Read Online Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) by Ethan Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ethan Jones
Tags: General Fiction
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ordered Justin and Carrie when they were a few steps away from the BMW.
He knocked on the front passenger door. The window was rolled down and a few hushed words were exchanged.
“Come here,” the bearded guard called the agents and opened the BMW’s rear door. Justin and Carrie approached the car slowly.
“Welcome,” a low, deep voice greeted them in English. “Take a seat.”
Justin recognized the sheikh’s voice. He was sitting in the front passenger’s seat and was alone. Carrie’s eyes checked the car for any signs of danger, wires sticking out, or anything else resembling a deathtrap.
“Care for a drink?” the sheikh asked politely after they got in and closed the doors.
Carrie shook her head.
“No, thanks,” Justin said.
He inspected the sheikh’s face. The high brow with deep carved wrinkles and the receding gray hairline made him appear older than his late forties. He had a long hooked nose and a thick black moustache. His eyes were staring at Justin from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. Justin recognized the sheikh’s scar at the left side of his protruding jaw, where an Israeli-fired bullet had grazed the skin of his face. Five years ago, the Mossad had made an unsuccessful attempt on the sheikh’s life in Jordan.
“How was the trip?” the sheikh asked with genuine interest, turning around in his seat.
“Hot, very hot,” Justin replied. “I would have preferred we met at the Nile City Fairmont.”
The sheikh nodded. “That would have been my preference as well. We might have been able to prevent that bombing attack in Tripoli.”
Justin and Carrie exchanged a quick glance.
“You’re telling us the Alliance is behind those car bombs?” Justin asked.
The sheikh shook his head. “No, those car bombs are not the work of the Alliance.”
“But you know who did it?” Justin asked.
“Let me start at the beginning,” the sheikh replied. “But, before I do, come up here in front. I don’t like to twist my neck as I talk to you.”
Justin sat in the driver’s seat.
“First things first: the Islamic Fighting Alliance is not at war with and does not target Libya, its government, or any Muslim brothers in that country. We’re waging a holy war against infidels, against America and its bastard child, Israel, along with their many slaves who serve their insatiable greed for our oil and our wealth.”
That’s new, Justin thought. He remembered reading scores of briefing notes and reports covering clashes between the Alliance and rebel groups in Sudan and factions of militants in Lebanon and in the Gaza Strip. The Alliance’s support for various groups fighting among themselves depended on their expectations of the most likely winner and the greatest gains to their cause in the long run. New approach or new bullshit, Justin wondered, but nodded nonetheless.
“Recently, a breakaway faction within the Alliance has supported an increase of attacks against Westerners’ interests in North Africa. America and Britain and their local dogs are crushing the bones of the people living in these lands. North Africa is soaked with billions of oil barrels, but the only ones enjoying the oil profits are the foreign companies. The poor go hungry and naked.”
“How large is this breakaway faction?” Justin asked, repeating the exact words of the sheikh.
“A few dozen people, but they’re well-funded and well-connected to certain organizations based in Afghanistan and Iraq. They have the resources and the willingness to turn North Africa into a bloodier and messier Middle East.”
“The bombing of the First Union Bank in Tunisia was their work?” asked Carrie.
“Yes. This splinter unit began targeting foreign investment firms, oil companies, banks, and their interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. Of course, they work together with local militia groups who hate the regimes in their countries.”
Carrie shrugged. “So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what jihad is
He knocked on the front passenger door. The window was rolled down and a few hushed words were exchanged.
“Come here,” the bearded guard called the agents and opened the BMW’s rear door. Justin and Carrie approached the car slowly.
“Welcome,” a low, deep voice greeted them in English. “Take a seat.”
Justin recognized the sheikh’s voice. He was sitting in the front passenger’s seat and was alone. Carrie’s eyes checked the car for any signs of danger, wires sticking out, or anything else resembling a deathtrap.
“Care for a drink?” the sheikh asked politely after they got in and closed the doors.
Carrie shook her head.
“No, thanks,” Justin said.
He inspected the sheikh’s face. The high brow with deep carved wrinkles and the receding gray hairline made him appear older than his late forties. He had a long hooked nose and a thick black moustache. His eyes were staring at Justin from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. Justin recognized the sheikh’s scar at the left side of his protruding jaw, where an Israeli-fired bullet had grazed the skin of his face. Five years ago, the Mossad had made an unsuccessful attempt on the sheikh’s life in Jordan.
“How was the trip?” the sheikh asked with genuine interest, turning around in his seat.
“Hot, very hot,” Justin replied. “I would have preferred we met at the Nile City Fairmont.”
The sheikh nodded. “That would have been my preference as well. We might have been able to prevent that bombing attack in Tripoli.”
Justin and Carrie exchanged a quick glance.
“You’re telling us the Alliance is behind those car bombs?” Justin asked.
The sheikh shook his head. “No, those car bombs are not the work of the Alliance.”
“But you know who did it?” Justin asked.
“Let me start at the beginning,” the sheikh replied. “But, before I do, come up here in front. I don’t like to twist my neck as I talk to you.”
Justin sat in the driver’s seat.
“First things first: the Islamic Fighting Alliance is not at war with and does not target Libya, its government, or any Muslim brothers in that country. We’re waging a holy war against infidels, against America and its bastard child, Israel, along with their many slaves who serve their insatiable greed for our oil and our wealth.”
That’s new, Justin thought. He remembered reading scores of briefing notes and reports covering clashes between the Alliance and rebel groups in Sudan and factions of militants in Lebanon and in the Gaza Strip. The Alliance’s support for various groups fighting among themselves depended on their expectations of the most likely winner and the greatest gains to their cause in the long run. New approach or new bullshit, Justin wondered, but nodded nonetheless.
“Recently, a breakaway faction within the Alliance has supported an increase of attacks against Westerners’ interests in North Africa. America and Britain and their local dogs are crushing the bones of the people living in these lands. North Africa is soaked with billions of oil barrels, but the only ones enjoying the oil profits are the foreign companies. The poor go hungry and naked.”
“How large is this breakaway faction?” Justin asked, repeating the exact words of the sheikh.
“A few dozen people, but they’re well-funded and well-connected to certain organizations based in Afghanistan and Iraq. They have the resources and the willingness to turn North Africa into a bloodier and messier Middle East.”
“The bombing of the First Union Bank in Tunisia was their work?” asked Carrie.
“Yes. This splinter unit began targeting foreign investment firms, oil companies, banks, and their interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. Of course, they work together with local militia groups who hate the regimes in their countries.”
Carrie shrugged. “So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what jihad is
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