The Command полностью

He signaled for more coffee. Dusting crumbs to the ground for the pigeons who’d flocked the moment he sat down, he lit another cigarette and shook out the newspaper. Each day he read the Arabic-language journals, Al-Quds al-Arabi and Al-Hayah, and sometimes the French Al-Watan al-Arabi; then the Gulf Daily News, to keep up his English and pick up news that didn’t make it into the Arabic press. He looked over the financials, then the soccer scores. Manchester United had beaten Arsenal six to one in the Premiership. He looked carefully at the small notices that announced arrests. This might be the first warning of a security sweep. From time to time he raised his head slightly. But no one was taking any interest in a little man in a light gray summer suit drinking his morning coffee in a shaded courtyard. Taking his ease before strolling to the office.

Only God sees the heart.

He’d not seen Nair, Abdulrahman, Salman, or bin Jun’ad for days now. They had their tasks. Left alone, they’d carry them out. Salim had warned him the SIS was a dangerous opponent. He didn’t think they suspected what he was planning. Nevertheless, the less often the members of the team met, the less chance of compromise. To become a shaheed in action was glorious; screwing up and getting caught was just amateurish.

As far as he could see, the weak link was Shawki, who worked on the American base. The one who’d taken the first team in and helped steal the plastic explosive. (Which was carefully hidden in a cool dry place at the boathouse.) He was taking an American paycheck, after all. And he was young. Their corrupt, permissive way of living, their sluttish, half-naked women could tempt a young man.

In which case he’d have to abandon the flat, the house, and the explosives and get out of the country. He kept the Mercedes fueled at all times. It was rented by the week on an American Express card. Once across the causeway to Saudi he’d be safe; the Center would pass him from hand to hand back to Sudan or Yemen or, as a last resort, Afghanistan. Until then, they were in danger on this side of the King Fahad causeway.

But he really didn’t think anyone knew they were there.

He was letting his eye run more or less automatically down the columns of print when he noticed the picture of the ship.

A Japanese warship had come in a few days before. That photo, too, had attracted his attention. But this one was American. He snapped the paper open, adjusted his legs to a more comfortable position, and read on. Then frowned, pushing his sunglasses up.

A warship … manned by women. Only the Americans could conceive such a thing! A floating palace of fornication. No doubt with television cameras to record it all. He could care less how the infidels defied God. There was room in hell for all of them. But why did they have to flaunt their dirtiness in the face of those who believed?

Because no one resisted. Because just as the Qari said, the puppet emir and his British advisors welcomed them.

The waiter, who’d been standing inside the door of the café, asked him in a Bahraini accent if he needed anything. Al-Ulam said yes, brother, another of these most excellent coffees. He brought it, fresh, steaming, and they stood watching the morning.

“Truly, God is great,” the waiter said. “To give us this beautiful morning in this beautiful life.”

“God is great indeed, ya akhi,” al-Ulam said. “You have spoken in His praise with a grateful heart. May he bless you and myself as well.”

The man nodded, dark-skinned, poor, by the ruined condition of his shoes under the apron, with great expressive eyes.

For a moment al-Ulam thought of asking what he thought of a ship of fornication violating the Lands of Faith. But even a waiter could work for the SIS. Or for the leftists, the secularists, Iranians, Hamas, Ba’athists, or the Hezbollah, any of which would be interested in a stranger who voiced opinions. The real Fasil al-Ulam was still working at his clinic in Abu Dhabi. And though he had another passport, if he was arrested, no document could save him. He’d left his fingerprints too many places where people had died suddenly.

His thoughts returned to the ship. He looked at the article again and realized it was not far away, indeed, within walking distance. He put on his sunglasses, tucked the paper under his arm, and left a couple of dinar notes on the table.