A mile and a half up the road, two other members of the ambush team were concealed behind a broken down bus watching for any signs of activity. They carried AK-47s, water bottles, and a bulky portable phone that buzzed suddenly. The senior member of the ambush team answered.
“Are you in position?”
“Yes, Ahmed, we are.”
“And the prisoner?”
“His legs have been broken. We have fil ed his mouth with stones and sewn his lips together.”
“Is the sled prepared?”
“Yes, Ahmed.”
“Good. Cal us the moment the infidels pass your position.”
A half hour later, the phone buzzed again, propel ing the men into action. They knew their job down to the last detail and relished what they were about to accomplish. Two of them positioned the makeshift sled along the side of the road where it could not be missed. The other three lifted Sergeant Price in their arms, carrying him toward the road, and laid him atop the sled. They secured him to the sled using lengths of rusted chain, and then disguised the sled and the apparatus attached to the bottom by placing rocks around the base. By the time the British troop carrier rounded the corner a quarter of a mile away, the trap had been set, and the gueril as were wel hidden among the rubble again, watching. When the troop carrier spotted a man frantical y waving his arms lying along the side of the road, they drew to a halt. Two of them jumped out and moved with extreme caution toward the man on the sled. When they recognized he was one of theirs by the battle fatigues he was wearing, they broke into a sprint.
“He’s one of ours,” one of them cal ed back to the troop carrier. Sergeant Keith Price was barely alive, but he did everything he could to warn his comrades away. He shook his head and waved at them frantical y. He tried cal ing out, but it was impossible. The first of his rescuers knelt down beside him.
“Hang on, man. Hang on. We’l get you out of here,” he said.
Sergeant Price shook his head. Tears rol ed down his cheeks. The man at his side started tossing aside the stones pinning Price to the sled. Suddenly his eyes widened, and Price knew why. He had spotted the tel -tale wiring of the bomb. Without a second’s hesitation, he turned to his companion and screamed,
“My God! It’s a device! We better………”
It was too late. By then, Ahmed had activated his cel phone, and it was the signal from the phone that detonated the device, causing an explosion that sent concussions through the ground for miles and ended the lives of three brave British soldiers.
5 - PERSONNEL
DAVIS INTERNATIONAL BUILDING
ALAN SAT IN his office facing the large picture window behind his desk, staring out through the light drizzle but not seeing it. He was thinking about his meeting with Imam Aziz. It wasn’t that he was dissatisfied with his last conversation with Aziz it was the answers to other unasked questions that he needed to resolve. Alan only knew one way to deal with the shortfal s of life, big or smal , and that was head on. In this case, pick up the phone, cal the man, and ask for a repeat performance at his convenience, of course, and with al respect. Convinced it was the necessary thing to do, he used his cel phone and dialed the imam’s private line.
When Aziz answered, Alan said, “My good friend Mohammed. It’s Alan. Alan Davis. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at al , Alan. I can only assume you took my advice and are ready to convert,” the imam said, punctuating the words with good-natured sarcasm.
“Nothing so urgent, I’m afraid,” Alan joked in return. And then he said, “I hate to inconvenience you, Mohammed, but I have a couple more questions related to the subject of our last visit and was hoping I could stop by later today for a short visit––perhaps at your Mosque?”
“Of course Alan, you’re always welcome, but why not come to my home? It’s right next door to the Mosque. I’l be in for the rest of the day.” Imam Aziz made certain that Alan had the correct address, and Alan said he would come by on his way home from the office.
As it turned out, the house was not hard to find. Once Alan entered the modest neighborhood of like-designed Cape Cods in Levittown, he used the pencil-thin minaret towering above the mosque as his bel wether.
The houses were al built low to the ground with meagerly pitched roofs, as if Mother Nature would at some unsuspecting moment suddenly try to unearth them with hurricane-force winds. The imam’s house was easily identified by the warm brown paint on the exterior, the absence of flowers or flowering shrubs, and the long shadow of the minaret.
Alan had opted for his own Mercedes today instead of a chauffeur-driven limo, which he eased into the curb in front of the brown house. He walked to the front door, and when he didn’t see a doorbel , settled for the old-fashioned knocker. Imam Mohammed Aziz answered the door himself. He wore a floor-length robe over a slightly protruding paunch. On his head, a black turban was wrapped in a flat, circular pattern that showed a fringe of white hair. Round wire-rimmed glasses perched on a truly Semitic nose.
“Ah! Alan, my friend, please come in,” he said with a genuine smile. “How nice of you to drive out here to my humble digs.”
Alan took the man’s outstretched hand somewhat reluctantly knowing the imam’s hand always seemed sweaty. “Good evening, Mohammed. Thanks for seeing me again.”
“Come in, come in. Tea?”
“Tea sounds great. Thank you.”
Alan fol owed Mohammed Aziz into a smal sitting room. There was a porcelain serving set resting upon a smal coffee table and two over-stuffed chairs. The imam gestured to the nearest of these. “Sit, please. Make yourself comfortable.”
The tea was already made, and Mohammed Aziz poured for them both. “So, other than the pleasure of my stimulating company, tel me what brings you here this fine evening.”
Alan sipped his tea, complimented the imam on its taste, and looked across the table at his host. “I have a couple more questions for