“Hands on top of your head,” said one of several black-clad figures armed with very nasty-looking assault rifles. Too much tea and too much sex, Mohammed thought to himself as he rose to go to the toilet.When he approached the bedroom door, his heart caught in his throat. In one of the villa’s small bedrooms, Mohammed carefully unlocked a specially fabricated titanium briefcase and booted up his encrypted Macintosh PowerBook.Īs he worked, his mind drifted to the little boy who had left only twenty minutes ago, and he started becoming aroused again.With the arousal, though, came something else-a dull throbbing in his back, just below the rib cage, complemented by an overwhelming urge to urinate. Everything in Mohammed’s world seemed to be improving, even his health. What’s more, after their humiliating defeat at the hands of local militias, the United States wanted nothing to do with this part of the world.
In just three years, al-Qaeda had opened dozens of covert training camps throughout the country and had significantly added to the organization’s numbers, shipping them off to Iraq to gain valuable, real-world combat experience. With no central government and no outside forces meddling in local affairs, men like Mohammed bin Mohammed were free to do as they wished in Somalia. Not only did he have his own men posted on the roads in both directions, but he also enjoyed the protection of several local warlords. In addition, the beach had been mined with antipersonnel devices and the entire house had been constructed with reinforced concrete and steel to protect against any of the remote-controlled Predator Drone attacks the cowardly Americans were so fond of. The transaction was nearly complete.īecause of his particular predilections, Mohammed preferred to live at the beachside villa alone, but that didn’t mean he was lax when it came to security. There was no telling how much havoc the storm might wreak on satellite communications, and he had a few last elements to put in place.
A bit fatigued from his illness and his recent trip to Morocco, Mohammed leaned against one of the stone balustrades and listened to the roar of the Indian Ocean crashing against the beach below.Īfter a few more minutes of salt air against his skin, Mohammed returned inside. It was darker than normal for this time of evening-the clouds of an approaching storm having hidden the stars overhead. Once Mohammed had finished bathing, he brewed himself another glass of tea and stepped out onto the terrace.
Maybe not as exquisite as the European or Arab boys he was accustomed to, but one made do with what one had at hand. Mohammed bin Mohammed tucked a handful of local currency into the front of the boy’s pants note by note and then sent him on his way back to the madrassa.
0 kommentar(er)
