Insurrection

A second later they left the parking lot and started down a deserted alley behind the busy market.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4d3ecbd8-ca0f-5fc5-8bdb-fd0c19cd483c)

He had designed the room himself, all the while keeping his tongue pressed firmly into his cheek. It was a joke in many ways, a humorous glimpse into the life of an old-style caliph. A cross between modern reality and a cartoon view of what it was like to be a wealthy oil sheikh. But to Fazel Hayat it was fun and certainly exciting. Maybe not quite as exciting as blowing up a chapel full of Christian bishops, or watching on his laptop screen as his men shot at this mysterious American agent.

Hayat thought back to the bombing of the seminary chapel. They had killed many of the bishops. But the primary target—Bishop Joshua Adewale—had escaped, and that made the Boko leader angry. He had wanted to kill the man because he was a Christian bishop, but also because he was an American. In addition to disrupting the bishops’ conference and destroying the seminary, Hayat had been planning to humiliate the United States and show the world how the Satanic democracy had lost power, will and influence.

That part of the plan had failed, but he would correct the error.

The soft purr and splash of the artificial waterfall built into the wall and leading down into the indoor swimming pool had a relaxing effect on Hayat, and he stretched out on his side atop the large stuffed pillows. In front of him now was a beautiful shapely blonde wearing nothing but sheer capri pants. Behind him, he felt the large-breasted brunette he had just been kissing reach up with both hands to massage his neck.

The waterfall and pool were the room’s central features, but the scantily clad young women swimming and playing in the water also commanded the leader’s attention. Other members of what Hayat jokingly called his Boko Haram Harem lounged on huge silk pillows around the room.

The walls of the Haram Harem were of tile, and each one featured a saying from the Koran. At least that was what Hayat had been told. He had never bothered to actually read any of them. For that matter, he had read very little of the Koran.

When he wasn’t engaged in some sort of sexual act with the women, Hayat kept busy eating and drinking or planning the next attack on Nigerians who paid homage to the ways of the West. It mattered not if they were Christians or Muslims.

On the other side of the room, across the pool, were two violinists, a string bass player and a harpist. All four were beautiful females. Eerie sounds of music in a minor key came from their strings and guided the steps of three dancers in front of them. These women wore completely transparent pantaloons and blouses, and veils that covered their faces except for their alluring eyes.

Hayat listened to the music and stared at the dancers and musicians. But even in this atmosphere, which had been designed totally for pleasure and pleasure alone, his mind kept wandering. He was now aware that an American agent of some kind—a true specialist, a man whose skills went far beyond those of the usual commando or intelligence officer—had come to Nigeria. He had learned about the man from his contact at the airport, who had been paid by the Americans to guide the man through customs. Hayat did not yet know exactly what this American agent’s mission was, but until he received that information, and the man was eliminated, he could not completely rest.

He felt himself frowning. Some of his tracking agents had followed the man as he left the airport in a taxicab. They had tailed him to the Isaac Center, where they had attacked, but been unsuccessful in eliminating him. That was Hayat’s own fault, he had decided. He had not taken the threat as seriously as he should have, and had allowed his second team to attempt the assassination. He would not make that mistake again. As soon as they located the American again, he would put Dhul Agbede on the job. And Hayat had not forgotten the Nigerian-born American bishop, either. Joshua Adewale had somehow escaped both the explosion and the machetes of the Bokos sent to the chapel.

He was another enemy who needed to be located. And killed. But Dhul had enough on his plate. Hayat would send Sam to find and kill the bishop from New York.

The second problem on the mind of the Boko Haram leader was almost as troubling as the first. One of his own men—Enitan—had gone over to the enemy. He’d had a dream of meeting Jesus or some such nonsense, and was now calling himself “Paul” after some ancient Christian missionary.

This man, Hayat knew, could be just as dangerous as the American. He, too, needed to be found and killed before he infected other Muslims with his fairy tales and insanity.

That made three men who had to be found and killed: the mysterious American agent, the Nigerian-born New York bishop and Enitan, aka Paul.

In his peripheral vision, Hayat saw a beautiful redheaded woman. She was Canadian by birth, if Hayat remembered correctly. He turned to her as she squeezed in on the pillow between him and the blonde. Her lips were bright red and wet-looking with lipstick, and she smiled seductively into his eyes. She looked as if she wanted to speak, so Hayat said, “Yes, my dear?”

“I am special, am I not?” she purred.

He smiled back at her. “You are all special,” he said, as his eyes swept the room. “And what was your name?”

The red lips took on a pouty appearance. “You do not even remember my name?” she cried, in what Hayat knew to be exaggerated offense. “Why, just this morning you and I and Kamilah—”

“I remember what the three of us did,” Hayat said. “And it was most enjoyable. But I do not remember your name.” He leaned over and kissed the woman on the forehead.

“My name is Patsy.”

“From Toronto,” Hayat interjected.

Again, she looked slightly put out. “Montreal,” she corrected.

“I was close. There are nearly fifty women here,” he went on, sweeping a hand around the room. “And new ones arrive every day. I cannot be expected to remember all of your names.”

“I suppose not.”

“But,” Hayat said, “I never forget your specialties.”

The redhead smiled at him, but to Hayat, the expression looked a little false.

Before he could speak again a sultry brunette approached timidly. He did remember her name. Kamilah. The woman who had joined him and Patsy that very morning. Now, she looked nervous, and Hayat could not help wondering why.

He soon learned the answer, as Kamilah stopped in front of him and Patsy and whispered, “You have a visitor.”

Hayat paused. While he allowed other men to watch what went on in his harem through the windows, only two were ever allowed to enter. The most frequent visitor was Agbede. Less frequent, and never showing as much interest in the women as Dhul, was Boko Haram’s liaison to al Qaeda, a man who went simply by the name of Sam. So Hayat knew it had to be one of those two when he said, “Who is this visitor?”

“That...man,” she replied. “Dhul Agbede. The ugly, perverse one who makes my skin crawl. Please do not make me go with him. The last time—”

Hayat held a hand up and the woman knew to quit speaking. “We will see what he has to say and what he has done,” he said. “Go let him in.”

She was still shivering as she turned and walked away. Hayat lay back in a half sitting, half prone position on the pillow as he waited. A moment later, Kamilah returned, with Agbede a step ahead of her. Finally, the wretched man reached the pillow where Hayat reclined. Dhul stopped, and Kamilah paused behind him. Then she circled the man and dropped to her side on another pillow, as close to Hayat as she could get.

The terrorist leader chuckled softly to himself. Kamilah was obviously attempting to psychologically distance herself from Agbede and make it appear that she was Hayat’s exclusive property. Or else she was just doing her best to get him to forget about her for the time being.

Hayat leaned across the woman, reached over and playfully tapped Kamilah’s cheek. He wanted her to know that he had not forgotten her. Kamilah, like all the other women in his harem, came and went according to his pleasure. Most had come to him through the human trafficking division of Boko Haram. He doubted that most of them were overjoyed to be where they were. But they knew things could always get worse. Once one of his women was led out of the room with the swimming pool and big pillows, she was either executed or sold again.

“So,” Hayat said, looking up at his number-two man. “What do you have to report?”

Agbede dropped onto a pillow directly across from him and reached for a tray holding oysters. After sucking down a half-dozen with a loud, smacking sound, he looked up again. “The man our informant warned us was coming has arrived,” he said.

“I am already aware of that. I sent men to eliminate him. They failed. What can you add to this knowledge?”

“I should have been sent to do the job myself,” Agbede said.

Hayat stared back at the dirty, greasy man, now splattered with oyster juice. No one else in the organization would have dared speak to him that way. But Dhul’s talents brought him special privileges. On the other hand, the women were listening, and he refused to lose face or look weak in front of them. They had very little to distract them when they weren’t pleasuring him, and they gossiped like old hags.

“Yes,” Hayat said. “I am aware that I should have assigned that strike to you, as well. But for your own sake, my old and dear friend, be wise in how you speak to me. I am still in charge, and you would do well to keep that in mind.”

The veiled threat appeared to have little if any effect on the man. Hayat wasn’t sure if it was because he was too dense to pick up on the true meaning of the words, or the fact that due to the outrageous combination of personality disorders that made up Agbede’s thinking, he simply had no capacity for fear.

Hayat waved an arm, indicating the laptop that had slid between two pillows. “In any case,” he said, “the job now falls to you.”

“The man was lucky,” Agbede said as he raised another oyster shell to his lips and sucked the contents into his mouth and down his throat. “But I will get him.”

“Have we confirmed that he is, indeed, American?” Hayat asked.

Agbede grabbed a handful of red caviar and stuffed it into his mouth. Dozens of the tiny eggs smeared his cheeks instead of his tongue, but he seemed not to notice or care. “I spoke with Azizi, who walked him through customs. He was traveling under the guise of an American journalist.”

“Is he from the CIA?” Hayat asked.

“That I do not know. I will try to find out before I kill him if you like.”

“If you can, fine. But killing him must be the number-one priority.” Hayat shifted his weight on the pillow. “And what of the American bishop? Adewale?”