Free Gauntlet by Richard Aaron

sit down. The cave floor was richly carpeted, and tapestries hung on the walls. It was lit with soft lights, creating fleeting reflections on weathered tribal faces. One set of electrical cables ran along the wall, leading to the other caves. Yousseff observed all of this silently, making himself familiar with his surroundings, and then sat down across from the Emir.
    The Emir had been born Gul Zhar Samaradan. As a child he studied in the Madrasas in Pakistan, but in the early ’80s he had joined with many of his colleagues and taken up arms against the invading Soviets. He fought courageously and well and was held in high regard by his clan when the Soviets left. He had been an important part of the Taliban takeover in Afghanistan. Then, in the wake of the terrorist attacks on America, he’d been captured by the Americans. It was thought at the time that he knew the whereabouts of the terrorists responsible for the attacks. The Americans sought to extract this information from him, but to no avail. The CIA had eventually decided to send him to a military base in Uzbekistan. The secret police of that nation were advanced and very effective in the art of questioning their prisoners.
    The Emir had ultimately escaped, but not before losing, in a most painful way, toes from both feet, a number of fingers, and the sight in one eye. His back was a mass of scars, and his genitalia were covered with the scars of third-degree electrical burns. He returned to the mountains of the Sefid Koh a changed man, harder, more determined, and consumed with rage against, above all, the Americans.
    This was the man with whom Yousseff was now doing business. For several minutes after his entrance, no one spoke. Yousseff was intently studying the plans and diagrams he had been handed, and hadn’t yet greeted the others. At length the Emir broke the silence.
    “Can you do it?” he asked Yousseff.
    “Yes, I think I can. We already have the Semtex. But this plot will take much planning, and many people will have to be involved,” Yousseff replied. His face remained passive, but his brain had kicked into overdrive. The possibilities. The magnificent possibilities. When he had first received the messages from the Emir, inviting him to take control of this mission, he had been doubtful. He had put some of his people to work on it, and had quickly uncovered the Emir’s plans. With the pieces the Emir already had in place, and the connections and funding Yousseff himself possessed, he had quickly realized that the plan would work. And that he would make a fortune in the execution of the mission. It had all started with the simple theft of the Semtex. This hadn’t been difficult. The Emir’s tendrils ran far afield, and were powerful enough to find supporters within Libya’s Benghazi Marine Base, in the warehouse where a substantial portion of the Semtex had been stored. From the point of the theft it would be a race against time; his people would be running a gauntlet, focused on a destination that would take them through dangers too numerous to mention. But it could be done. And the Emir would make it worthwhile.
    Yousseff was here to finalize the arrangements, and to start negotiations regarding control of the mission and payment for his time and efforts. He didn’t tell the Emir that he had already set his own pieces in motion.
    “We have six people undercover in California,” the Emir said, interrupting Yousseff’s thoughts. “Four of them have been in place for many years. Here is the name of the leader, and his telephone number, and the code sequence. Two of them are licensed and have experience driving large trucks.” The Emir handed Yousseff a sheet of paper with the information. “The other two live at the Grand Mosque of south Los Angeles. Here is the number of their caretaker. You should use them for any delivery needs.”
    “Thank you, this will help.” Yousseff tucked the folded sheet of paper into a pocket. He looked at the