Free NanoStrike by Pete Barber Page B

and nerves trickled down his spine as that realization struck home.
    For the first time in his life, Abdul was in mortal danger.
    After twenty minutes of reckless driving, they pulled into the driveway of a general store. The garage door in front opened and they drove in. The door rolled shut behind the car and left them in darkness.
    “Wait.” The driver got out and flipped on a light, then opened Abdul’s door. “Follow me.”
    A side door led to a narrow, unlit flight of stone stairs. The air smelled stale and damp. He followed the driver to the top and through a door at the stair head into a windowless room, twelve feet square with bare, whitewashed walls peeling in places. The driver indicated a white plastic lawn chair positioned behind a green-topped card table. The chair faced the door they’d entered by, the only door in the room. A solitary floor lamp pointed at his chair, interrogation-style.
    “Ghazi will come soon.” The driver left.
    A key turned in the lock. The circumstances Abdul found himself in were a huge departure from any he’d encountered before. This trip had seemed logical, even exciting, when he’d volunteered, but right now he yearned for the safety of his work cubicle in London. Fighting a strong urge to talk to himself, he flipped open his laptop and turned on his recorder, keeping his trembling hands busy.
    Abdul jumped at the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened again. A tall, thick-chested bull of a man entered, carrying a plastic lawn chair similar to the one Abdul sat in. He placed the chair across the table from Abdul.
    “I am Ghazi.” His was the voice from the phone. Still standing, he offered his hand.
    Abdul stood. Ghazi’s hard, callused hand dwarfed Abdul’s and delivered a crushing, painful grip. Abdul felt like a small child shaking hands with a grown man. Distracted by the pain, the only feature that Abdul registered was a dark scar that ran from below Ghazi’s left eye, down his cheek, and disappeared into the collar of his shirt. Ghazi released him, and they sat.
    Abdul started the recorder. “Very well, Ghazi, you asked for this meeting. What do you want to tell me?”
    Ghazi thumped his balled fist on the table. “The time of creeping Israeli thievery of Palestinian land is past. The name of our organization is ‘Allah’s Revenge’. It is also an expression of our intent. Because the Jews only understand terror and bloodshed, we will take our revenge with Jewish blood and the blood of their American and British masters.”
    The tone of Ghazi’s speech was more akin to a radical Imam stirring up a crowd than a man sitting five feet away from his sole audience member.
    “Is your organization a part of al-Qaeda?”
    “Those who use the name al-Qaeda defile the one God, Allah, by associating His almighty knowledge and power with their cheap tricks and foolishness, their shoe bombs and exploding clothing. Every street gang in Gaza hides behind the pathetic cloak of al-Qaeda.”
    “You intend to commit terrorist acts in which innocent British, American and Israeli citizens will be harmed. Sounds the same as al-Qaeda. How will we know the difference?”
    “Allah has blessed us with a terrible weapon. You will know us by its mark, Abdul-Haqq.”
    “What kind of weapon?”
    Ghazi raised his voice. “You will know us by its mark.”
    Abdul changed tack. “Why did you contact me?”
    “Your family is known to us. They are honorable people. You are in a position to communicate with those who must make the changes we will demand. You will be our messenger.”
    “What are your demands?”
    “The infidels must leave and return to the Palestinians the land that is their birthright. This is also your birthright, Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-Ahmed.”
    Ghazi’s chair scraped the ground and he stood. The sudden change startled Abdul. Was this the end of the interview?
    “Thank you for coming. I am glad to have met you, and I wish you a safe journey back to