• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 646 0

and formal, and oh so superior, they thought, to all the other races. They looked down on Arabs-and, indeed, on most other Europeans as well-and opened their doors to foreigners only because their internal laws-imposed upon them sixty years earlier by Americans after World War II-said that they must. But because they were compelled to do so, they did, mostly without open complaint, because these mad people obeyed the law as though it had been delivered to them by God's own hand. They were the most docile people he'd ever encountered, but underneath that docility was the capacity for violence-organized violence-such as the world hardly knew. Within living memory, they'd risen up to slaughter the Jews. They'd even converted their death camps into museums, but museums in which the pieces and machines undoubtedly still worked, as though standing ready. What a pity they could not summon the political will to make it so.

The Jews had humiliated his country four separate times, in the process killing his eldest brother, Ibrahim, in the Sinai while he'd been driving a Soviet T-62 tank. He didn't remember Ibrahim. He'd been far too young then, and only had photographs to give him an idea of what he'd looked like, though his mother still wept for his memory. He'd died trying to finish the job these Germans had started, only to fail, killed by a cannon shot from an American M60A1 main battle tank at the battle of the Chinese farm. It was the Americans who protected the Jews. America was ruled by its Jews. That was why they supplied his enemies with weapons, fed them with intelligence information, and loved killing Arabs.

But the Germans' failure at their task hadn't tamed their arrogance. Just redirected it. He could see it on the streetcar, the brief sideways looks, the way old women scuttled a few steps away from where he stood. Someone would probably wipe down the overhead bar with disinfectant after he got off, Anas grumbled to himself. By the Prophet, these were unpleasant people.

The ride took another seven minutes exactly, and it was time to get off, at DomStrasse. From there, it was a one-block walk. Along the way, he saw more of the glances, the hostility in the eyes, or, even worse, the eyes that took note of his presence and just passed on, as though having seen a stray dog. It would have been satisfying to take some action here in Germany-right here in Munich!-but his orders were specific.

His destination was a coffee shop. Fa'ad Rahman Yasin was already there, dressed casually, like a working man. There were many like him in this cafe.

"Salaam aleikum," Atef said in greeting. Peace be unto you.

"Aleikum salaam," Fa'ad said in return. "The pastry here is excellent."

"Yes," Atef agreed, speaking softly in Arabic. "So, what is new, my friend?"

"Our people are pleased with last week. We have shaken the Americans badly," Fa'ad said.

"Not enough for them to disown the Israelis. They love the Jews more than their own children. Mark my words on this. And they will lash out at us."

"How?" Fa'ad demanded. "Lash out, yes, at whomever their spy agencies know about, but that will only inflame the faithful and drive more to our cause. No, our organization they do not know about. They do not even know our name." This was because their organization did not really have a name. "Organization" was merely a descriptive word for their association of the Faithful.

"I hope you are correct. So, do I have more orders?"

"You have done well-three of the men you recruited chose martyrdom in America."

"Three?" Atef was agreeably surprised. "They died well, I trust?"

"They died in Allah's Holy Name. That should be good enough. So, do you have any more recruits ready for us?"

Atef sipped his coffee. "Not quite, but I have two leaning in our direction. This is not easy, as you know. Even the most faithful wish to enjoy the fruits of a good life." As he was doing himself, of course.

"You have done well for us, Anas. Better to be sure than to be overly demanding of them. Take your time. We can be patient."

"How patient?" Atef wanted to