Read Online A Perilous Eden by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page A

identify itself when members happened to meet with the press. They were to have lunch at the Café Antoine near the beach, a rather stereotypical French sidewalk café with red and white striped sun umbrellas set atop the tables. Men and women sipped their coffees or espressos or mineral waters and dined on cheese, watching the passersby or looking at the beach, where the beautiful and the not-so-beautiful stretched their naked and near-naked bodies beneath the sun.
    Adam saw Ali Abdul as soon as he entered the café. There were other Arabs at some of the tables, but there was something striking about the man Adam had come to see. He was in his sixties, wearing a burnoose, and he barely moved as his sunken eyes surveyed the street before him. He was not alone. He was with a younger man in a business suit, a dark, intense man of about forty.
    That was Khazar Abdul, Adam knew, Ali’s son, and next in line for cell leadership. Whereas Ali was rumored to be cool, collected and rational at all times, Khazar was known to be a hothead. Ali murdered for a reason—Khazar lived with a hatred that made him volatile, at best.
    Adam paused briefly, his eyes scanning the rest of the patrons. He was certain the Abduls were far from alone. The café was filled with tourists of many nationalities: French, Italian, Arab, Spanish, German, Swiss, English and American. But they weren’t all tourists. Abdul would not risk the chance of assassination.
    Adam moved forward, heading for Ali’s table. A man stood and brushed against him. He felt the gun in Adam’s jacket pocket and reached deftly beneath the material for it. In accented French he apologized for his clumsiness. Adam lifted his hands and assured him, “ De rien . It’s nothing.” They weren’t going to let him get close to Ali with a weapon.
    He went over to the table, feeling tension constrict his throat. These men had been responsible for the death of his wife and child. His muscles were tightening. He had to relax. He had to forget. For now.
    Ali Abdul was on his feet, greeting Adam like an old friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek. Khazar rose more stiffly than his father, but he, too, went through the motions of a friendly greeting, his dark eyes studying Adam intently.
    He doesn’t trust me, Adam thought. But then, he was certain that Khazar didn’t trust anyone.
    â€œSo you are Michael Adams,” Ali said quietly when they were all seated. The old man’s eyes were sunken. His health could not be good.
    â€œYes, I am Michael Adams.”
    â€œAnd you are anxious to join our little group in our endeavors.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhy?” Khazar asked.
    His father cast him a warning glare. To Adam, Ali offered a rueful grin. “Yes, we are curious as to why. Many of our number fight for religion—”
    â€œAnd many do not,” Adam said.
    â€œAnd many fight for our support in their struggles against the oppressors in their homelands.”
    Half the revolutionaries in South America wanted an in, Adam knew.
    He leaned back in his chair, summoned the waiter and asked for an espresso. He waited until the demitasse was set down and the waiter was gone before he answered. “The money, gentlemen. I’m sure that my reputation preceded me, just as I came to you because of all I had heard. I may bear a few grudges against a certain superpower, but my concern isn’t religion or freedom. In fact, it isn’t really anything at all except that I want the money, and …” He paused, leaning forward. “I like the action.”
    He had Khazar now. The man knew what it was like to savor power. Khazar liked to kill, too, Adam thought.
    For Ali, perhaps this was a holy war. But not for his son.
    A chill snaked along Adam’s spine. He didn’t like Khazar. The man was someone to watch, to avoid. If Ali should happen to die in the midst of this, then God help them all.
    â€œWhat do