Free No Survivors by Tom Cain

near succeeded.
    If he had to put money on it, he’d bet it was that mechanic—LUNDIN was the name on his badge—coming into the airport lounge, practically begging him to get on that plane. He’d been up to Inuvik plenty of times, but he’d never seen that mechanic before. Probably never see him again, either, which was a pity.
    He’d have liked to shake the man’s hand.
    Recently, however, things had changed. Now he wasn’t feeling quite so charitable. A shadow had fallen over his life, casting him in a darkness that filled him with dread. Just thinking about it made his heart pound and his mind panic. He was glad of the distraction when he heard the knock on the door. By the time he opened it to greet Kurt Vermulen, McCabe was back in control, displaying no signs of unease, his usual, impregnable self once again.
    He motioned Vermulen to sit down and poured him a whiskey. Then he served himself and relaxed into the chair opposite. As he sat, his trouser legs rode up to reveal the ornate leatherwork on his five-thousand-dollar custom-made black boots from Tex Robin of Abilene. His suit might come from some fancy tailor in New York City, but his boots were pure Texas.
    “So, you think this al-Qaeda is a real threat?” McCabe asked, opening the conversation.
    Vermulen nodded. “I think it constitutes a clear and present danger to the security of the United States and our allies, yes.”
    McCabe had been born-again for five years now, but he had never stopped thinking like a businessman. He still saw the world in terms of transactions.
    “So why don’t we sit down with them, figure out what they want, try to make a deal?” he asked.
    “There is no deal to be made,” said Vermulen, with absolute certainty. “They aren’t interested in negotiations. You can’t reason with them, can’t appease them or change their minds. They know what they want and they won’t settle for anything less.”
    “And that is . . . ?”
    Vermulen had the list hardwired: “The removal of all U.S. troops from Saudi soil, the destruction of Israel, the toppling of all Middle Eastern governments with friendly ties to the West, and the setting up of a global Muslim state governed by Muslim religious law. They call it the Caliphate.”
    “These people must have a leader,” said McCabe. “Who is he, what’s he like?”
    “They call him the Sheikh.” Vermulen swirled the whiskey in his glass, contemplating the patterns of light shining through it as he collected his thoughts.
    “When I knew him, back in Peshawar, he was about thirty, still a young man. He had dark hair, a thick beard. He was tall and very slim—very rich, too, a sophisticated, educated guy, with relatives who are living, right now, right here in the States. But he dressed in simple robes and barely ate anything: A loaf of unleavened bread, some yogurt, and a handful of rice—that was like a feast. His people knew that if they were going hungry, so was he. He’s an inspirational orator, a natural commander, strong and fearless in combat. I mean, I believe he’s evil, all right, but I’ve got to tell you, this is one impressive individual.”
    McCabe’s face gave nothing away. Inside, though, he was exultant. His instinct had been right: Vermulen was describing the Antichrist. The prophecies were coming true. A path was lighting up before him, a route to salvation and immortality.
    “Let me get this straight,” he said. “This Sheikh has a personal army. He can bend people to his will, he wants to destroy the Jews, he hates Christianity, and he aims to see the rule of Allah across the world. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “That would be a fair summary. You see, to a devout Muslim, the earth is divided in two. First, there’s the Muslim world, where they can pursue their religion in safety and follow Islamic law. They call that Dar al-Islam, which means the House of Peace. The rest of the world, that’s Dar al-Harb, the House of War. And the radical,