3:30 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time (10:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Santa Cruz de la Palma
La Palma, Canary Islands
Atlantic Ocean
“How was your soup?” the white-haired old man said.
Gregorio Fuentes, until recently Rajan Muhammad, nodded with gusto.
“Very good.”
The soup was chorizo and potato in a tomato broth, very Spanish, and quite delicious. It was the perfect weather for a hot soup. Likely it was a warm day for this region, but after spending weeks on end in the blazing African desert, the weak afternoon sun here felt cool to Gregorio.
He was tired. He had passed the weapon through the normal ivory smuggling networks, then detoured it here, all without incident, and arriving even before he had imagined. But it had been a long twenty-four hours. He was not as young, nor as energetic, as he once had been. He craved sleep, in a big soft bed in a darkened room, the windows thrown wide to catch the ocean breezes.
“And the red wine?” the man said. The name of Gregorio’s host, which of course was not really his name, was Pablo Mendoza. It was a bit of a joke. The word Mendoza meant cold mountain. The man was very large and heavyset, like a mountain, with the huge stone hands of a laborer. In his much younger years, during the war for Algerian independence, he was also a cold, ruthless killer… of the French.
“Lovely, as you must know.”
Pablo nodded. “I do know.”
They were sitting on the outdoor patio of a quiet restaurant high on the craggy hillsides above the city of Santa Cruz de la Palma. The view from the patio—of the city, its high-rise buildings perched on ancient lava flows, and the vast ocean beyond—was astonishing. Behind them and to the right, the volcano—La Cumbre Vieja—rose in the distance, a staggering sight, a giant climbing into the skies. It was an act of faith to build a city, or any human settlement at all, in the shadow of such a thing.
Gregorio was enjoying his meal very much. Soon the entrée would come—mero, similar to what Arabs of the Persian Gulf would call hammour—fresh catch of the day from the cold ocean waters surrounding these exquisite islands.
“How long have you been here?” Gregorio said.
Pablo sighed and shrugged. “Eight years.”
Eight years. Eight years ago the man had disappeared into the role of Pablo Mendoza, an old Spaniard living on La Palma. The character of Mendoza had so thoroughly absorbed and assimilated the previous person that you would never guess this Mendoza had started life as an Algerian. He walked like an old Spaniard, and he talked and drank wine and laughed and tended his garden like an old Spaniard. And he kissed his crucifix from time to time, just like an old Spaniard.
Yet, at the same time, he was a militant Muslim, seeking to bring the kingdom of paradise to Earth. That had never changed. In the past few years, he had gradually brought believers to these islands, fighters, men who chose the life of Allah to the life of this world. He hid them, fed them, established them here as immigrants and workers, slowly building a small invisible army, all in preparation for one night.
This coming night.
“How many men do we have here?” Gregorio said.
Pablo’s eyes glanced to the left, toward the indoor kitchen. Gregorio shook his head—the waiter was not coming.
“Forty-eight.” He grunted. It was almost a laugh. “Some will forget their oaths because life is too good here, too pleasant to risk death, but most will come. In fact, most have already assembled. They are ready to die, if necessary.”
“And the gift I left them?” Gregorio said. “They’ve found it?”
Pablo nodded. “Of course. It will soon be on the way to its destination.” He paused, thoughtful, and took a sip of his wine. “You did an exceptional job, my friend. When we first heard the news out of Nigeria, it was very distressing. These past years, everything we worked for… it seemed to be gone. But you brought it back to us.”
Gregorio sipped his own wine. “We are blessed. The work we do is Allah’s will. This has never been clearer to me.”
“God is great,” Pablo said.
“Yes.”
The waiter came and removed the empty soup bowls from the table. He lifted the wine bottle, saw that half remained, and retreated to the kitchen.
Pablo poured a little more wine into both their glasses. “After we eat, and after we finish the wine, and we chat a bit more, a car will take you to the airport. There is a small plane waiting, which will take off immediately and return you to Casablanca. You have completed a great task, retrieving what was stolen, and even accompanying it this far. But you must leave before anything more takes place. It will be dangerous here tonight, but also in the days that follow.”
Gregorio smiled. “I’m not afraid to die.”
Pablo shook his head. “You’re too valuable. Your work is not yet done. Also, you are too notorious. Your presence here might call attention to itself, and might put some in jeopardy who would otherwise escape.”
“And you?” Gregorio said.
Now Pablo smiled. “I’m old. This island is my home. If it falls into the sea, I will fall with it. If it doesn’t fall, few will suspect me of anything. I am a fixture here.”
The waiter brought the entrees. The presentation was beautiful—the fish lay on the plate, its head intact, alongside a colorful salad and slices of lemon. Gregorio’s fish seemed to stare up at him with its one baleful eye.
“What time will it happen?” Gregorio said.
Pablo shook his head. “We shouldn’t talk of these things any longer,” he said. “Night comes early this time of year. Events are already in motion. When will they happen, you ask? Very soon, I say. Very, very soon.”