Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [35]
Zuabi frowned. “This is a concern, Hassan. If someone knows about our plans, they could destroy everything we’ve built. I assume you took care of the matter?”
“The woman,” Haddad said. “But the Turk got away. And I can’t be certain how much he knows.”
Zuabi’s frown deepened. “Our friends won’t be happy about this. They’ll want assurances that we haven’t been compromised. Our relationship is already on shaky ground after the incident with Abdal.”
Zuabi often spoke of their “friends,” but had never bothered to give Haddad details about who they were. The Hand of Allah had several sources of revenue, much of it funneled through charities around the world, but these particular friends—or benefactors—continued to remain anonymous to Haddad, an endless source of frustration for him. Did Zuabi not trust him? Was he not, after all, one of the Hand of Allah’s most dedicated soldiers?
But like any good soldier, he remained silent, not allowing himself to ask the questions that so plagued him.
Instead he said, “Is it necessary for them to know?”
Zuabi thought about this a moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in raising an alarm until we understand who we’re dealing with. You continue as before and I’ll look into the matter. If you see this Turk again, find out what you can and then kill him.”
“What about Abdal? Have you decided what to do with that fool?”
Haddad had only learned about the disaster in San Francisco upon his return to London, and had been relieved to hear that the Americans believed the incident had originated locally. Abdal al-Fida had recently returned to London himself, and if it had been up to Haddad he would have killed him within moments of his arrival.
But Zuabi was apparently leaning toward benevolence.
“He’s quite contrite about the whole incident,” the old cleric said. “He has promised to do anything he can to remain in our favor.”
“He’s a liability,” Haddad said. The words were softer than he had intended, since he himself had made a few bad calls of late.
Zuabi nodded. “But I see no reason to let him believe that. Fear has a way of loosening a man’s tongue. If he continues to believe he is safe with us, he’ll remain faithful to the cause.” He paused. “And he is the son of one of my dearest friends. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
“Is it wise to let sentiment guide us?” Haddad pressed. “We could arrange an accident—”
Zaubi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not worry. Abdal will be dealt with when the time is right.”
“And the woman he’s been seeing? Will she be dealt with, too?”
“We’re not savages, Haddad. Abdal may be impulsive, impatient, but he’s not stupid. The woman is a mere distraction. A Yemeni girl. I’ve looked into her and she knows nothing about us.”
“And if you are mistaken?”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Haddad made it a habit to question everyone’s judgment, including his own, but he immediately backed down.
“No,” he said softly. “Of course not.”
The anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Zuabi rose from behind his desk. “Then I believe we’re done here.” He gestured for Haddad to accompany him to the door. “There’s much to do before you travel, my brother. This Turk aside, I trust everything else is in order?”
“Yes. It’s all falling into place. I’ll be leaving again in a few days.”
“Good,” Zuabi said, then smiled. “I look forward to the moment we can stand here together and celebrate the defeat of the infidels.”
“As do I,” Haddad told him. “As do I.”
* * *
He was waiting for his train when he thought he saw the Turk again.
Haddad stood close to the tracks at the Westminster Underground Station, listening to the voices of waiting passengers reverberate against the walls, when he caught a glimpse of movement at the far edge of the crowd.
Small. Dark hair. Flash of a beard.
Nothing particularly noteworthy,