stand by and to be ready for anything.”
Tahia Ahmed, sitting on the floor of the back of the van, said sternly to the new man, “Najib, you must stop your fidgeting.”
She turned to the man behind the steering wheel of the parked vehicle. “Ali, tell him to relax. He will draw attention to
us the minute we step out of the van, the way he’s shaking.”
Najib Yaqub, rail thin with a harsh, thin-lipped visage, lost some of his nervous demeanor, glaring at her.
“Mind your tongue, woman. I—”
Ali Hassan turned sideways in the front seat to look back at Yaqub, who sat with his back against the opposite side of the
inside of the van from Tahia.
“She’s right, Najib. I know this is your first mission for the organization, so—”
“You are not such a battle-hardened veteran yourself, Ali,” Najib bristled.
“I have enough experience to have been placed in charge of this operation,” Hassan snapped. “I forgive your loose tongue and
account it to a case of nerves on your first assignment. We all experience that the first time. Allah will grant you strength
when the time comes.”
Najib lowered his eyes contritely.
“Of course, Ali, I spoke out of turn. It would perhaps ease my mind, though, to know more about what I am a part of.”
Hallah al Molky snorted from where he sat in the passenger seat, an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun resting on his lap beneath
view of passersby on the sidewalks.
“Have you not been told, Najib? This is how we operate, and we would have it no other way. You and I arrived in Athens this
morning from Damascus. Ali and Tahia arrived here this morning from Istanbul. We pick up these weapons from Christus, as you’ve
been told, then Ali drives us to where his brother is staying and after we connect with Farouk and Abdel,
then
the four of us learn why we have been brought to Athens, and not a moment before. You had your chance to back out long ago.”
Hallah turned his attention to watching the busy street scene outside. “You’ll be making me nervous before you’re done.”
Tahia Ahmed chuckled good-naturedly.
“That would be a change, seeing our young hotblood Hallah nervous. You wish the action had already begun, don’t you, Hallah?”
Al Molky, slightly built, not out of his teens, said in a man’s voice, without hesitation, “I live to slay the enemies of
Allah and our people.”
“As do we all,” nodded Ali. He wore a Beretta in a concealed shoulder holster. He glanced at his wristwatch, then back out
through the windshield at where Pireos street merged with Ermou at the foot of the Acropolis hill, near where a dozen or more
workmen labored near their vehicles, vans like this one, apparently on some sort of restoration project by the
Agora,
the original marketplace where Socrates met with his students; where vehicular traffic had to wind its way through workmen
and a human ocean of tourists and throngs of peddlers and street merchants, the air a lively human babble.
“Christus should be here by now.”
No one answered him.
Ali and Hallah kept watching the street for some sign of the Greek arms dealer’s vehicle, while Najib only stared down as
if in contemplation of the floor of the van.
Tahia moved to kneel, looking out the back windows of the van, watching down the crowded street in either direction with the
thought that the Greek arms dealer might choose not to follow the orders Ali had telephoned a short time before. She gripped
a 9mm Czech-made pistol. She suddenly wished very much that it was this time yesterday and that she and Ali were still back
at that hotel in Istanbul, in bed, making love.
Tahia loved Ali Hassan as much as she loved the cause to which she had dedicated her life; a love that had unexpectedly made
of life a precious thing, something it had not been for her before she had met him, and she found herself wondering if, at
this moment, he was thinking of her as she thought of him.
Hallah’s
Tahia Ahmed, sitting on the floor of the back of the van, said sternly to the new man, “Najib, you must stop your fidgeting.”
She turned to the man behind the steering wheel of the parked vehicle. “Ali, tell him to relax. He will draw attention to
us the minute we step out of the van, the way he’s shaking.”
Najib Yaqub, rail thin with a harsh, thin-lipped visage, lost some of his nervous demeanor, glaring at her.
“Mind your tongue, woman. I—”
Ali Hassan turned sideways in the front seat to look back at Yaqub, who sat with his back against the opposite side of the
inside of the van from Tahia.
“She’s right, Najib. I know this is your first mission for the organization, so—”
“You are not such a battle-hardened veteran yourself, Ali,” Najib bristled.
“I have enough experience to have been placed in charge of this operation,” Hassan snapped. “I forgive your loose tongue and
account it to a case of nerves on your first assignment. We all experience that the first time. Allah will grant you strength
when the time comes.”
Najib lowered his eyes contritely.
“Of course, Ali, I spoke out of turn. It would perhaps ease my mind, though, to know more about what I am a part of.”
Hallah al Molky snorted from where he sat in the passenger seat, an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun resting on his lap beneath
view of passersby on the sidewalks.
“Have you not been told, Najib? This is how we operate, and we would have it no other way. You and I arrived in Athens this
morning from Damascus. Ali and Tahia arrived here this morning from Istanbul. We pick up these weapons from Christus, as you’ve
been told, then Ali drives us to where his brother is staying and after we connect with Farouk and Abdel,
then
the four of us learn why we have been brought to Athens, and not a moment before. You had your chance to back out long ago.”
Hallah turned his attention to watching the busy street scene outside. “You’ll be making me nervous before you’re done.”
Tahia Ahmed chuckled good-naturedly.
“That would be a change, seeing our young hotblood Hallah nervous. You wish the action had already begun, don’t you, Hallah?”
Al Molky, slightly built, not out of his teens, said in a man’s voice, without hesitation, “I live to slay the enemies of
Allah and our people.”
“As do we all,” nodded Ali. He wore a Beretta in a concealed shoulder holster. He glanced at his wristwatch, then back out
through the windshield at where Pireos street merged with Ermou at the foot of the Acropolis hill, near where a dozen or more
workmen labored near their vehicles, vans like this one, apparently on some sort of restoration project by the
Agora,
the original marketplace where Socrates met with his students; where vehicular traffic had to wind its way through workmen
and a human ocean of tourists and throngs of peddlers and street merchants, the air a lively human babble.
“Christus should be here by now.”
No one answered him.
Ali and Hallah kept watching the street for some sign of the Greek arms dealer’s vehicle, while Najib only stared down as
if in contemplation of the floor of the van.
Tahia moved to kneel, looking out the back windows of the van, watching down the crowded street in either direction with the
thought that the Greek arms dealer might choose not to follow the orders Ali had telephoned a short time before. She gripped
a 9mm Czech-made pistol. She suddenly wished very much that it was this time yesterday and that she and Ali were still back
at that hotel in Istanbul, in bed, making love.
Tahia loved Ali Hassan as much as she loved the cause to which she had dedicated her life; a love that had unexpectedly made
of life a precious thing, something it had not been for her before she had met him, and she found herself wondering if, at
this moment, he was thinking of her as she thought of him.
Hallah’s
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