TWO DAYS LATER
ABU KAMAL, SYRIA—JANUARY 23, 2020—14:30 / 2:30 P.M. EET
The house was less than a mile from the western bank of the Euphrates. If you kept going a little further from the famous waterway, the landscape would be nothing but dirt and rocks. But here, near this ancient river, were date palms and willow trees and Syrian mesquite. Abbas could even see several rows of grapevines peeking from behind the large home.
The three men walked slowly toward the front door—Abbas and Abu Mustafa al-Sheibani holding their pace back to accommodate the short, cane-aided strides of Falih Kazali. Abbas hadn’t been in Syria for several years, and this was his first time ever to be in the country without a gun in his hand. But they were here not to fight but to meet. And what a meeting it would be.
When Soleimani was murdered by the Americans, Abbas had despaired. Not only because his death was such a loss but also because Abbas worried that the plan they’d been chosen for had died with him. But then Kazali received a message. The operation was still a go. Only now it would be in honor of the great Quds commander—a tribute to his service and his sacrifice. That message was what brought them here, just across the Iraqi border into Syria. Behind that front door sat General Esmail Qaani, the new commander of the Quds Forces of the IRGC. The fact that he’d traveled all the way to this border town told Abbas all he needed to know about the gravity of this mission.
They reached the front door, which opened before they had a chance to knock. Before entering, Abbas turned and waved to the four armed men he’d left by the cars, letting them know all was well.
While not opulent, the inside of the house was nevertheless upscale for this part of the country. Gold-framed paintings hung all around, and high-quality rugs had been spread around the floor. What appeared to be marble was everywhere—the walls, the floors—but when Abbas looked closely, he could see several places with cracks and chips, which proved that what looked like marble was just an overlaid facade.
A man in a dark-blue suit led them across the entryway and through another set of doors. Seated on cushions with a feast of meats, salads, and breads in front of them were Commander Qaani, a second general wearing a Quds uniform, and two other men, one older and one younger, both dressed in civilian clothing. Qaani was telling a story in Farsi to those at the low table.
As they entered, the older man stood. Qaani, however, continued eating and telling his story, never acknowledging his visitors.
“As-salamu ‘alaykum,” said the man.
“Wa-‘alaykum salam,” Abbas and the other two men said in return.
“I am Farid Alzuhur. You are most welcome to my home.” He nodded toward each of the others in the room. “The young man is my son, Karam. That is General Farrokh Soltani, deputy commander of Quds Forces. And that, of course, is General Esmail Qaani.”
Still, Qaani had not looked up. Abbas tried not to let it bother him. This was standard fare when dealing with the IRGC. The Persians had a serious superiority complex. In their minds, they had developed great culture and powerful empires while the Arabs had still been living in caves and riding around on camels. Thus, they treated everyone around them as if they were mere servants. And the thing was people just took it from them, including him. He knew men, battle-hardened warriors, who would slit a man’s throat for disrespecting them. Yet when a member of the IRGC talked down to them, they just took it.
Their host encouraged them to sit on three cushions placed a small distance from the table. He did not offer them food.
Abu Mustafa and Abbas helped Kazali down to his cushion, then they took their places. Once they were situated, Qaani came to the end of his story, and the deputy commander and the host’s son both laughed. Only now did the general turn toward his visitors.
“Ah, Falih Kazali, it is good to see you again after so many years.” He turned to the host. “Farid, you and your son may leave us now.”
Kazali bowed his head as the homeowner and his boy walked out of the room, then said, “General, it is an honor to have been invited to join you and a blessing to see your face.”
“And Abu Mustafa,” the general said, “you are a busy man. Your reputation precedes you, and your work for us is much appreciated.”
“Tashakkor mikonam,” Abu Mustafa replied, thanking him.
“I thank you both for coming to meet me here.”
Abbas tried to ignore the general’s slight against him. He was, after all, not part of the leadership of KSS—at least not yet.
Qaani continued. “I have made this trip for two reasons. First, I want to stress to you the necessity of this plan’s success. If it is carried out properly, not only will the Americans and their puppet states in the Gulf be made to look like fools, but it could utterly derail the peace overtures. However, if you fail, the retaliation will be severe, and we will all feel it. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, general,” Kazali said. “We will not fail you.”
“The second reason I have come is so that I can hear from the mouth of this man”—he pointed at Abbas—“that he has the ability to carry out our plan.”
“I, too, will not fail you. I will carry out your plan.” Abbas spoke in genuine earnest.
Qaani glared at him. “Is it not foolishness to say such a thing before you have even heard the plan?”
Abbas flushed but kept his composure. “It is not foolishness, general. It is faith. I know Allah will give me what is needed to strike this blow against the apostate and the infidel. I will not let you down, because my god will not let me down.”
“Hmm.” Qaani assessed Abbas. “Well spoken. You, Seif Abdel Abbas, are the reason we have come to Kata’ib Sayyid al-Shuhada. Commander Soleimani, may Allah have mercy on his soul, had heard of your skills with UAV technology. Your level of expertise rivals that of some of our Houthi drone pilots.”
“You are most kind, general.”
“Because of the location of the attack, it would be difficult for one of my men or one of our Yemenis to carry it out without being discovered. You may dress a lion as a sheep, but when it speaks you will still hear the roar. You and a team you will assemble, however, will have more access.”
“Where will we be going, general?”
Here the general’s face brightened with a wide smile. “The attack will be directly at the center of Sunni decadence—the United Arab Emirates.”
Abbas’s heart soared when he heard the target. He was afraid this would just be another big oil refinery or another military site. The UAE meant an attack on depravity. It meant mass casualties. It meant a place in history.
When the Arab tribes were falling behind the rest of the world economically and in technology, Allah provided them with a miracle—oil. It was this heavenly provision that allowed the Middle East to thrive and hold the Western world hostage through their dependence on OPEC crude. It was all going very well, but then the seven sheikhdoms that made up the United Arab Emirates decided to go a new direction. They took their oil money and built hotels and amusement parks and malls, all to lure in the infidels. What Allah had given them was not enough; they wanted more. So they sold their souls to the Western devils to get it. It would be a pleasure to rain fire down upon the Sunni Emiratis and their hedonistic ways.
General Soltani spoke for the first time. Looking at Abbas, he said, “Come, let us go to where we can discuss your part of the plan.”
As Abbas stood, Qaani invited Kazali and Abu Mustafa to come closer and partake of the meal.
In the next room stood a high table and two chairs. Soltani sat in one chair, and Abbas in the other. For the next 45 minutes, the general laid out the plan in detail. He explained the procedure for acquiring the necessary equipment and munitions, and he laid out the surprisingly tight time frame Abbas and the KSS had for preparation.
By the time Kazali, Abu Mustafa, and Abbas walked out the front door, Abbas’s head was swimming. It would truly take a work of Allah to pull this off. But that was just the kind of situation where Allah would work his miracles.
Kazali and Abbas got in one car with two of the KSS men and headed for the Al-Qa’im border crossing. Abu Mustafa, however, was going north to Al-Hasakah along the Khabur River in Kurdish Syria. He was working on a new northern route to get weapons across Syria and down to Hezbollah in Lebanon as part of his network. He might or might not return in time for the February 14 and 15 attacks, he said. The smuggling route was for the IRGC, and they felt that Abu Mustafa’s time was better spent there.
That was no mind. Success or failure depended upon Abbas—no one else.
Allah, give me the strength to carry out your will. Let us strike a great blow to those who hate you and who mock your name. Let both the apostate and the infidel feel the fires of your hell. I am your servant. Use me.