He had spent more than a year in the service of Halabi, setting up financial networks and collecting money from sympathizers around the world, but particularly from Saudi Arabia. It was a squalid but bearable life right up until his existence came to the attention of the CIA.
Three months ago he’d been running a routine errand in Berlin’s financial district when two men jumped him and pulled him into a van. He awoke naked on a concrete floor, with zip ties securing his hands and feet. There was no light and no sense of time. He shouted to his captors but got no answer. He pleaded. He begged. He even prayed. Finally, the cold, hunger, and isolation eclipsed his fear of the mullah and he offered anything—everything—for a brief moment of human contact.
It was then that he had met Mitch Rapp. The American had the same dead expression as Halabi and the same capacity for violence, but the similarities ended there. Where the ISIS leader was volatile, unpredictable, and cared for nothing but his own perceived stature in the eyes of his god, Rapp was infinitely rational. He knew his enemies and what was necessary to defeat them. The question was whether Alghani could assist him in his efforts or whether he would be more useful with a bullet in his head.
Without Mira, he had once again lost his faith. In the end, he was just a criminal. A self-serving little man who cared nothing for Islam or the caliphate. He just wanted to survive.
Rapp had given him that opportunity. After telling the CIA everything, he was returned to ISIS with orders to provide regular reports on the work he did for them. When he informed the Agency of the Rabat meeting, Rapp decided he wanted the courier. And in exchange, Alghani would be given his freedom.
There was a quiet knock on the front door and Alghani rinsed his mouth out before striding across the empty flat. He had barely turned the knob when a powerful man in a dark suit forced his way in. He moved quickly through the apartment, searching for anything amiss. Finally, he shoved Alghani against a wall and frisked him. The only thing he had was a phone and the man took it, removing the battery before dropping it on the floor. Satisfied that the flat was secure, he retreated to a corner and spoke into a microphone attached to his wrist.
A moment later another man entered. He was thin but had a belly that protruded over a belt that looked like it cost more than most people made in a year. Alghani took an involuntary step back and a satisfied smile curled the man’s lips. Who were they? He was supposed to meet a lone courier. An Egyptian in his fifties who knew more about the individuals involved in financing ISIS than anyone but Mullah Halabi himself. Had the CIA betrayed him? Had the Mullah discovered his treachery? Were these men here to kill him?
Alghani took another step back, but then noticed the suitcase in the man’s hand. Having had significant experience with these kinds of exchanges, he knew that it was the correct size to hold the amount of cash that was to change hands that day. One million U.S. dollars.
“You have the money?” Alghani asked, hoping to gain some understanding of his situation.
“Of course,” the man said. “But I’m sorry that Mullah Halabi couldn’t come personally. He and I have much to discuss. The creation of the caliphate and the spread of the one true religion is no small task. And the Western powers are no small opponent.”
Alghani nodded submissively. He’d initially thought that the man was a wealthy Saudi businessman but he could now see that he was wrong. The regal posture, the comically exaggerated sense of self--importance, the recklessness of cutting out the Egyptian and handling this errand personally. A young prince.
Alghani had dealt with them many times, both in his current capacity and previously when he’d targeted them in a number of real estate scams. As near as he could tell, they were all the same. Useless, arrogant, stupid men who believed that their privileged birth put them above the rest of humanity. Qualities that made them attractive targets for graft and utterly blind to the fact that they would be the first to die in a caliphate led by Sayid Halabi.
In this instance, though, the royal’s presence created an impossibly dangerous situation. He had promised Rapp the Egyptian courier. Not a pampered child. Would the CIA man think he had been duped? Would he revoke his promise of freedom in favor of a summary execution?
The man held out the suitcase. “A gift from me to your leader. The first step in drawing the Americans into a fight that they can never win.”
Alghani accepted the case and confirmed its weight at around ten kilograms. He expected the young Saudi to turn and disappear from his life forever, but instead the idiot began to speak again.
“We’ll battle the American cowards from without while simultaneously destroying them from within. I know them well. I was educated in the West and have many business interests in the United States. The American people are weak and easily manipulated. They see things in terms of five years. Perhaps ten. We understand that those time frames are meaningless. Allah is eternal and favors the patient. We will defeat them over the next fifty years. Or a hundred. Or even a thousand. As their society crumbles under the weight of its own wickedness and lack of cohesion, we will rise up to take their place.”
“Praise be to Allah,” Alghani responded, trying to comprehend why this pup wouldn’t leave. What profit could there be in staying? Surely there were safer places that he could listen to himself talk.
“As I say, I know the Americans,” he continued. “Better than they know themselves. I would like to offer my services to the mullah. If he wants to destroy the Westerners, he must first understand them. His background . . .” The Saudi’s voice faded for a moment. “. . . would make that kind of understanding difficult.”
Alghani had to struggle not to react. Halabi had been educated in madrassas likely financed by this man’s own family. While the mullah indeed lacked direct experience with the West, he had retaken enormous amounts of territory lost by his predecessor and created a complex command and control structure that the world was only now beginning to understand. What had the pampered man-child standing in front of him ever accomplished? His only responsibility was to cash the checks provided to him and to try not to lose it all in Europe’s casinos.
“I will pass on your generous offer to the mullah when I see him. I’m sure he would greatly value your counsel.”
Like others of his kind, the man was easily flattered. He smiled condescendingly and motioned to his bodyguard. A moment later they were finally gone.