feeling of being stuck in the web of a very large, very dangerous spider, one that at any moment could close the short distance between them and render him immobile with an injection of venom, for later consumption.

  The general nodded with understanding, almost compassion. ‘Yes, my accent does seem to have that effect on most people. From the age of ten, I lived in London with my parents. My father was the Thai chargé d’affaires. I was schooled at Harrow, and studied chemistry at London University. You see, from an early age I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Unlike a lot of the aimless morons I called my school chums, who ended up in the stock market or banking, this young fool had a purpose to his education. Your English is also very good. Do I detect a faint American accent? Where were you schooled?’

  ‘Jakarta. My father was the maintenance man at the International School. They let me attend classes. Many of the teachers were American.’ Duat left out the fact that he murdered two of those teachers for blaspheming Allah, setting fire to the institution at the age of fourteen.

  A sudden thought appeared to lighten the general’s face. ‘I do believe that it’s the people with purpose who succeed best in life. We’re the ones who feed on those with none. Let me hear about your purpose, Duat.’

  The general shifted his bulk on the cushions beneath him. Duat’s nose detected the aroma of the man, the smell of old prawns splashed with perfume.

  The general’s allusion to feeding on people did nothing to dispel Duat’s impression that he was in the presence of an arachnid. Several platoons of soldiers drilled on the forecourt of the enormous house, just beyond the porch on which Duat and the general were seated. They moved impressively through a series of set self-defence moves. Duat wished he had the resources that the general had at his disposal. With them, he could change the world.