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.