The platter of pakoras was passed to Mike. Only after the guest had been served did the other men look after their own refreshments. Khey took a sip of the sweetened hot drink. "So, friend Mikael, we are most anxious to hear your story. It must be interesting because you are an Arab, yet an American too."
"I was born in America," Mike said. "My grandfather came there from Jordan. As an Arab and a follower of Islam, I felt an obligation to fight in the jihad against the West. I am a member of al-Mimkhalif. Have you heard of it?"
"Indeed," Khey said. He translated the words for his friends around the table, who nodded with approval, uttering words directed toward the American. "My countrymen wish martyrdom for you."
'Thank you," Mike said, thinking that only in Islam would someone wish death for you in such a way that you would thank him. "At any rate, I was captured by the Pakistani police during a battle." He went on to explain how he was sent to the American Embassy and escaped, then visited the mosque in Rawalpindi, where he was given help, then had to endure yet another arrest by the police during the bus trip. He told of the escape and how he stole the belt with pistol, pouches, and canteens.
Khey translated it all, and at the conclusion the Pashtuns all applauded and cheered Mike's resourcefulness. Khey clapped him on the shoulder. 'Tonight we will take you to the elders. I am sure they will help you back to al-Mimkhalif.
Now let us finish the khawa and pakoras, then you may come to my house and rest."
With the guest's story now told, the group turned their full attention to the refreshments.
.
2030 HOURS LOCAL
AFTER a long restful nap and another meal, Mike Assad was taken back to the same building where he had been entertained that afternoon. But this time all the important men in the village were seated around the tables, and the exalted position at the front of the room was occupied by a quartet of very old males. The SEAL rightly assumed they were the village elders. He and Sarleh Khey were escorted to the table in front of the elderly men.
The windows were all opened and the faces of lower-ranking males and boys peered in to view the unusual sight of an American having an audience with the council of wise men. The opening ceremonies consisted of a man walking to the front of the elders and delivering a speech that Mike assumed was an announcement of the evening's agenda.
With this done, Khey stood up and addressed not only the council, but the entire room. He took three quarters of an hour explaining and describing Mike's adventures since the raid on the Pakistani police camp. This made Mike grin inwardly since he had been able to tell the whole tale in under fifteen minutes that afternoon. Khey gestured grandly, referring to Mike with sweeping arms. The words al-Mimkhalif and jihad were repeated within the jumble of Pashto. Mike was pleased to note the nods and smiles toward him. After his encounters in the slums of Rawalpindi, he found the friendliness quite comforting.
When Khey finished, he sat down. Now the elders spoke among themselves, gesturing as they all talked at once. It was hard for Mike to understand how they were to reach any conclusions in that disruptive manner, but they suddenly stopped speaking as if on cue.
The youngest of the elders stood up. He appeared to be in his seventies, and he made a half-hour address to the assemblage, also obviously discussing Mike. When he finished, there were murmurs of agreement in the crowd. Khey now took the floor again, speaking only a sentence to the assemblage. He looked down at Mike. "I have told them I shall speak to you in English to explain the decision of the council."
"Fine," Mike said, slightly worried. In truth, he really didn't know if he should be optimistic or pessimistic. "Thank you."
"In order for you to return to al-Mimkhalif, you will pass through dangerous territory with many bandits and bad people. They will kill you for the clothes on your back; your knife and pistol would be of great value to them also. Therefore, according to the dictates of our warrior code of Pashtunwali, our clan will provide an escort for you. This way you will be able to safely reach your comrades-in-arms and go to Paradise after you are martyred. We thank Allah he has sent you here to us so that we may serve the cause of your jihad."
Mike Assad almost felt guilty about fooling these generous people; but not quite.
Chapter 9.
KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND
OCTOBER 8
0900 HOURS LOCAL
BACH AM AN, the old clerk at the Greater Sunda Shipping Line, was a nervous man even during the best of times. Now, with his employer having suffered a forced amputation of his right hand for misbehavior, the elderly man lived in a perpetual state of terror. He feared that even guilt by association could bring him a similar fate. The possibility that the wrath of those outraged clients might be extended to him caused the old fellow sleepless nights, nervous nausea, and a pessimistic outlook that bordered on near paranoiac schizophrenia. When the door to the outer office opened and the Arab Hafez Sabah stepped inside, all those mental disturbances roared up in a psychotic detonation.
Bachaman screamed and ran out that same door.
Abduruddin Suhanto rushed from his office to see what had happened. The sight of his hated client further spoiled what was already a terrible day. Not only did the wrist that used to have a hand attached to it throb, but the missing member also felt as if it were still there. He glared at Sabah, asking, "What happened to my clerk?"
"I do not know," Sabah replied. "I walked in and he screamed like a madman and ran out of the building."
Suhanto knew exactly how the old fellow felt. "What is it you want?"
"Let us go into your office for a more intimate chat" Sabah said.
Suhanto turned and led the way to his desk. He sat down, looking up at Sabah with an undisguised but futile fury in his eyes. "I ask again. What do you want?"
"I have instructions you are to pass to the Philippine officer Aguilando," Sabah said. "You are to tell him that a shipment of Russian machine guns will be aboard the SS Jakarta bound for al-Mimkhalif. Describe the cargo as very valuable PKM seven-point-six-two-millimeter models. And that is exactly what they will be."
"Where am I to pick up this shipment?"
"Follow established procedures," Sabah said. "Make sure those machine guns are aboard the Jakarta. Tell Aguilando that the ship will depart on October tenth at ten hundred hours following the usual course. Interception will be expected in the South China Sea. However, your captain is not to give the weapons to the Filipino when he rendezvous with him."
"And what happens when Aguilando shows up and Captain Muharno refused to turn over the cargo?" Suhanto asked.
"That is not your concern," Sabah said.
"It is my concern!" Suhanto angrily insisted. "I have already lost one ship."
"Believe me," Sabah said, "you will not lose the Jakarta. This I swear to you in the name of Allah."
"Very well," Suhanto said, knowing any further protests would be futile. "How much will I be paid for participating in this deception or whatever it is?"
"You will be allowed to keep your left hand."
"My God!" Suhanto cried. "How much more must I endure?"
"It was your greed that brought you to this sad state of affairs," Sabah reminded him. "Do you have any questions?"
Suhanto shook his head, wincing as his wrist throbbed again.
.
ROYAL YACHT SAYIH
GULF OF ADEN