“I must have,” Ali mumbled. “Stop the car there,” he barked at Nassir and pointed to the right, about fifty feet away from the checkpoint.
Two of the black-clad gunmen marched toward the Land Rover while everyone was getting out of the vehicle.
“Where are your men?” Justin asked Ali.
“The guests insisted their guards wait here for you.” Ali stepped around a few rocks barricading any attempt to swerve around the checkpoint. “My men are at the back.”
Justin peered straight ahead and noticed the entrance to a small cave behind the two BMWs. It was next to a couple of green tents. Ali and Nassir proceeded to meet the guards, with Justin, Carrie, and Omar following a few steps back.
“The guns,” one of the guards said in Arabic, gesturing toward Justin and Carrie, “they have to give us their guns.”
Ali turned toward Justin, who kept cradling his carbine in his hands in a semi-alert position.
“We were summoned here for this meeting, and we’ve satisfied your chief’s request,” Justin replied in Arabic, speaking in a firm voice. “Our guns are for our protection. They guarantee we can also protect anything your chief may give us.”
The guard was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a short pointy beard. He peered at Justin and asked, “Are you Algerian?”
“No.” Justin reinforced his denial with a strong headshake. “And I’m not American either.”
Justin was told by more than one North African his language proficiency showed no traces of local dialects. Maybe he is Algerian, or has friends who are Algerians. People typically explain what they don’t know with what they do.
The bearded guard kept staring at Justin.
“We don’t have all day.” Ali waved his hand impatiently.
The bearded guard flogged Ali with a vicious glare and clenched his teeth. The other guard muttered something in an Arabic dialect unknown to Justin. The bearded guard nodded.
“This way,” he ordered them gruffly. He raised his hand and gestured for Justin and Carrie to follow him.
Ali began to lead the way, but the second guard took two steps forward to block him.
“Your job’s done,” the bearded guard growled at Ali. “They’re ours now.”
Ali looked like he was pondering a reply for a brief moment but chose not to talk back to the guards. “We’ll wait at the tents,” he said to Justin and Carrie in English. “Don’t worry. My men are looking out for you.”
“Thanks. We’ll see you there.” Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. Her tiny grin at the left corner of her lips confirmed his suspicions. They were all alone to fend for themselves.
The bearded guard led Justin and Carrie between the two BMWs. Justin’s eyes rapidly took in the details of the valley. Seven men in black and white robes huddled in front of the cave next to a Toyota truck. Two men were sitting by the tents to the right of the cave. A third BMW, identical to the first two forming the checkpoint, was parked about three hundred feet away from the cave and the tents. It was under the shade cast by the ridge and behind a tall dune, which separated it visually from the rest of the valley. They were led in that direction.
“Wait here,” the bearded guard ordered Justin and Carrie when they were a few steps away from the BMW.
He knocked on the front passenger door. The window was rolled down and a few hushed words were exchanged.
“Come here,” the bearded guard called the agents and opened the BMW’s rear door. Justin and Carrie approached the car slowly.
“Welcome,” a low, deep voice greeted them in English. “Take a seat.”
Justin recognized the sheikh’s voice. He was sitting in the front passenger’s seat and was alone. Carrie’s eyes checked the car for any signs of danger, wires sticking out, or anything else resembling a deathtrap.
“Care for a drink?” the sheikh asked politely after they got in and closed the doors.
Carrie shook her head.
“No, thanks,” Justin said.
He inspected the sheikh’s face. The high brow with deep carved wrinkles and the receding gray hairline made him appear older than his late forties. He had a long hooked nose and a thick black moustache. His eyes were staring at Justin from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. Justin recognized the sheikh’s scar at the left side of his protruding jaw, where an Israeli-fired bullet had grazed the skin of his face. Five years ago, the Mossad had made an unsuccessful attempt on the sheikh’s life in Jordan.
“How was the trip?” the sheikh asked with genuine interest, turning around in his seat.
“Hot, very hot,” Justin replied. “I would have preferred we met at the Nile City Fairmont.”
The sheikh nodded. “That would have been my preference as well. We might have been able to prevent that bombing attack in Tripoli.”
Justin and Carrie exchanged a quick glance.
“You’re telling us the Alliance is behind those car bombs?” Justin asked.
The sheikh shook his head. “No, those car bombs are not the work of the Alliance.”
“But you know who did it?” Justin asked.
“Let me start at the beginning,” the sheikh replied. “But, before I do, come up here in front. I don’t like to twist my neck as I talk to you.”
Justin sat in the driver’s seat.
“First things first: the Islamic Fighting Alliance is not at war with and does not target Libya, its government, or any Muslim brothers in that country. We’re waging a holy war against infidels, against America and its bastard child, Israel, along with their many slaves who serve their insatiable greed for our oil and our wealth.”
That’s new, Justin thought. He remembered reading scores of briefing notes and reports covering clashes between the Alliance and rebel groups in Sudan and factions of militants in Lebanon and in the Gaza Strip. The Alliance’s support for various groups fighting among themselves depended on their expectations of the most likely winner and the greatest gains to their cause in the long run. New approach or new bullshit, Justin wondered, but nodded nonetheless.
“Recently, a breakaway faction within the Alliance has supported an increase of attacks against Westerners’ interests in North Africa. America and Britain and their local dogs are crushing the bones of the people living in these lands. North Africa is soaked with billions of oil barrels, but the only ones enjoying the oil profits are the foreign companies. The poor go hungry and naked.”
“How large is this breakaway faction?” Justin asked, repeating the exact words of the sheikh.
“A few dozen people, but they’re well-funded and well-connected to certain organizations based in Afghanistan and Iraq. They have the resources and the willingness to turn North Africa into a bloodier and messier Middle East.”
“The bombing of the First Union Bank in Tunisia was their work?” asked Carrie.
“Yes. This splinter unit began targeting foreign investment firms, oil companies, banks, and their interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. Of course, they work together with local militia groups who hate the regimes in their countries.”
Carrie shrugged. “So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what jihad is all about?”
Sheikh Ayman smiled. “Yes, we want to spread our Muslim faith, fight back the occupiers and the oppressors of our people and bring the peace of Allah to the infidels. But the means of achieving these goals do not include the slaughter of innocents, people who share our same faith. Besides, we cannot allow things to get out of hand. Realistically speaking, the Alliance can fight only one war at a time.”
“So the Alliance, the part still under your command, refused to engage in this expansion of jihad in North Africa?” Justin asked.