Some, the most courageous and talented warriors, would have the honor of taking the fight to the streets of America. Others would have the honor of taking the virus into the heart of America and would be responsible for killing millions of infidels.
Just as individual fighters would wait to hear their fate, so would the leaders. Not all could make the trip. Not all would have the honor of taking the fight to the Americans. Some would have to stay and fight for the future, ensure that those who had sacrificed themselves for the cause would be rewarded by the creation of the one true Caliphate.
Not until the morning of the attack would each jihadist learn of his final destination and role in the plan. It would ensure that even if fifty were caught by the Americans before the attack, the Americans would have no idea whether they were trying to find one hundred jihadists, one thousand jihadists, or even twenty thousand. A huge cry of ‘Allahu Akbar!’ from his audience sealed the approval he required.
Nick retraced his steps back through the alleyways of the Casbah and grabbed a taxi on the outskirts of the old quarter. He headed towards Blida Airport, a small airfield to the southwest of Algiers. Between Farsi in Europe and Mustafa Ghazi and his African compatriots, Nick’s army was already growing into the thousands and he hadn’t even yet been to the heart of Islam. He was going to deliver a blow of such a magnitude that the world would struggle to understand what was happening.
Chapter 34
Frankie struggled to sleep on their return from Switzerland. She took a shower and stared at the message that Nick had had the nerve to leave on her mirror. She had taken her towel and swiped through it. He was gone. The deception had started four months earlier. Only six weeks after they had started dating, he was already weaving her into his plot. He had definitely used her.
The words played on her mind throughout the night, every waking moment. It hadn’t been real. The detail he had gone to, even dropping in the hailstorm. It had been so natural, so well acted. But it didn’t make any sense. How was he so sure they’d be together all those months later? Without that clue, they would never have followed up on the transfer. The prince moved money constantly between accounts and that scale of transaction had been far less suspicious than one a hundredth of the size.
At 5:00 a.m., she gave up. Sleep was not coming, not in her state of mind. She lifted the handset and called the Rahn & Boderman bank in Zurich. After the discovery of Harry Carson’s account, Mr. Rahn had all but ejected them from the premises. He had a business to run and they had interfered far too much in his business as it was.
“Mr. Paul Rahn, please,” she said. It was 11:00 a.m. in Zurich and she knew that he took tea at eleven and forbade meetings in his diary at that time.
“I’m afraid Mr. Rahn is busy,” replied his secretary curtly.
“Tell him it’s Aisha Franks, from yesterday.”
“Please hold,” said the secretary. Frankie was hopeful, but she came back a moment later and said, “I’m afraid he’s still busy.”
“Can you tell him it’s urgent and perhaps he should be aware that my mother is a Saudi royal?”
“One moment please.”
“Miss Franks,” said Mr. Rahn warmly and almost immediately. Money opened doors and diaries in Swiss banks.
“Mr. Rahn, can you please check this date in your diary?” asked Frankie, giving Rahn the date and time that coincided with hers and Nick’s trip to Paris and the hailstorm. While she had been waiting, she had sent him an email.
“Yes,” he said. “A quiet morning and then lunch with a prospective client.”
Frankie’s pulse raced. “Can you check the email I’ve just sent you, please?”
After a minute or so of waiting, Rahn came back on the line. “It was a few months ago but if I had to say what the client looked like, I’d say number four.”
“What name did he use?” she asked excitedly.
“Frank Hilton. I remember, that’s right… I initially wondered if he was linked to the hotel group but he wasn’t.”
“Did he say what he did do?”
“If he did, I’m afraid I can’t remember. He was supposed to call me the following day but never did. I made a note in my diary to expect his call.”
And I know why he didn’t call, thought Frankie. Because he had let slip with me he had left Paris.
“However,” Rahn said, cutting into her thoughts, “I remember he had sold a business and had around seven million euros to deposit. I don’t forget numbers,” he laughed.
“Thank you, Mr. Rahn,” said Frankie, about to the end the call.
“You mentioned your mother…?” he said quickly.
“Yes, I’ll pass on your details. Good day, Mr. Rahn.” Frankie replaced the handset and flicked through the images on the email she had sent to Rahn. They were images created of how Nick would look in a number of disguises. Number four was graying temples and a beard. There would, of course, be a persona and documents created for “Frank Hilton” but they would have been ditched long ago, along with his plan to use Rahn & Boderman Bank.
Being the ex-girlfriend of the world’s most wanted terrorist was not an ideal situation. Being the ex-girlfriend, used as part of a plot, was even less ideal. Being the ex-girlfriend that your ex had respected enough to change your plans due to the tiniest slip-up months earlier, strangely enough, gave Frankie great comfort. He hadn’t used her after all. He had respected her.
It was 5:20 a.m. She picked up the handset and called Carson. He answered before the first ring ended. It appeared he hadn’t slept either, although his problem was far more basic. He had just lost a quarter of a billion dollars.
Chapter 35
Blida Airport was just a short taxi ride to the southwest of Algiers. The small airfield was almost entirely stocked with helicopters. One corner of the apron had been set aside as a scrapyard for two aging fighters that sat alongside an old and past its best transport aircraft. Nick was initially worried that the aircraft he had hired was nowhere to be seen. However, as they drew closer to the small main building, a little corporate jet sat gleaming within the only hangar. Nick proceeded to the info desk, as directed by Shaheed, who had arranged Nick’s transport. The friendly young lady manning the desk asked him to wait while she spoke to an elderly gentleman in an off-white and ill-fitting shirt and tie who eventually made his way towards Nick.
“Monsieur Guillon?” asked the man.
Nick returned the gentleman’s handshake and couldn’t help but notice his coffee-stained tie and almost white shirt.
“I’m Nasim, your pilot.”
Nick’s handshake became more tentative. The elderly handshake wasn’t the most steady.
“I’ve been flying for almost fifty years,” Nasim said reassuringly and led the way outside to the runway.
Nick followed behind and slowed down further on reaching the hangar. The elderly gentleman ignored the shiny new corporate jet and proceeded purposefully to an old propeller plane. Its white paint, like the pilot’s shirt, had seen far better days.
“There may be some mistake,” Nick called after Nasim. “I chartered a VIP aircraft!”