Читать книгу Insurrection - Don Pendleton - Страница 10
ОглавлениеHe had designed the room himself, all the while keeping his tongue pressed firmly into his cheek. It was a joke in many ways, a humorous glimpse into the life of an old-style caliph. A cross between modern reality and a cartoon view of what it was like to be a wealthy oil sheikh. But to Fazel Hayat it was fun and certainly exciting. Maybe not quite as exciting as blowing up a chapel full of Christian bishops, or watching on his laptop screen as his men shot at this mysterious American agent.
Hayat thought back to the bombing of the seminary chapel. They had killed many of the bishops. But the primary target—Bishop Joshua Adewale—had escaped, and that made the Boko leader angry. He had wanted to kill the man because he was a Christian bishop, but also because he was an American. In addition to disrupting the bishops’ conference and destroying the seminary, Hayat had been planning to humiliate the United States and show the world how the Satanic democracy had lost power, will and influence.
That part of the plan had failed, but he would correct the error.
The soft purr and splash of the artificial waterfall built into the wall and leading down into the indoor swimming pool had a relaxing effect on Hayat, and he stretched out on his side atop the large stuffed pillows. In front of him now was a beautiful shapely blonde wearing nothing but sheer capri pants. Behind him, he felt the large-breasted brunette he had just been kissing reach up with both hands to massage his neck.
The waterfall and pool were the room’s central features, but the scantily clad young women swimming and playing in the water also commanded the leader’s attention. Other members of what Hayat jokingly called his Boko Haram Harem lounged on huge silk pillows around the room.
The walls of the Haram Harem were of tile, and each one featured a saying from the Koran. At least that was what Hayat had been told. He had never bothered to actually read any of them. For that matter, he had read very little of the Koran.
When he wasn’t engaged in some sort of sexual act with the women, Hayat kept busy eating and drinking or planning the next attack on Nigerians who paid homage to the ways of the West. It mattered not if they were Christians or Muslims.
On the other side of the room, across the pool, were two violinists, a string bass player and a harpist. All four were beautiful females. Eerie sounds of music in a minor key came from their strings and guided the steps of three dancers in front of them. These women wore completely transparent pantaloons and blouses, and veils that covered their faces except for their alluring eyes.
Hayat listened to the music and stared at the dancers and musicians. But even in this atmosphere, which had been designed totally for pleasure and pleasure alone, his mind kept wandering. He was now aware that an American agent of some kind—a true specialist, a man whose skills went far beyond those of the usual commando or intelligence officer—had come to Nigeria. He had learned about the man from his contact at the airport, who had been paid by the Americans to guide the man through customs. Hayat did not yet know exactly what this American agent’s mission was, but until he received that information, and the man was eliminated, he could not completely rest.
He felt himself frowning. Some of his tracking agents had followed the man as he left the airport in a taxicab. They had tailed him to the Isaac Center, where they had attacked, but been unsuccessful in eliminating him. That was Hayat’s own fault, he had decided. He had not taken the threat as seriously as he should have, and had allowed his second team to attempt the assassination. He would not make that mistake again. As soon as they located the American again, he would put Dhul Agbede on the job. And Hayat had not forgotten the Nigerian-born American bishop, either. Joshua Adewale had somehow escaped both the explosion and the machetes of the Bokos sent to the chapel.
He was another enemy who needed to be located. And killed. But Dhul had enough on his plate. Hayat would send Sam to find and kill the bishop from New York.
The second problem on the mind of the Boko Haram leader was almost as troubling as the first. One of his own men—Enitan—had gone over to the enemy. He’d had a dream of meeting Jesus or some such nonsense, and was now calling himself “Paul” after some ancient Christian missionary.
This man, Hayat knew, could be just as dangerous as the American. He, too, needed to be found and killed before he infected other Muslims with his fairy tales and insanity.
That made three men who had to be found and killed: the mysterious American agent, the Nigerian-born New York bishop and Enitan, aka Paul.
In his peripheral vision, Hayat saw a beautiful redheaded woman. She was Canadian by birth, if Hayat remembered correctly. He turned to her as she squeezed in on the pillow between him and the blonde. Her lips were bright red and wet-looking with lipstick, and she smiled seductively into his eyes. She looked as if she wanted to speak, so Hayat said, “Yes, my dear?”
“I am special, am I not?” she purred.
He smiled back at her. “You are all special,” he said, as his eyes swept the room. “And what was your name?”
The red lips took on a pouty appearance. “You do not even remember my name?” she cried, in what Hayat knew to be exaggerated offense. “Why, just this morning you and I and Kamilah—”
“I remember what the three of us did,” Hayat said. “And it was most enjoyable. But I do not remember your name.” He leaned over and kissed the woman on the forehead.
“My name is Patsy.”
“From Toronto,” Hayat interjected.
Again, she looked slightly put out. “Montreal,” she corrected.
“I was close. There are nearly fifty women here,” he went on, sweeping a hand around the room. “And new ones arrive every day. I cannot be expected to remember all of your names.”
“I suppose not.”
“But,” Hayat said, “I never forget your specialties.”
The redhead smiled at him, but to Hayat, the expression looked a little false.
Before he could speak again a sultry brunette approached timidly. He did remember her name. Kamilah. The woman who had joined him and Patsy that very morning. Now, she looked nervous, and Hayat could not help wondering why.
He soon learned the answer, as Kamilah stopped in front of him and Patsy and whispered, “You have a visitor.”
Hayat paused. While he allowed other men to watch what went on in his harem through the windows, only two were ever allowed to enter. The most frequent visitor was Agbede. Less frequent, and never showing as much interest in the women as Dhul, was Boko Haram’s liaison to al Qaeda, a man who went simply by the name of Sam. So Hayat knew it had to be one of those two when he said, “Who is this visitor?”
“That...man,” she replied. “Dhul Agbede. The ugly, perverse one who makes my skin crawl. Please do not make me go with him. The last time—”
Hayat held a hand up and the woman knew to quit speaking. “We will see what he has to say and what he has done,” he said. “Go let him in.”
She was still shivering as she turned and walked away. Hayat lay back in a half sitting, half prone position on the pillow as he waited. A moment later, Kamilah returned, with Agbede a step ahead of her. Finally, the wretched man reached the pillow where Hayat reclined. Dhul stopped, and Kamilah paused behind him. Then she circled the man and dropped to her side on another pillow, as close to Hayat as she could get.
The terrorist leader chuckled softly to himself. Kamilah was obviously attempting to psychologically distance herself from Agbede and make it appear that she was Hayat’s exclusive property. Or else she was just doing her best to get him to forget about her for the time being.
Hayat leaned across the woman, reached over and playfully tapped Kamilah’s cheek. He wanted her to know that he had not forgotten her. Kamilah, like all the other women in his harem, came and went according to his pleasure. Most had come to him through the human trafficking division of Boko Haram. He doubted that most of them were overjoyed to be where they were. But they knew things could always get worse. Once one of his women was led out of the room with the swimming pool and big pillows, she was either executed or sold again.
“So,” Hayat said, looking up at his number-two man. “What do you have to report?”
Agbede dropped onto a pillow directly across from him and reached for a tray holding oysters. After sucking down a half-dozen with a loud, smacking sound, he looked up again. “The man our informant warned us was coming has arrived,” he said.
“I am already aware of that. I sent men to eliminate him. They failed. What can you add to this knowledge?”
“I should have been sent to do the job myself,” Agbede said.
Hayat stared back at the dirty, greasy man, now splattered with oyster juice. No one else in the organization would have dared speak to him that way. But Dhul’s talents brought him special privileges. On the other hand, the women were listening, and he refused to lose face or look weak in front of them. They had very little to distract them when they weren’t pleasuring him, and they gossiped like old hags.
“Yes,” Hayat said. “I am aware that I should have assigned that strike to you, as well. But for your own sake, my old and dear friend, be wise in how you speak to me. I am still in charge, and you would do well to keep that in mind.”
The veiled threat appeared to have little if any effect on the man. Hayat wasn’t sure if it was because he was too dense to pick up on the true meaning of the words, or the fact that due to the outrageous combination of personality disorders that made up Agbede’s thinking, he simply had no capacity for fear.
Hayat waved an arm, indicating the laptop that had slid between two pillows. “In any case,” he said, “the job now falls to you.”
“The man was lucky,” Agbede said as he raised another oyster shell to his lips and sucked the contents into his mouth and down his throat. “But I will get him.”
“Have we confirmed that he is, indeed, American?” Hayat asked.
Agbede grabbed a handful of red caviar and stuffed it into his mouth. Dozens of the tiny eggs smeared his cheeks instead of his tongue, but he seemed not to notice or care. “I spoke with Azizi, who walked him through customs. He was traveling under the guise of an American journalist.”
“Is he from the CIA?” Hayat asked.
“That I do not know. I will try to find out before I kill him if you like.”
“If you can, fine. But killing him must be the number-one priority.” Hayat shifted his weight on the pillow. “And what of the American bishop? Adewale?”
Agbede grunted, then burped loudly, the sound reverberating around the room. “We have received word that he disappeared somewhere in the slums a half mile or so from the explosion site,” he said. “I have men searching for him.”
Hayat peered deeply into Dhul’s sharklike eyes. Having satisfied his desire for food and drink, the man had begun to stare at the women surrounding him. They had noticed his interest, and all but Patsy had averted their eyes from his, looking at the floor or in some other direction, as if doing their best to make themselves invisible.
Patsy just smiled and snuggled closer to Hayat.
He was growing tired of Dhul’s presence. As good as the man might be at his job, there was a limit as to how much filth and grotesqueness Hayat could tolerate. “Go and clean yourself up,” he ordered.
Then, turning to Patsy, he said, “Go with him.” He felt a leering smile creep over his face. “He will need help. And you will do whatever he asks of you.”
Patsy’s smile turned to an instant mask of horror. “But...no...please...” she whispered in a trembling, throaty voice.
“You wanted to be special,” he said. “Don’t you remember? Well, I am making you special. And I am sure that Dhul will think of some very special things for you to do.”
Tears began to roll down Patsy’s cheeks as Agbede jumped to his feet and grabbed her elbow. Hayat’s grin broadened even further. He liked playing these little psychological games with his women.
As Agbede pulled her toward him, the redhead looked over her shoulder and pleaded one last time. “Please...” she whimpered in a tiny voice.
“Go!” Hayat shouted, looking her directly in the eye. “And please him. Or you will be sold to the first trader who passes by, and live the rest of your short life in far more unpleasant surroundings than this.”
Laughing loudly, Agbede slapped her buttocks, then turned and started out of the room.
“You will be going out in public,” Hayat called after him. “Allow her some clothing for appearances sake, at least.”
A tall, long-legged blonde had anticipated the Boko Haram leader’s words and now appeared in front of Agbede holding two garments. The man set Patsy back down on her feet and waited impatiently while she twisted a wrapper around her body and then shrugged into a traditional Yoruba top known as a buba.
“Do not take too long with her, my friend,” Hayat called after him. “You have an American and a Boko Haram traitor to kill. And other attacks for which we need to plan.”
Hayat had settled back on his pillow as Agbede retreated, and was eyeing the women around him again, when Kamilah appeared once more. Stopping directly in front of him, she looked down and smiled. “The other man is here,” she said. “Sam.”
“Bring him to me then.”
She pivoted and walked off, her hips wiggling provocatively. Hayat knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude. He would offer Sam one or more of the women before the man left. But experience had taught him that Sam would not only not hurt them as Agbede did, the liaison to al Qaeda would politely refuse.
A few moments later, Kamilah returned, followed by a short, slightly built man. He was an Arab, originally from Yemen, but his skin was only a slight shade darker than the average Caucasian. His face, which was clean shaved, denoted no particular heritage. And in his work for both al Qaeda and Boko Haram, he made full use of the DNA, which allowed him to portray practically any race he chose to imitate simply by changing his clothes, language and attitude.
The bottom line was that Sam always looked like anything but what he actually was—a radical Islamic terrorist.
Hayat noted that this day, like most days when he was not undercover and gathering information within a specific ethnic group, Sam wore a gray pin-striped, three-piece business suit and a conservative burgundy-colored tie. His jacket was unbuttoned as usual, and Hayat saw the gold watch chain drooping across his abdomen from one pocket in his vest to the other.
Invisible at the small of his back, Sam would undoubtedly have his kris. The wavy, snakelike blade was encased in worn leather and secured by a steel clip to his belt.
Sam had used a wide variety of weapons during the time he had been liaison between al Qaeda and Boko Haram. But Hayat knew a .32 derringer and the kris were his favorites. They were simple, like Sam himself was simple, and they were always with him.
Although, as a member of al Qaeda rather than Boko Haram, Sam didn’t answer directly to Fazel Hayat, he had always treated the Nigerian with the utmost respect. So now, as he stopped in front of Hayat’s pillow and stood there looking more like some Latin American lawyer than the terrorist he was, he said, “You summoned me, sir?”
Hayat liked the man and liked his manners. They were in such contrast to Agbede’s. “Let us say I requested your presence,” he said now. “It sounds so much friendlier.” He indicated the empty pillow next to him where Patsy had been a few minutes earlier. “Would you like a seat?”
“No, thank you. I would prefer to stand.”
“As you wish, then,” Hayat said. “I have something I would like for you to do if you would.”
Sam nodded. “That is why I was sent here,” he said. “To assist Boko Haram in our mutual war against the West, Christianity and Judaism. To unite our two groups.”
“The bishop from New York City,” Hayat said. “The one who was born here and attended the local Christian seminary, then immigrated to the United States. He returned to be a speaker at their conference.”
“So I have been told,” Sam replied.
“And somehow,” Fazel went on, “he escaped both the bomb inside the chapel and our men outside.”
“So I also heard.”
“His name is Bishop Joshua Adewale, and how this happened, I do not know. Dhul and I were watching through binoculars from a few blocks away. And I had one man videotaping the machete executions as the bomb survivors tried to run out of the rubble. Dhul and I saw, and our man with the video camera recorded, Adewale clearly walking right between two of my other men and out of the picture.”
“I have watched the video,” Sam said. “I did not think you would mind.”
Hayat shook his head. “Of course not. I am happy that you are already familiar with the problem.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Sam said. “It appears that the two men he walked between were simply preoccupied with the killing of other bishops. And by the time they were finished, Adewale had left the scene.”
“Yes, that is the only answer I can come up with myself,” Hayat agreed. “But there is still something mysterious and unsettling about it all. Both men clearly looked at Adewale, but then seemed to immediately forget him and go back to what they were doing.” He cleared his throat. “Dhul and I saw Adewale leave the scene and head into a nearby neighborhood, walking unsteadily, as if in some kind of trance.”
Sam shuffled his feet slightly as if beginning to grow impatient. “And you would like me to find him and kill him?”
“Yes,” Hayat replied. “Dhul has gone after the American agent and the traitor who now calls himself Paul. He will be busy with them, I suspect.”
“Again, with all due respect,” Sam said, “I should have been sent after all of these men as soon as we recognized the threats they represented. In fact—and I do not wish to overstep my bounds—but I should also have been in charge of the strike against the university chapel itself.”
“You are correct,” Hayat said. “But I had Dhul manufacture the bomb, plant it and then position the men outside the chapel before he joined me on the rooftop. I thought that would be sufficient.”
Sam let a small smile of indulgence curl at the corners of his lips. “Would you allow me to speak freely, sir?” he asked.
“Of course. I value your input. And you possess the ability to disagree without being rude and offensive. Please continue.”
“Thank you, sir.” After clearing his throat, he said, “Dhul Agbede is an animal, sir,” he said. “A mindless mongrel dog more suited to the days of Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun or Shaka Zulu with his scorched earth policy. Granted, there is some use to be culled from the random and apparently conscienceless violence of which he is capable. And he does construct good explosives and forges fine-edged weaponry. Like this.” The wavy-bladed kris suddenly appeared in Sam’s hand, drawn from the small of his back so quickly Hayat saw only a flurry of movement as the man’s suit coat flared out and then fell back to his side. Sam rotated the kris into a reverse “ice pick” grip, then returned it to the sheath behind his back almost as quickly as he had produced it.
Hayat couldn’t help being awed. No one could forge steel into machetes and other edged weapons like Dhul Agbede, but he had never seen anyone who could use those blades with the skill that Sam possessed. The smartly dressed man from al Qaeda was famous for using his wavy blade. Many who knew him compared Sam to a mighty king cobra, who struck so fast with the kris that no man’s eyes could follow the movement.
Before Hayat could comment on his skill with the serpentine blade, Sam said, “If there is nothing else, sir, I shall begin my search. May I assume the last known sighting of this Nigerian-American bishop was when he was videotaped stumbling away from the scene?”
“It was,” Hayat replied.
“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me get started?” Sam asked.
Hayat squinted, thinking hard. He knew something else had been unusual, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. “No—” He stopped as a memory suddenly returned. “Wait. Yes... It may be of no consequence, but he appeared to have injured his arm.”
“And what makes you say that, sir?” Sam asked.
“He was holding his left arm, right above the wrist, as he walked away,” Hayat replied. “I remember that clearly now. But it must have been a minor injury. It did not keep him from disappearing down the street.”
“Could you tell what type of injury it was? A broken bone, perhaps? Or a puncture...an abrasion?”
“I could not tell,” Hayat stated. “Even through the binoculars or on the laptop screen.”
Sam nodded and turned, starting to go.
Hayat stopped him, saying, “Would you like a woman or two before you leave?”
San shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I am anxious to get to my task.”
“Do you think you will be able to find him?” Hayat asked.
Sam turned back briefly with a smile. “Of course,” he said. “It is what I do.”
Hayat shook his head, which caught Sam’s attention. “Is there something else, sir?”
“No. It was just the way you phrased your last comment. It made me think of Dhul. It is also what he does, but the two of you do it in such different ways.”
“I certainly hope so,” Sam replied. “I believe I would cut my own throat if I thought there were any similarities between the two of us.”
And with those final words, he turned quickly and was gone.
* * *
GALAB LED THE Executioner along what was primarily a series of alleys. But there were enough streets that had to be crossed, and enough curious eyes falling on them when they did, that the Executioner knew that they and his lime-green luggage would be remembered.
The bags had been an advantage at the airport, where they hid his weapons and other gear in what looked like typical tourist luggage. But here on the streets of Ibadan they had become a liability, drawing attention to him. Galab herself fitted into the landscape like a stalk of wheat in a wheat field, but with Bolan and his bags along, anyone could see that something out of the ordinary was taking place.
He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through clenched teeth. Every mission he undertook had its ups and downs. Little things that worked for good as he progressed through the obstacles between him and his goal could easily turn around and hinder him a moment later. He was tempted to abandon the gaudy “sightseer” bags and carry on without them, but knew he might need much of the equipment the bags contained. And by now the damage had already been done. The only thing that would draw more attention than the lime-green monstrosities would be openly carrying the weapons and other equipment they contained.
The Executioner’s mind continued to work as they walked swiftly on, hurrying down alleys and crossing streets as quickly as they could. The bottom line was that he needed to find a different, lower-profile means of transporting his gear as soon as possible. But he needed to remember that some damage had already been done. The men and women who saw him and Galab would remember them, and that meant that soon the Boko Haram terrorists were going to learn that they had been in the area with their neon luggage.
Galab had to be thinking along similar lines. “We are almost there,” she said as they rushed on. “Soon we will be out of sight again and you can store those abominable bags in a safe place.”
Bolan just nodded. In all missions, he had found over the years, there were calculated risks that had to be taken. And at this point, the only alternative to allowing themselves to be seen was to turn and go back, forgoing this place where he planned to base his operations. And even then, he had already drawn too many curious looks. If the Bokos didn’t already know Bolan and the Isaac Center director were in the area, they soon would. So the best plan of action at this juncture was to make sure they didn’t learn exactly which building they’d be in.
The soldier clenched his teeth again and moved on. Finally, he and Galab hurried into another deserted alley and the woman from the Isaac Center led him to a back door. The asphalt on which they stood was crowded with stacks of building materials: wallboard, boxes of nails, plywood sheets and other items.
The door led into a building constructed long ago of clay, but that appeared to be undergoing a major remodeling. It was at the end of a half-dozen other clay buildings that shared common walls and looked like some ancient shopping center. A walkway led away from them to the right, and Bolan looked down it and saw that it would take them to the busy street in front of the buildings. As if to confirm his assumption that the building was getting a makeover, he could hear the sounds of various power tools on the roof overhead. Whoever was operating them was too far back from the edge to be visible from below.
Galab caught his line of sight and answered his question before he could ask it. “This structure is old and beginning to fall apart,” she said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the racket. “The roof is currently being repaired. The men are back too far for us to see them.”
Bolan nodded. “Just get us out of sight, too,” he said, glancing up and down the alley to check if anyone was watching.
“In addition to the bakery out front, the repair work also adds to the cover,” the woman added as she raised a fist to knock on the door. “It gives us an excuse for people to be going and coming, in case any of the Boko Haram spies take note.”
Without another word she knocked three times on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked four more times. A moment later, a soft single knock came from the other side. Galab replied with one last thump of her fist, and the door swung open.
A man wearing black slacks and a blue tunic unbuttoned at the neck ushered Galab quickly inside. Bolan took a final look both ways down the alley, satisfying himself that there were no prying eyes taking in this final leg of their trip, then followed.
The man in the tunic closed the door behind them.
Bolan found himself in a dimly lit hallway. Copper pipes and white PVC plumbing, heat and air-conditioning lines were exposed overhead. A steady hum came from the ceiling, punctuated occasionally by a strange buzzing sound. Bolan wondered briefly at its source, then turned his attention to the man who had opened the door.
Galab and he embraced quickly, then stepped back from each other. “Paul,” the woman said, “this is Matt Cooper, the American I told you would be coming.”
Paul extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “We can use all the help we can get.” He had evidently seen the Executioner’s glance toward the ceiling. “Many of our converts are skilled artisans,” he said. “They are in the process of making the currently unused areas of this building more livable for those who must hide here.”
Bolan nodded. Faintly, from the roof, he could hear the same hiss and snap of a nail gun that he’d heard at the construction site back at the Isaac Center. Men on the roof would indeed add to the secrecy of this Christian hideout. It made it even less conspicuous than if the building was left unoccupied. The construction was a perfect example of the old ruse of “hiding in plain sight.”
The soldier glanced at Paul, somehow knowing that having workers on the roof had been this man’s idea. It was strange, sometimes, how warriors could recognize each other—even in the most peaceful settings. As they’d traveled the alleys, Galab had told Bolan a little about Paul. The man’s main mission in life since his conversion to Christianity might be leading other souls to Christ, but his background as a member of Boko Haram—in short, his experience as a working terrorist—made him an excellent strategist.
As Bolan finished that line of thought, he heard the sound of the air-conditioning kick on from the pipes overhead. The sporadic buzz continued, but seemed now to be coming from some more distant source.
He looked upward again just as Paul said, “We have many elderly people here. They dehydrate and collapse easily. So we must keep things at least moderately comfortable for them.”
Bolan nodded. Men and women lost resistance to both heat and cold as they grew older, and heatstroke or exhaustion, even hypothermia, could kill them in temperatures that younger, more able-bodied individuals barely noticed.
Paul raised the sleeve of his tunic to his mouth and coughed. Then, lowering his eyes from the ceiling to Galab’s, he said, “Did anyone see you?”
“Everyone saw us,” she replied, pointing at the gaudy green bags. “At least on the streets. But I do not believe anyone noticed our entry here.” She looked back over her shoulder at the door, then turned her eyes to Bolan for a second opinion.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone when we came in, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t see us. There are plenty of places up and down that alley to hide.” He turned to Paul. “Bottom line, it’s impossible to be sure.”
For the first time since Bolan and Galab had entered the building, Paul smiled. “That is the state in which we Christians constantly find ourselves. Not just here but all over Nigeria. We are never sure whether we are safe. Not since Boko Haram started its campaign of death and destruction.”
He raised his forearm to his mouth, turned his head and began coughing into his sleeve once again. But this time, instead of a single cough, a long series of choking sounds came out. When the fit finally ended, he turned back to Bolan and said, “At the very least, our Boko Haram enemies will soon know something unusual is happening in this area of town. But if we are lucky, they will not know exactly what or where.”
Fixing his attention on the Executioner, he spoke to the woman. “Tell me more about this man, Layla,” he said, changing the topic.
“As I said, his name is Matt Cooper.” She smiled up at the soldier. “At least that is the name I have been given. I do not know any more about him except that he is from the United States, he is supposed to be the best agent America has to offer and he has been sent here to help us.”
The man in the blue tunic nodded. “And you trust him?”
“Implicitly,” Galab said. “He has already proved himself in combat against the Bokos. They attacked us as we were leaving the center.” She gazed up at Bolan again, her brown eyes filled with feeling. “Without him I would be dead right now.”
Paul stared intensely at the Executioner. “Then I will trust him, too,” he said. “I will call him Matt Cooper, whether that is his real name or not.”
Bolan smiled. “And I’ll call you Paul. Although something tells me that wasn’t the name you were born with, either.”
Paul’s head moved back and forth as he returned the smile, but his expression was that of a weary man, one with too much on his mind to waste time or energy on formalities. “No,” he said. “I was born with the name Enitan. It means ‘person of the story’ in the Yoruba tongue. Paul is the name I took after Christ visited me in a dream.” He raised a fist to his mouth, coughed yet again, then said, “The dream was much like the experience the Apostle Paul had on the Damascus Road. Are you familiar with it?”
Bolan nodded, remembering the Catholic sermons of his youth. “His name was Saul up until then,” he said. “Jesus appeared to him in a waking vision rather than a dream, however. In a sudden light so bright it temporarily blinded him. Jesus asked why he was persecuting His followers.”
Paul nodded in turn, and for the first time since they had met let a real smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “Up until my dream I had been active in Boko Haram. I had persecuted Nigerian Christians and even brother Muslims, just as the original Paul had persecuted the early Christians for the Sanhedrin.”
He stopped speaking and clenched his teeth for a moment. Pain spread across his face at the memory. “There is more to this story,” he said. “Background. But I will have to tell you the rest when we have time.” The hurt on his face seemed to disappear as quickly as it had come. “The bottom line is that Christ forgave my sins and changed my heart in that dream. And since then I have fought against the persecution meted out by Boko Haram and other Islamic terrorist groups.”
Bolan stared down at the shorter man. “That must have delighted your Boko buddies,” he said.
Paul let out a sudden laugh that sounded like gravel banging the insides of a washing machine. “At first they did not know. So I continued to pretend to be a part of them, but leaked information to the Christians.” He jerked his chin to one side, indicating that Nigerian Christians were hiding in the building, somewhere behind him. “But then my duplicity was discovered and a price was put on my head. Since that time, I have hidden here. I go out only at night, and even then I must wear a disguise.” He lifted his left arm and tapped the sleeve of his tunic. “But I will help you in any way I can. And like the original Paul, I will give my life for Christ if it comes to that.”
“It very well might,” Bolan told him.
Paul nodded again. “Then let me take you to meet some of the other Christians hiding out here,” he said. “A few are warriors and ready to assist us in our struggle. But most—as in any group of people—do not have the temperament for violence, even when it is warranted.”
“Not everyone does,” Bolan said.
Paul squinted slightly, looking as if he was taking the soldier’s measure. “But you do,” he said. “You have the capacity for violence. Wouldn’t you say you were a violent man?”
“No,” the Executioner replied. “I wouldn’t. I’m just good at it when it’s necessary.”
“I understand.” Paul looked down at the lime-green luggage Bolan and Galab had set on the floor. “Perhaps we can find some less eye-catching bags for you.”
The Executioner let out a small chuckle. “I was going to ask you to do that,” he said. “These bags have been an albatross around my neck ever since I left the airport.”
Paul turned to lead them down the hall. Overhead was more exposed wiring, plastic pipe, and long strips of insulation stapled to the ceiling. The unexplained buzzing had increased in volume threefold.
Now, the soldier recognized the sound as some sort of electric saw. It was just more of whatever construction was happening on the roof. In addition to the saw, he could still hear the sounds of electric guns spitting out nails, and other hand tools such as hammers, wrenches and pliers twisting metal.
The ancient structure’s outside belied its interior, and made a good hiding place for people who had been forced into going underground. The restoration wasn’t finished, but the place seemed livable. They passed two rooms that contained stored furniture, canned goods and other “survival” items. An armed man was stationed in each room. In the first, a dark-skinned Nigerian had a Smith & Wesson revolver stuck in his belt. The white-skinned guy in the other storage room held an Uzi in both hands.
Paul and Galab led Bolan through a confusing labyrinth of twists and turns.
“Many of these hallways lead to dead ends,” Paul told him. “We have designed it this way in order to confuse any attackers unfamiliar with the layout. Layla and I, and the people hiding here, know the place by heart.” He paused a moment and coughed several times. It was a low, grumbling, garbling sound that bespoke some serious upper respiratory problem rather than just a sore throat or allergies. When he had finished, he said, “I doubt that you will be here long enough to need to know the floor plan.”
“No, maybe not,” Bolan replied. “But it never hurts to know things like that. I’ve been memorizing these corners and turns as we’ve walked.”
The soldier found more of the same when he followed Paul and Layla around a bend to yet another doorway. The room it led to was larger, and appeared to have been chosen primarily as housing. Men and women sat scattered around the space. Bare mattresses covered much of the floor, and the furnishings consisted of a few mismatched chairs and tables, plus one well-worn sofa. Most people in the room sat on the mattresses or the tile floor. At the rear an open door exposed a white sink and toilet. Although he didn’t count them, it looked to Bolan as if there were roughly a dozen individuals present, and the single bathroom appeared to service them all.
Paul stopped just outside the doorway and turned to Bolan. A moment passed during which the Christian convert took in a deep breath prior to speaking. At the same time, the people in the room suddenly noticed their presence, and all eyes in the room swept to Bolan and Galab as conversation ceased.
In the quiet seconds that followed, the soldier heard faint crunching and swishing sounds somewhere in the distance. He could hardly be certain, but it sounded like someone digging. And it was not all that different from the sounds that issued from Paul’s congested chest.
Bolan looked through the door at the uprooted Christians gathered. There were slightly more men than women, and a good number of them suffered from one kind of physical disability or another. Wheelchairs and crutches were prevalent, and one man wore an oxygen nose piece that was attached to a tank by clear plastic tubing.
“I don’t see any children,” Bolan said.
Paul’s chest rumbled when he spoke. “We have shipped the children out of Nigeria to Christian families in neighboring countries,” he said. “Much like the British sent children to the United States during World War II. These are people who have been attacked by the Bokos and escaped. Or a few who we know were targeted, but got away in time with their families. Boko Haram has a death list, and most of these people are on it.”
Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he used his forearm to wipe it away. “I call this the congregation room. Like the congregation in a church,” he went on. “We have several such hiding places around Ibadan, and all are overcrowded like this one.” He stopped to draw in another raspy breath. “And we never know from one second to the next when one may have been compromised. We anxiously await attacks that are sure to come sooner or later.”
Bolan looked at the faces around the room that had fixed on him. They were dirty and weary and scared. His mind drifted to the happy, playing children he had seen back at the Isaac Center. They had been too young to understand what had happened to their families, but these people were adults, and they understood the danger they were in. Their expressions showed the strain of being forced into a constant survival state of mind. When he looked into their faces, however, Bolan got at least a thin smile from each and every one of them.
They were human, so they were worried. And they were scared. But in spite of all that there was a positive spirit that seemed to emanate from them.
Bolan set his bags on the floor and looked back up again. This time he took note of three men standing against the walls. One leaned back against the far wall of the room, an American-made M16A2 hanging from a sling looped over his shoulder. Two more men—one with a Belgian FAL and the other bearing an AK-47—did the same against the side walls. The man with the M16 was fiddling with the safety. The one holding the FAL was trying to figure out how to adjust the collapsible stock, and the Nigerian who bore the AK-47 was simply staring down at his weapon as if he’d just seen it for the first time.