Hotel Palazzio, Munich, Germany
There was a knock at the door, a coded two-one-two, Nazari rising to answer it then embracing the two men who entered. Kane continued to let them think he didn’t understand Arabic, and merely rose to shake their hands, no one seeming to trust him.
Once they had arrived at the Austrian-German border it had been easy to get into Germany, contacts across the border picking them up and delivering them to Munich. A steady stream from their cell continued to arrive, there apparently hotel rooms around the city filled with fighters ready for the next phase.
Nazari sat down next to him, a broad smile on his face. “This is good,” he said in English.
Kane nodded. “How many do you think will get through?”
“Enough. Allah willing, more than enough.” He pointed at the room. “Look, almost everyone from our cell has made it through.” He looked at Kane. “Allah is clearly on our side.”
Kane’s head bobbed in agreement. “It would appear so. When will we be told the plan?”
Nazari stared at him, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You will know when you need to know. And when it is executed, America and Europe will crumble from the chaos we will bring.” He turned to the group, speaking in Arabic. “Tomorrow we leave for Frankfurt. I want everyone showered, groomed, well rested, and fed. We are no longer refugees.” He pointed to a pile of clothing delivered by their contact. “Fresh clothes.” The men attacked the pile as Nazari rose. “I think I’ll shower first.”
He left Kane to “wonder” what was going on, not bothering to translate, and the men to take their pick of the clothes, Kane thankful that soon the stench that filled the cramped room would be lessened as weeks of sweat, grime, shit, spit and every other lovely excretion caked on their bodies would be washed away.
Somebody is going to have to burn these clothes.
He closed his eyes.
And fumigate the room.