Chapter Thirty-three

 

 

Outskirts of Zuwarah, Libya

 

Justin leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I’m as angry as you are about Khazri’s death. But he fought like a lion and is now enjoying his reward.”

He paused, and his eyes searched Mezri’s face and those of the gunmen. A couple of them gave him small nods.

Justin continued, “The evening before he was killed, Khazri entrusted me with a message for the sheikh.” He referred to Doma by the favorite term used among his jihadi associates. “He picked me, a low-level, unknown supporter exactly because I am nobody. I wouldn’t attract the attention of the authorities or of a foreign intelligence agency. He was right: I came undetected. And here I am, along with my brother Abbas, ready to hand you the message.”

Mezri peered into Justin’s eyes. “You didn’t answer my question about never hearing your name.”

Justin wanted to repeat the explanation, but he knew that approach was unhelpful. So he nodded respectfully. “Khazri and the brothers in Tunisia know about me. And the message makes it clear that I can be trusted—”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Well, allow me to convince you.” Justin gestured with his hands. “When the messenger came from Sfax, before the glorious fighting that took place in the city, these were the words that he said—”

Mezri silenced Justin with a raised hand. “No, wait. Not here. Let’s go inside, so that we can talk in private.”

Justin offered a small bow. “Please, do not make me go. I ... I’m not feeling well, and the fresh air is allowing me to breathe easier.” He put his hand over his chest, and his face registered a painful expression.

“What is it?”

“It’s embarrassing, but I ... I get car sick.”

A small, almost inaudible snicker came from one of the gunmen.

Mezri whipped his gaze toward the gunman, then waved a dismissive hand. “You and you.” He gestured to the younger gunman flanking Justin and the bearded man standing to Mezri’s left side. “Inside.”

They hurried away and disappeared around the corner. Justin could not tell if they entered the warehouse, but they were beyond earshot. He turned his head toward the jihadist standing near the gate. “What about him?”

Mezri gestured to the man. “Go for a walk.”

The man nodded and vanished beyond the gate.

Mezri leaned closer to Justin. “You can speak freely now...”

“Yes, I was saying the messenger brought the following words to Khazri: Whomever Allah wants good for, He strikes with affliction. The land of the kafir will be struck through Walid and Khalid.

Mezri listened attentively, but his face betrayed no emotion.

Justin needed no confirmation. He had double-checked and even triple-checked with Khazri, for absolute certainty about the content of the message. In every case, he had repeated those words. The first part of the message was taken from the writings of Abu Hurayrah, who was a companion of the Prophet Muhammad and perhaps the most prolific writer of hadith, the sayings of the prophet. The word kafir meant “unbeliever,” and depending on the extremist group using the term, it could mean the United States, Canada, any of the Western states or even Muslim countries that were considered to have veered off the path of Allah.

The last two words, Walid and Khalid, were still a mystery for Justin. He had used every means at his disposal, but Khazri had denied knowing anyone by that name. Justin had sent the names to his boss, but every search of their vast databases had returned no hopeful hit. The two names were very common, and without any context or more details, this intelligence was almost useless.

Justin said, “That was the message that was delivered.”

Mezri said nothing for another long moment. Then, since Justin’s eyes never left the jihadist’s face, he said, “Are you expecting me to confirm it?”

“No, just looking for an acknowledgment, so I know you’re understanding me and that I can continue...”

“Continue.”

“All right. So, here’s the message from Khazri: My prayer ended with the takbir. Those who have committed riddah, Allah will not forgive.”

Takbir was the Arabic phrase Allahu akbar, that was usually translated as God is greater, meaning God is greater than anything that can happen. Riddah meant apostasy, denoting the conscious abandonment of the Muslim way of living through words or actions. Terrorists had often used the encompassing term for both Muslims in Arab countries who did not subscribe to violent jihad, as well as Westerners or non-Muslims who believed in another religion. Justin had interpreted Khazri’s message as implied support for the actions planned by Walid and Khalid, who were supposed to strike the land.

“That’s it?” Mezri said after a brief pause following Justin’s words.

“Yes, that’s it. Do you want me to repeat it?”

“No, it’s clear.” He remained standing a couple of feet away from Justin, but it seemed the message was echoing through Mezri’s mind. He nodded to himself, then a small grin curled the left corner of his lips.

“What does it mean?” Justin asked.

“Huh, what?”

“The message. Who are those that have left the faith?”

Mezri’s eyes seemed to burn with anger. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curious, I guess.”

Patton gave Justin’s shoulder a tight pinch. He looked up. Patton shook his head. Wrong choice of words, his eyes said.

“Curious? You’re just a messenger. You shouldn’t be curious.”

Justin shrugged and lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I ... I just thought if I knew, I can be more use—”

Mezri stooped down, so he could be at Justin’s eye level. “You thought... Why are you thinking? That’s not your job.”

“All right, all right. My mistake. But as I said, if I know who Walid and Khalid are, I can help—”

With a quick hand gesture, Mezri pulled out a Beretta pistol from his back. He shoved the barrel under Justin’s chin and cocked the pistol. “You don’t seem to understand that you need to shut up. Stop asking questions that will get you killed.”

Justin raised his hands up. The cold steel against his throat was obstructing his airways. His breathing had become difficult, and it was not easy to speak. “I’m sorry ... very sorry.”

“Yes, you are, but too late for that. Why are you here?”

Justin did not flinch. He had expected the question and thought he had handled it earlier, when he had given Mezri the initial explanation. That had not worked, or perhaps Justin’s curiosity had made matters worse. Is Carrie seeing this? Probably not, since now he’s as tall as I am. I’ve got to give her a chance for a clear shot.

He tried to swing his head to the side, but Mezri’s pistol followed his movement. “Tell me, why are you here? Are you a spy?”

Mezri’s last word sent a chill shooting down Justin’s spine, stressing the grave situation and the dire need to get out of it without delay. Justin stared at Mezri, then began to slowly move his head back and to the right. Mezri followed with his pistol, but Justin felt the muzzle leave his neck for just a split second.

It was the moment to act.

He threw his head and his body to the side as he gripped Mezri’s pistol with both hands and pushed it in the other direction.

The Beretta went off an inch away from Justin’s head. The percussion almost blew out his eardrum. The bullet pierced a hole in the wheelchair’s fabric.

Mezri pulled the trigger again.

The bullet almost grazed Justin’s thigh. He leaned forward and fell over Mezri.

The Beretta went off a third time, but the round hit the gunman standing behind the wheelchair.

Justin had no time to see how Patton was faring, since Mezri was throwing a series of blows at Justin’s face. He was able to block most of them with his right hand, while his left hand was still locked around Mezri’s gun-holding hand. His fingers were still wrapped around the pistol’s stock, but he could not reach the trigger.

One of Mezri’s blows penetrated Justin’s defenses and struck his ear. He struggled for balance for a moment, and thought he was going to fall to the ground. He was able to regain his senses as another fist connected with the right side of his face. Justin slammed Mezri’s hand to the ground, but he held on to the pistol.

Patton fired over Justin’s head.

Other gunshots rang from the distance. Bullets whizzed all around him, but none struck him or Mezri.

The jihadist threw another punch, but it was weak. Justin blocked it with ease, then brought down his elbow into Mezri’s throat. He coughed up blood and gurgled in pain. His fingers released the pistol, but only slightly.

It was enough for Justin to slide his hand underneath Mezri’s and pry away the pistol. The jihadist attempted to bring his left fist up, but Justin thrust the Beretta’s barrel into Mezri’s mouth. “Don’t move!”