Free Ops Files II--Terror Alert by Russell Blake Page A

apparently the imam saw and heard no evil, likely because good help was hard to find, especially when you couldn’t pay market rates and your acolytes were impatient for their promised seventy-two virgins on the other end of their suicide vest detonation.
    The wonder was that they’d even succeeded in convincing females to blow themselves up lately, in spite of a dearth of sensual promises in the afterlife. The men were promised eternal delights – but what could be in it for the female martyrs?
    Gil dismissed the musing and stood as Farhad approached the table.
    “Tea? It’s very good here,” Gil lied, the foul beverage tasting like dishwater to him.
    “Please. Very kind of you.”
    Gil waited until the tea had been brought and Farhad had sipped half his cup before clearing his throat and leaning forward so only Farhad could hear. “Give me an answer, Farhad. The funds are in place, but my boss is getting anxious. There are others he has his eye on. It’s time to make a decision.”
    Farhad looked everywhere but at Gil as he finished his drink, his hands trembling slightly. “I’ve decided to go forward with it, Hassad,” he said, using Gil’s code name. The man had no idea what Gil’s nationality was; he’d told him Turkish when Farhad asked. “But you must promise to keep our dealings confidential. Great misery would befall me if my arrangement were to become known.”
    “It shall be so,” Gil intoned. Like all cowards and turncoats, the man was thinking only of his own skin and not the consequences of his betrayal. Perfect as far as Gil was concerned. The last thing he wanted was an attack of conscience at the last minute. Besides, what Gil had asked for – Kahn’s network of quislings and sycophants – would have no value if the imam wasn’t up to no good, which Farhad had gone to great lengths to assure Gil was the case.
    Gil, for his part, assumed the junkie was lying, as was the custom of addicts the world over.
    The relationship had worked well so far.
    Gil paid the bill and both men rose. “I have a list at my place,” Farhad said. “Do you have the money with you?”
    “Of course not. That’s too much to walk around with. But we can go to my bank together and do a transfer or make a withdrawal once you show me the list.”
    Farhad sighed. “Fine. You want to come with me, or meet somewhere?”
    Gil thought about it and decided he didn’t want to let the fish out of his sight now that the hook was set. “I’ll go with you, and then we can head to the bank.”
    They walked together toward the slum Gil knew Farhad lived near – one of the most dangerous areas of the city. The streets narrowed and then became unpaved, with rivers of noxious fluid coursing along the edges. The odor was overpowering, to the point where Gil’s eyes were tearing, and he was regretting his decision when Farhad turned into an alley.
    Gil followed him into the cramped passage. Rats scuttled ahead of the two men, and he wondered about the number of communicable diseases he was exposing himself to. The thought was barely formed when he sensed movement behind him, and he was turning when a blow to his head knocked him off his feet. His knees buckled and he collapsed, his face landing in the slag oozing along the alley, and then everything faded and went black.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    Gil felt movement, and as his consciousness returned, he tried to remember what had happened. Memory returned in a burst and he cracked his eyes open. He was in a cart of some sort, being towed by a bicycle. He tried to move, but his wrists were cuffed.
    An old man’s wizened face peered at him from the shadows of a shanty, his skin the color of boot leather, his clothes barely more than rags, and then Gil was past the specter, continuing into the bowels of the city. Two children trotted along beside him, laughing, and it took him a moment to realize that the toy they were waving at him was a dead rat covered in excrement. He gagged and