rightly guided Caliph in more than name.
Welcomed into the camp by smooth-faced boys and gray-bearded eminences alike, he
felt the powerful brotherhood of his fellow believers. The desiccated,
dun-colored soil was so different from the vibrant tropical vegetation of his
native land, yet his brethren of the desert had a pitch of vigilance, zealotry,
and devotion that came less naturally to-many of his own Kagama followers.
Barren land, perhaps, but it bloomed with the righteousness of the Holy One. The
desert leaders were enmeshed in their own campaigns, in Chechnya, in Kazakhstan,
in Algeria, in the Philippines. But they knew that every one of their conflicts
was a skirmish in a greater battle. That was why he knew they would help him, as
he had helped them in the past. God willing, they would, by working together,
recover the whole earth for Allah one day.
The first order of business was to allow his hosts to impress him with their
training school. He had heard about it, of course. Every leader in the worldwide
fellowship of struggle knew of this university of terror. Here, while the
government in Khartoum turned a blind eye, the members of this secret
brotherhood could learn the ways of the new kind of war. In bunkers carved into
the rock were computers that stored the plans of electric generator plants,
petroleum refineries, airports, railroads, military installations in scores of
countries. Every day, they searched the Web for more of the open secrets that
the West so carelessly made available. Here, in the model of an American city,
you could study urban warfare: how to block roads and storm buildings. Here,
too, you could learn the patient arts of surveillance, methods of assassination,
a hundred ways to make explosives from materials available in every American
hardware store. As he passed from one unit to the next, he smiled his humorless
smile. They were treating him like a visiting dignitary, the way they must treat
the president of Sudan on his secret visits. They knew, as he did, that he was
destined to rule his homeland. It was just a matter of time.
He was tired, of course. But he had no time to rest. The evening prayer was
over. It was time for the meeting.
Within a tent, they sat on low cushions on the cloth-covered ground and drank
tea from simple clay cups. The conversation was cordial yet shied away from
specifics. All knew the Caliph’s extremely fraught situation—his astonishing
recent gains, and the fact that they were under ceaseless assault by the
coordinated forces of the Republic of Anura. There had been reversals, humbling
ones. There would continue to be reversals—unless additional assistance could be
provided. The Kagama’s repeated attempts to enlist the support of the Go-Between
were met with frustration. The Go-Between not only declined to provide the
needed support but grew emphatic that the Caliph desist in his efforts at
exacting vengeance! Oh, the perfidy of the infidel! Then his further attempts to
reestablish contact with the Go-Between, to persuade him of the inexorability of
the Caliph’s will to justice, had failed, utterly and mysteriously. That was why
the Kagama leader was here.
Finally, they could hear the sound of a military helicopter, feel the
whomp-whomp percussion of its propellers. The camp leaders glanced at one
another and at their Kagama guest.
It was the visitor they had been waiting for. The man they called Al-Mustashar,
the Adviser.
Colonel Ibrahim Maghur was a man of the world, and his connection with the
insurrectionists in the camps was necessarily clandestine. He was, after all, a
senior member of Libyan intelligence, and Tripoli had officially renounced its
direct links to terrorism. At the same time, many powerful members of the regime
retained their sympathies for their brethren in the struggle against Western
imperialism and did their best to provide discreet assistance. Ibrahim Maghur
was one such man. In the course of his secret visits to the camp, he had
provided valuable information from Libyan intelligence. He had pinpointed the
location of enemies and even provided suggested assassination techniques. He had
supplied valuable terrain maps and detailed satellite imagery that gave the
freedom fighters significant strategic advantage. And he had provided them with
caches of ordnance and small arms. Unlike so many members of Libya’s effete and
decadent elite, Ibrahim Maghur was a true believer. He had guided them toward
the lethal satisfactions of their objectives in the past; he would do so again.
Now the colonel strode from the helicopter, emerging from a small artificial
dust storm, and bowed before the leadership of the Islamic Jihad, which had
assembled to greet him.
His eyes met those of Ahmad Tabari, and he bowed again before extending a hand.
The Libyan’s gaze was at once penetrating and respectful. “It is truly an honor
to meet you,” he said.
“The Prophet smiles upon us both that we two should be introduced,” Tabari
returned.
“Your military successes are astounding, truly brilliant—deserving of attention
in the textbooks,” said the colonel. “And I am a student of history.”
“As am I a student of history,” said the Kagama rebel chief. His ebony face
looked almost coal black in the dim light of the desert evening. “My studies
tell me that territories swiftly claimed can as swiftly be reclaimed. What do
your studies tell you?”
“They tell me that history is made by great men. And something about you
indicates that you are a great man—a Caliph indeed.”
“The Prophet has been generous with his gifts,” said the Kagama, who had little
time for false humility.
“Yet great men have great enemies,” the Libyan intelligence official said. “You
must be very cautious. You must be very cautious indeed. You are a threat to
powers that will stop at nothing to annihilate you.”
“It is possible to be crippled by caution,” said Tabari.
“You speak truly,” said the Libyan. “A risk for lesser men than you. It is your
very boldness that vouchsafes your greatness, the security and survival of your
cause, its final victory. Your khalifa shall be established. Yet everything will
depend upon the timing and the targeting.” He looked around at the rapt faces of
the five seniormost leaders of the Islamic Jihad, and then returned to the
fabled leader of the Kagama Liberation Front. “Come,” he said. “Let us go for a
walk together, Caliph. Just you and I.”
“Al-Mustashar’s advice is a treasure beyond price,” one of the hosts told Ahmad
Tabari. “Go with him.”
As the two men strolled around the desert encampment, a cool wind began to gust,
billowing through the Caliph’s long robes.
“I can assure you that your setbacks will prove only temporary,” the Libyan
colonel told him in a low voice. “There is much I will be able to help you with,
as will certain of our allies within the Islamic Republic of Mansur. Soon your
cause will be coming along swimmingly.”
“And in what will it swim?” the islander asked the desert warrior with a
brooding half smile.
“That’s easy,” Ibrahim Maghur replied, and his face was utterly serious. “Blood.
The blood of the infidel.”
“The blood of the infidel,” the Caliph repeated. The words were both reassuring
and uplifting.
“How the hell can you know such a thing?” Janson demanded.
“Cross-tabulation of wire transfer indices,” said Berman, vigorously stirring
jam into his tea. “Origination code can’t be spoofed.”
“Come again?”
“Sixteen million dollars comes from account in name of Peter Novak.”
“How? Where?”
“Where I say. Amsterdam. International Netherlands Group. Where Liberty
Foundation have headquarters?”
“Amsterdam.”
“So no surprise.”
“You’re telling me that at a time when Peter Novak was locked away in a dungeon
in Anura, he authorized a transfer of sixteen million dollars into a blind
account I controlled? What kind of sense does that make?”
“Could be preauthorization. Preauthorization possible. Postauthorization not
possible.”
“No jokes, Grigori. This is crazy.”
“I just tell you origination code.”
“Could somebody else have laid their hands on the Novak account, got control of
it somehow?”
The Russian shrugged. “Origination code just tell me ownership of account. Could
be many specifications as to access. This I cannot tell you from here. This
information not flow from modem to modem. Legal certification held by
institution of origination. Bank in Amsterdam follows instructions established
by owner. Account suffix says it’s linked to Foundation. Paperwork at bank,
paperwork at headquarters.” Berman pronounced the word paperwork with the
distaste he reserved for older financial instruments, directives and
stipulations that could not be reduced to strings of ones and zeros.
“This makes no sense.”
“Makes dollars!” Herman said merrily. “If somebody put sixteen million dollars
in Grigori account, Grigori not insist on dental examination of gift horse.” He
held out his hands. “I wish I could tell you more.”
Had Peter Novak been betrayed by somebody near and dear to him? If so, by whom?
A high-ranking member of his organization? Marta Lang herself? She spoke of him,