The device was now on the seat beside him, and he looked at it every few minutes. It confirmed that the consignment of cocaine he had been following seemed to have come to a halt somewhere ahead. It might simply have stopped at an oasis where there was a gas station. But Abdul hoped it might be at an encampment belonging to ISGS, Islamic State in the Greater Sahara.
The CIA was interested in terrorists more than smugglers, but they were the same people in this part of the world. A string of local groups, loosely associated as ISGS, financed their political activities by the lucrative twin businesses of drug smuggling and people smuggling. Abdul’s mission was to establish the route taken by the drugs in the hope that it would lead him to ISGS hideouts.
The man believed to be the leading figure in ISGS – and one of the worst mass murderers in the world today – was known as al-Farabi. This was almost certainly a pseudonym: al-Farabi was the name of a medieval philosopher. The ISGS leader was also called ‘the Afghan’ because he was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. His reach was long, if the reports were to be believed: while based in Afghanistan he had travelled through Pakistan into the rebellious Chinese province of Xinjiang, where he had made contact with the East Turkestan Independence Party, a terrorist group seeking autonomy for the ethnic Uighurs, who were predominantly Muslim.
Al-Farabi was now somewhere in North Africa, and if Abdul could find him, it would strike a blow at ISGS that might even be mortal.
Abdul had studied fuzzy long-distance photographs, artists’ pencilled impressions, Photofit composites and written descriptions, and he felt sure he would know al-Farabi if he saw him: a tall man with grey hair and a black beard, often described as having a piercing gaze and an air of authority. If Abdul could get close enough he might be able to confirm identification by al-Farabi’s most distinctive feature: an American bullet had taken away half his left thumb, leaving a stump he often showed off proudly, telling people that God had protected him from death but at the same time warned him to be more careful.
Whatever happened, Abdul must not try to capture al-Farabi, just pin down his location and report it. It was said the man had a hideout called Hufra, which meant Hole, but its location was not known to anyone in the entire intelligence community of the West.
Abdul came to the top of the rise and slowed the car to a halt on the other side.
In front of him a long downward slope led to a wide plain that shimmered in the heat. He squinted against the glare: he did not wear sunglasses, because local people thought of them as an unnecessary Western accessory, and he needed to look like one of them. In the distance, some miles away, he thought he could see a village. Turning in his seat, he removed a panel in the door and took out a pair of field glasses. Then he got out of the car.
The glasses brought the distance into sharp relief, and what he saw made his heart beat faster.
It was a settlement of tents and makeshift wooden huts. There were numerous vehicles, most of them in ramshackle shelters that would screen them from satellite cameras. Other vehicles were shrouded in covers patterned with desert camouflage, and by their shape might have been truck-mounted artillery. A few palm trees indicated a water source somewhere.
There was no mystery here. This was a paramilitary base.
And an important one, he felt. He guessed it would house several hundred men and, if he was right about the artillery, those men were formidably well armed.
This might even be the legendary Hufra.
He lifted his right foot to remove the phone from his boot so that he could take a photograph, but before he could do so he heard from behind the sound of a truck, distant but approaching fast.
Since leaving the made-up road he had seen no other traffic. This was almost certainly an ISGS vehicle heading for the encampment.
He looked around. There was nowhere to hide himself, let alone a car. For three weeks he had risked being spotted by the people he was spying on, and now it was about to happen.
He had his story ready. All he could do was tell it and hope.
He looked at his cheap watch. It was now two o’clock in the afternoon. He figured the jihadis might be less likely to kill a man at his prayers.
He moved quickly. He returned the binoculars to their hiding place behind the door panel. He opened the trunk and took out an old, worn prayer rug, then slammed the lid and spread the rug on the ground. He had been raised Christian, but he knew enough about Muslim prayer to fake it.
The second prayer of the day was called zuhr and it was said after the sun passed its zenith, which could be stretched to mean any time from midday to mid-afternoon. He prostrated himself in the correct position, touching the rug with his nose, hands, knees and toes. He closed his eyes.
The truck roared closer, labouring up the slope on the far side of the ridge.
Abdul suddenly remembered the device. It was on the passenger seat. He cursed: it would give him away instantly.
He jumped to his feet, flung open the passenger-side door, and snatched up the device. With a two-fingered grip he released the catch of the hidden drawer in the sole of his left boot. In his haste he dropped the device onto the sand. He picked it up and lodged it in the shoe. He closed the compartment and hurried back to the rug.
He knelt down again.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the truck breast the rise and come to a sudden stop alongside his car. He closed his eyes.
He did not know the prayers by heart, but he had heard them often enough to mumble an approximation.
He heard the doors of the truck open and close, then heavy footsteps approaching.
A voice said in Arabic: ‘Get up.’
Abdul opened his eyes. There were two men. One held a rifle, the other had a holstered pistol. Behind them was a pickup truck loaded with sacks that might be full of flour – food for the jihadis, no doubt.
The one with the rifle was younger, with a wispy beard. He wore camouflage trousers and a blue anorak that would have been more suited to a rainy day in New York. He said harshly: ‘Who are you?’
Abdul quickly assumed the hail-fellow-well-met persona of a travelling salesman. He smiled and said: ‘My friends, why do you disturb a man at prayer?’ He spoke fluent colloquial Arabic with a Lebanese accent: he had lived in Beirut until the age of six and his parents had continued to use Arabic at home after they moved to the US.
The man with the pistol had greying hair. He spoke calmly. ‘We ask God’s forgiveness for interrupting your devotions,’ he said. ‘But what are you doing here, on this desert track? Where are you going?’
‘I’m selling cigarettes,’ Abdul said. ‘Would you like to buy some? They’re half-price.’ In most African countries a pack of twenty Cleopatras cost the equivalent, in local currency, of a dollar. Abdul sold them for half that.
The younger man threw open the trunk of Abdul’s car. It was full of cartons of Cleopatras. ‘Where did you get them?’ he said.
‘From a Sudanese army captain called Bilel.’ It was a plausible story: everyone knew the Sudanese officers were corrupt.
There was a silence. The older jihadi looked thoughtful. The younger man looked as if he could hardly wait to use his rifle, and Abdul wondered if he had ever before fired it at a human being. But the older man was less tense. He would be slower to shoot, but more accurate.
Abdul knew that his life was at stake. These two would either believe him or try to kill him. If it came to a fight, he would go for the older man first. The younger one would fire, but he would probably miss. Then again, at this range he might not.
The older man said: ‘But why are you here? Where do you think you’re going?’
‘There’s a village up ahead, isn’t there?’ said Abdul. ‘I can’t see it yet, but a man in a café told me I would find customers there.’
‘A man in a café.’
‘I’m always looking for customers.’
The older man said to the younger: ‘Search him.’
The young man slung his rifle across his back, which gave Abdul a moment’s relief. But the older man drew a 9mm pistol and pointed it at Abdul’s head while Abdul was patted down.