Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [49]
“You’re waiting for another communication?” Fa’ad asked.
Ibrahim nodded. “It’s supposed to be en route. A good courier. Very reliable.”
“What do you expect?”
“I’ve learned not to speculate,” Ibrahim said. “I take my directions as they come. The Emir knows what to do, doesn’t he?”
“So far he has been effective, but sometimes I think he’s an old woman,” Fa’ad groused. “If you plan your operation intelligently, then it will work. We are the Emir’s hands and eyes in the field. He picked us. He should trust us more.”
“Yes, but he sees things which we do not see. Never forget that,” Ibrahim reminded his guest. “That is why he decides on all the operations.”
“Yes, he is very wise,” Fa’ad conceded, not entirely meaning it but having to talk that way even so. He had sworn his allegiance to the Emir, and that, really, was that, even though he’d done it five years before, still in his enthusiastic teens. People believed much at that age, and swore loyalty easily. And it took years for that sort of oath to wear off. If ever.
But that didn’t entirely stop doubts. He’d met the Emir only once, while Ibrahim could claim to know the man. Such was the nature of their work. Neither Ibrahim nor Fa’ad knew where their leader was living. They were familiar with just one end of a lengthy electronic trail. That was a sensible security precaution: American police were probably as efficient as the European sort, and European police were men to be feared. Even so, there was much old woman in the Emir. He didn’t even trust those who had sworn to die in his place. Whom, then, did he trust? Why them and not … him? Fa’ad asked himself. Fundamentally, Fa’ad was too bright to accept things “because I said so,” as every mother in the world said to every five-year-old son. Even more frustratingly, he could not even ask certain questions, because they would imply disloyalty to certain others. And disloyalty in the organization was tantamount to a request for self-immolation. But Fa’ad knew that this actually made sense, both from the Emir’s point of view and for the organization as a whole.
It wasn’t easy doing Allah’s work, but Fa’ad had known that going in. Or so he told himself. Well, at least in Paris you could look at the passing women, dressed as whores, most of them, showing their bodies off as though advertising their business. It was good, Fa’ad thought, that Ibrahim had chosen to live in this area. At least the scenery was pretty.
“That’s a pretty one,” Ibrahim said in agreement to the unspoken observation. “She’s a doctor’s wife, and sadly she does not commit adultery, in my experience.”
“Mind reading.” Fa’ad laughed. “French women are open to advances?”
“Some are. The hard part is reading their minds. Few men have that ability, even here.” And he had a good laugh. “In that sense, French women are no different from our own. Some things are universal.”
Fa’ad took a sip of coffee and leaned closer. “Will it work?” he asked, meaning their planned operation.
“I see no reason why it would not, and the effects will be noteworthy. The one drawback is that it will give us new enemies, but how will we notice the difference? We have no friends among the infidels. For us, now, it’s just a matter of getting the tools in place for our strike.”
“Inshallah,” Fa’ad replied.
And both clicked their glasses, just like Frenchmen after an agreement is reached.
There was nothing like home court advantage, former President Ryan thought. He’d gotten his doctorate in history at Georgetown University, so he knew the campus almost as well as he did his own home. All in all, he’d found the lecture circuit surprisingly agreeable. It was easy duty, being paid an embarrassing amount of money to talk about a subject he knew well: his time in the White House. So far there’d been only a smattering of audience loonies, eighty percent of them conspiracy nuts who’d been quickly shouted down by the other attendees. The other twenty percent were lefties who held the opinion