Nestled deep amid the confusion, in a labyrinthine network of mismatched buildings, a group of men sat on the floor of a dank teahouse. They formed a swerving line on a long rug, and sipped sweet tea as smoke spun in a blue haze over their heads, a noxious mix of harsh tobacco and hashish from rooms beyond.
The eight Arabs were encircled at the perimeter by a phalanx of servants and guards. They came from across the region, representatives not so much of countries, but rather tribes — different sects, slightly varied ethnicities. More to the point, each commanded an arsenal of committed warriors, men and women who were expert in the fine arts of rocket attack, ambush, and suicide bombing. Only a few generations back, their ancestors would have been skirmishing across the sands of Persia and Arabia. In the modern world, however, such ancient discord had to be put aside, superseded by the demands of a common faith — and a common, relentless enemy. Four of the room's occupants were on America's list of "Most Wanted" terrorists. The others, relative newcomers, hoped to attain the honor soon. It was a teahouse the Americans would love to have the coordinates of.
The organization was a loose one, none of the men having any particular authority. None allowing it. That being the case, the man in the middle, Abdullah al-Wajid, acted as spokesperson for the most ancient of reasons — he was the eldest. And he was none too happy when Fatima Adara was dragged in.
His men shepherded the great woman inside and deposited her on the floor, her bulk crushing a large pillow. She looked worse than usual, and for a moment al-Wajid thought Fatima might topple over. But then, with obvious determination, she righted herself. A large flowing robe hid her body, thankfully, but her face was uncovered. The olive eyes were lazy, two black pools of oil floating aimlessly over reddened sclera. Her hair was askew and matted on one side, exactly as it had come off the pillow, no doubt.
Al-Wajid forced a level of respect into his voice that was not truth-fill. "Thank you for coming."
Fatima blinked and her void expression seemed to focus. "Oh — sure.
"How is Caliph?"
"Caliph? Okay. He sends respect."
Clearly not through his deeds, al-Wajid thought.
Fatima licked her puffy lips. "You got anything to drink here?"
A surprised al-Wajid exchanged glances with the men at his sides. Left: and right, he saw the same question percolate — did she mean alcohol? They had been watching Fatima since she'd arrived last night, earlier than scheduled. Instead of moving up the meeting, she had wandered off to a hotel, gotten drunk, and tried unsuccessfully to take the bellman to her room, no doubt to fornicate. Al-Wajid pushed away the repulsive thought and gestured to a servant near the door. The man quickly produced a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass. He delivered it to their guest. Fatima frowned, but poured a glass and began slurping like a horse at trough.
"Why has Caliph called this meeting?" asked the bearded man to al-Wajids right. He spoke to Fatima slowly, enunciating each word with great precision as one might to a child. "Has something happened to change our plans?"
She coughed. Water dribbled over her chin and fell into her considerable lap. "Plans? Yeah, they change. We have to move everything ahead."
Again, the men swapped unhappy glances.
"To when?" al-Wajid asked.
"Right away."
There was murmuring throughout the room. Al-Wajid said, "You are sure about these instructions?"
"Sure? Yeah, I'm sure. Caliph, he makes me say everything until I know his words exactly."
This al-Wajid did not doubt.
One of the others said, "We have gone to great trouble to place Allah's warriors across the world. Why this change when we are already so near?"
Fatima shrugged, her mouth curling into an upside down U. "You know Caliph — he never tells me stuff like that." She cackled, "He's a real prick."
"Woman!" spat a gray-bearded man with a severely hawkish nose. "Do not demean your master!" The old bird was recognized as the most pious of those here, a strict Wahhabist who was always quick to thump his Koran. Fatima s lopsided grin stayed in place, and a fog of hesitation descended on the room.
Al-Wajid forged ahead, addressing his peers. "The time for questions has passed. For years we have been fighting the West in our backyard, killing their crusaders and striking against our own traitors and profiteers — those who have forsaken Allah in pursuit of American greed. But in doing so we also kill the innocent, tread upon one another." Nods of acceptance around the room. It was no small testament to Caliphs talents of persuasion that those here were an even mix of Sunnis and Shiites. "Caliph has given us a chance to take our fight to the enemy's ground, a chance to bring the West to its knees. He has united us like none before."
Another agreed, "And Caliph himself is blessed, having survived against America's most accomplished assassins. He is clearly one chosen by Allah."
There were no more reservations. All were in concurrence. All were eager to strike.
Fatima said, "Oh, and Caliph wants to know how soon you can do it."
"Everything is in place for the first phase," al-Wajid said. "Does the interval remain the same?"
"The wha— oh, the time in between. Yeah, sure."
"Very well. Tell Caliph the order will be given immediately, God willing."
Fatima emitted a throaty chuckle. "God willing. Caliph, he prays a lot, you know"
"He is a servant of the Prophet. A good example for us all," al-Wajid added pointedly.
"So I tell him everything will happen soon."
"Yes."
Fatima rose unsteadily, gave her bristly scalp a scratch, and meandered toward the door.
As soon as she was gone, one of the two men who had retrieved her appeared. "Shall we follow her to the airport?" he asked.
Al-Wajid shook his head. "No, do not bother. She somehow always finds her way." The man disappeared. Al-Wajid turned to the others.
"Why does Caliph keep such a messenger?" one asked.
Al-Wajid had often asked himself this same question. Two years earlier, the Americans had nearly killed Caliph. Afterward, he had gone into hiding, become more effective than ever. And Fatima Adara was now his only contact, his dubious messenger.
"She is an embarrassment," the same man said, "not even a believer."
"When a woman looks like that," another responded, "she should find religion. But then our leader is shrewd. Imagine — if any man should ever try to seduce her, Caliph will know he is a spy."
Muted chuckles came.
"Enough!" said the ever-serious al-Wajid. "For all her faults, she has been reliable. Our communications with Caliph have always been accurate, and the arrangement allows him to remain in the shadows, where the Americans cannot reach."
"I am left to wonder," a tall Shiite remarked, "why can all the attacks not take place at once? Why must we divide ourselves? After the first strike their security will certainly be—"
"No!" al-Wajid interjected. "The time for such questions has passed. We have all agreed to Caliph s plan, and he has never led us down any path without reason. Until we recover our lands from the westerners, we are a people cut in half. Only our faith will again make us whole."
More nods.
Al-Wajid declared an end to the meeting. When the men stood, they broke into small groups and embraced, the age-old tradition when clans formed an alliance. Yet on leaving, all were alone as they disappeared into the dusty haze of the Old City.
Chapter FOUR
The flight from Dulles was on time, but Houston's traffic was a mess. Davis pulled in front of the house at three o'clock that afternoon.