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.