Chapter 12 chapter Ten
No sooner had the Malmö cast anchor in twenty fathoms of Galaad Bay than Guimari and his party saw three aluminum dinghies coming towards them from the village.
Jimari and his seven fellow pirates hurried ashore.They have been floating at sea for 20 days, most of the time they were imprisoned on this Chinese fishing boat.Fresh food supplies have long since run out, and they've been subsisting for two weeks on European and Filipino cuisine.They want to eat the mutton stew feast in their hometown again, and set foot on the sandy land of their hometown again.
The skiff from the shore was still a mile away from the Malmö.Those black heads clustered around the boat were here to change shifts.They will keep watch over the Malmö while it is at anchor.
They were all ragged clan members, except for one Somali.He sat neatly in the rear of the third boat, neatly dressed in a well-tailored beige safari jacket, with a suitcase on his lap.He is the negotiator specially selected by Afri, Mr. Abdi.
"From now on," said Captain Iklud, speaking in English understood by the Swedes, Ukrainians, Poles, and Filipinos on board, "we must be patient. I will do all the talking. Say."
"Stop talking," Jimari shouted.He didn't like his captives to speak because Jimari's English wasn't that good.
The gangway was lowered down the side of the hull, and replacement guards climbed up.Most of them were in their teens, and they barely reached the rungs of the gangway.Even if it's only a mile offshore, Mr Abdi doesn't like being at sea.He climbed very slowly, holding firmly to the ropes on both sides of the gangway with every step.No sooner had his feet touched the deck than the suitcase was handed over.
Captain Iklud did not know him.But judging by his dress and manner, he was at least an educated man.He stepped forward.
"I'm Icrud, the captain of the Malmö," he said.
Mr Abdi held out his hand. "I'm Ali Abdi, the designated negotiator on the Somali side." His English is very fluent, with a little American accent, "You haven't...how should I put it...be a guest of the Somali people before?"
"Yes," said the captain, "and I hope not now, if I can."
"Of course, from your point of view, it's very annoying. But, have you been introduced? No? Some business has to go through, after which the real negotiations can begin. The sooner a settlement is reached, You'll be on your way sooner."
Captain Iklud knew that his bosses in the distance would hold meetings with the underwriters and lawyers, and they would appoint a negotiator.He hoped that that person was also an experienced connoisseur who could quickly reach a ransom agreement and set them free.The captain obviously doesn't know how to do it, and now only the European side cares about speed.
Abdi's first concern was for the captain to accompany him to the bridge and get in touch with the control center and negotiation office in Stockholm through the ship's satellite phone.The negotiating office is expected to be at Lloyd's headquarters in London.That's where the whole bargaining hub is.When Abdi stood on the bridge and looked at the deck, he whispered:
"It's best to build a canvas shelter over the space between deck cargo. That way your crew won't get burned by the sun while they breathe the sea air."
Stig Ikrud had heard of Stockholm Syndrome, the relationship between the kidnapper and the kidnapped who develops a friendship due to their proximity to each other.But he made no attempt to assuage his hatred of those who hijacked his ship.But on the other hand, Ali Abdi, a well-bred, well-dressed, well-spoken Somali, at least seemed to him someone who could communicate in a civilized manner.
"Thank you," he said.The first mate and the second mate were standing behind him, and they understood what he meant.Iklud nodded to them, and the two left the bridge immediately to build a canvas tent.
"Now, with your permission, I have to contact your people in Stockholm," Abdi said.
It only took a few seconds for the satellite phone to connect to Stockholm.Hearing that the owner and Chauncey Reynolds were in London at the moment, Abdi smiled.Twice he negotiated with the Chauncey Reynolds Company for the release of impounded ships on behalf of other clan chiefs.It only took a few weeks at a time.Abdi got the number and told Captain Ikrud to call a lawyer in London.Julian Reynolds answered the phone.
"Ah, Mr. Reynolds, we're on the phone again. I'm Ali Abdi. I'm on the bridge of the Malmö with Captain Ikrud next to me."
Here in London, Julian Reynolds seemed happy too.He covered the microphone with his hand and said, "It's still Abdi." Everyone, including Gareth Evans, breathed a sigh of relief.Everyone this side of London has heard the notoriety of Afrit - a brutal old dictator who controls the waters of Gala-Adh.However, Abdi, who was assigned to be gentle and elegant, seemed to have a glimmer of light in the dark night.
"Good morning, Mr. Abdi, I wish you well."
"Peace to you too," Abdi responded over the airwaves.Given the free choice, he doubted the Swedes and Brits would be more than happy to wring his neck.But the Muslim greeting is a nice attempt at courtesy.He likes to be polite.
"I'll transfer your call to a guy I think you already know," Reynolds said.He handed the receiver to Gareth Evans and dialed into a conference call.The voices from the Somali coast were very clearly heard, as were those who were recording at Fort Meade and Cheltenham.
"Hello, Mr. Abdi. I'm Gareth. We've met again, preferably in person. I've been asked to attend to matters in London."
There were five people here in London, a shipowner, two lawyers, an insurer, and Gareth Evans.Over the speaker speakers they heard Abdi laughing.
"Mr. Garris, my friend. I'm so glad it's you. I'm sure we can make this a good one."
Abdi has a habit of adding the word "sir" to the end of each other's name.It's his way of finessing the line between being too formal and being too intimate.He always called Gareth Evans "Mr. Gareth".
"I have an office in my law firm in London, right next door," Evans said. "I'll go there and then we can get started, okay?"
It was going too fast for Abdi.Procedures must be followed.The first thing Europeans need to understand is that only they want a quick fix.He knew that Stockholm must have calculated the daily cost of the Malmö.So do insurers.The matter involved three insurance companies.
One company was in charge of the hull and machinery, another was in charge of the cargo, and a third was the war risk underwriter, who was in charge of the crew.They each have different losses as the event progresses or is shelved.He thought, let them appreciate the loss figures a little more.So he said:
"Ah, Mr. Garris, my friend, you have come before me. In order to settle this matter, I need a little time to look over Mal before I give you a reasonable figure that you are sure to bear. The Silent and its cargo."
Afrit's lair is a wind-eroded fortress on the hills behind Galaad Bay.There was a room dedicated to Abdi.There, Abdi has checked the situation on the Internet, such as the age of the ship, the condition of the ship, the perishability of the cargo, the possible loss of future income, and so on.
He had already done his homework and decided to start with the $25 million figure.He knew that the likely amount that would eventually be agreed was four million dollars, maybe five million if the Swedes were in a hurry.
"Mr Garris, I suggest we start tomorrow morning. Let's say nine o'clock London time? It's noon here. I'll be back in my office by the sea by then."
"Very well, my friend. I will wait here for your call."
Facial expressions give away too much, so instead of Skype, they use a satellite phone, connected via a computer.
"One more thing before we wrap up today. Can you confirm to me that the crew members stranded on the ship - including those Filipinos - are all safe and free from any form of harassment?"
Other Somalis did not hear this.Communications on the bridge were out of earshot of the other Somalis on the Malmö, who also did not understand English.But Abdi understood.
Usually Somali warlords and clan leaders treated captives humanely.There were one or two notable exceptions though, and Afrit was one of them, and worst of all, he was the notorious Old Devil.
Abdi worked personally for Afrit, who was paid 20 percent of the ransom.Being an expert hostage negotiator for pirates made him rich, and a lot younger than the usual rich man.But he doesn't have to like his boss, he really doesn't like it, and even hates it.But this boss doesn't have a group of bodyguards around him.
"I'm pretty sure all the crew will stay on board and be treated well," he said slowly before hanging up.Abdi can only hope he is right.
Amber eyes stared at the young prisoner for dozens of seconds.The room was silent.Opal could feel behind him the educated Somali who led him into the compound, and the two bodyguards.The man began to speak, in Arabic, with a surprisingly gentle voice. "What's your name?" Opal told him. "Is that a Somali name?" The Somalis behind him shook their heads.Some Pakistanis do not understand. "No, Sheikh, I'm Ethiopian." "Most people in that country are Kafir. Are you a Christian?" "Thanks be good to Allah, no, no, Sheikh, I'm not a Christian. I'm from Ogaden, just across the Somali border." The face with the amber eyes nodded in approval. "Then why did you come to Somalia?" "It was rumored in our village that the Ethiopian army recruiter was coming, and he was going to arrest young men to join the army and invade Somalia. So I fled and came here with my brothers who believe in Allah." "You came to Marka from Kismayo last night?" "yes." "why?" "I'm looking for a job, Sheikh. I have a job as a stocker at the docks. But I'd like to find a better one in Marka." "Then how do you have these documents?" Opal told the story he had told before.In order to escape the heat and sandstorm during the day, he rode a motorcycle all night.He found that he was running low on gasoline, so he stopped to refuel with the tank he had prepared.It was on a concrete bridge over a dry valley, by accident. He heard a faint cry.At first he thought it was the sound of the wind rushing through the canopy of the tall trees growing nearby.Then he heard the voice again.It appeared that the sound was coming from under the bridge. He climbed down the bank, into the valley, and found a pickup truck, completely wrecked.It appeared to have fallen off a bridge and crashed into the river bank.The driver, a man, was badly injured. "I tried to help him, Sheikh, but I couldn't do anything. My motorcycle couldn't carry two people, and I couldn't get him to the river bank. I dragged him out of the cab in case the truck caught fire. But he is dying, Inshallah." The dying man begged Opal to send his satchel to Marka.The man described the courtyard: near the market on the street, straight ahead from the buildings built by the Italians, there was a wooden gate with a bolt that opened in two. "When he died, I supported him, Sheykh, but I couldn't save him." The man in the robe thought about what he said, then turned to look at the documents in the satchel. "Have you ever opened your satchel?" "No, Sheikh, that has nothing to do with me." Amber eyes watched thoughtfully. "There's money in the bag. Maybe we've met an honest man. What do you think, Jama?" The Somalis smiled.The missionary spoke Urdu to the Pakistanis.They grabbed Opal and stepped forward. "My men will go back to that place. The wreckage of the car and the bodies of my men must still be there, and they will check. If you lie, you will wish you had never been here. In the meantime, you stay Here, wait for them to come back." Opal was locked up again, but this time not in the shack in the yard.A shrewd person would surely be able to escape from there at night.He was taken to the basement.It was dark inside and the ground was sandy.He was locked inside for two days and one night, and only a plastic bottle of water was given to him.Opal sipped slowly and drank sparingly.Let him out, and on the way up the steps, the sunlight from the shutters made him squint his eyes.He blinked hard, and was taken to the missionary again. The man in the robe is holding something in his right hand, and he is turning it around on his fingers.Amber eyes turned to the prisoner, fixing on a panicked Opal. "It seems that you are right, my little friend," he said in Arabic. "My man did hit the bank of the valley with his car and died there. The reason is..." He held out his hand and squeezed That thing, "This nail. My guys found it on the tire. You're telling the truth." He stood up, walked across the room, and stood before the young Ethiopian, looking at him thoughtfully. "How do you speak Arabic?" "I learned it myself, sir. I wish it would be easier to read, and I wish I could read it more clearly." "Can you speak other languages?" "A little English, sir." "How did you get that?" "There's a school near our village. It's run by an English missionary." The missionary suddenly stopped talking, looking eerie. "Heretic. Kafir. Then you learned to be pro-Western from him?" "No sir. Quite the contrary. It made me understand the suffering they have caused us through the centuries. I hate them. He taught me to study the words and life of our Prophet Muhammad. Peace be upon him." The missionary thought for a while, and finally a smile appeared on his face. "That is to say, we have come across a young man," he apparently said to his Somali secretary, "who was honest enough not to steal; And hoping to serve only the Prophet. He speaks Somali, Arabic, and some English. What do you think, Jama?" In this case, to please him, the secretary agreed that they were really lucky to have such a discovery.But missionaries have a problem.He had lost his computer expert—the man who brought him the downloaded information from London and never revealed the fact that he was actually in Marka and not Kismayo.Only Jama could replace him in Kismaayo; no one else knows how to use a computer. It's just that there is one less secretary.But now there was a young man in front of him who could read and write, including the Ogaden dialect, spoke three languages, and was looking for a job. The missionary survived this decade with a caution bordering on paranoia.He has seen most of his contemporaries stalked, tracked, locked down, and wiped out.The Lashkar, the March 13 Brigade, the Khorasan Jihad Federation, the Haqqani clan, as well as the "Al Qaeda" organization in the Arabian Peninsula, and the Yemeni Army are all like this.More than half were betrayed. And he, like avoiding the plague, stayed away from the camera, often changed his place of residence, changed his name, always covered his face and the color of his eyes, so he was still alive. His retinue were people he was sure he could trust.His four Pakistanis could die for him, but they have no brains.Jama is smart, but he needs him now to look after Kismayo's two computers. He was very satisfied with the newcomer who had just arrived.There is evidence that he was a man of integrity and honesty.If you let him use it for yourself, you can keep monitoring day and night.He doesn't have to talk to anyone about it.He needed a private secretary and couldn't imagine the young man in front of him as a spy.He decided to take a chance. "Would you like to be my secretary?" he asked softly.Jama gasped in surprise. "It is such an honor beyond words, sir. I will be faithful to you. Inshallah." The order came.Jama picked a pickup from the yard and drove to Kismayo to take over the Masala warehouse and the computers used to spread the missionaries' sermons. Opal stayed in Jama's room and became familiar with his duties.An hour later, he put on his bright red baseball cap with the New York logo on it.It was taken from the wrecked truck, which belonged to the captain of an Israeli fishing boat.When new orders came from Tel Aviv, the captain had to give up his hat. Opal drove his own motorcycle out in the yard into a shed by the wall, where it was parked out of the sun.He stopped for a while, looked up, then nodded slowly, before continuing to move forward. In an underground control room on the outskirts of Tampa, the hovering Global Hawk spotted and recorded the image far below it.Following the warning call, the images were captured and sent to an office at the U.S. embassy in London. The tracker watched as the slender figure in the long shirt and red baseball cap gazed at the distant sky of Marka. "Nice job, boy," he whispered.Agent Opal is in that fort, and has just confirmed everything the tracker needs to know.
The last killer was neither a supermarket stocker nor a garage handyman.A Syrian, well-educated, with a dental degree, he was a technician for a very successful orthodontist outside Fairfax, Virginia.His name is Tariq Hussain. When he arrived from Aleppo ten years ago, he was neither a refugee nor a student, but a legal immigrant who had passed all judicial admission tests.His residence is in the suburbs, clean and tidy.The Virginia State Police and the FBI stormed his house and found out from his writing that he hated the Western world in general, and America in particular.But they have never been able to determine whether this hatred was early on in him, or developed slowly during his time in the United States. His passport shows that he has returned to the Middle East three times in ten years.It is estimated that he was infected during these three trips and became so angry and full of hatred.His diaries and laptops reveal some answers, but not all. His employers, neighbors and his social circle were all closely questioned.But it seemed he had fooled them all.Beneath his polite, smiling exterior was a fanatical Salafist jihadist.Salafist is the basest and most brutal branch of jihadism.In his diary, the lines are filled with his contempt and hatred for American society. Like other Salafists, he doesn't feel compelled to wear the traditional Muslim robe, grow a beard or stop for his five daily prayers.He shaved clean every day, and his short black hair was always neat and tidy.He lived alone in a detached house in the suburbs and never interacted with colleagues or other people.Americans like to call their names by nicknames to show friendliness, so he was called Terry Hussein. With his friends at the local pub, he explained that he was strictly abstaining from alcohol in order to "keep in shape".The reason was accepted; no one even noticed that he didn't eat pork—never touched it, even if it was on the table. He is single, and when some girls pay attention to him, he always refuses gently and politely.There were one or two gays who frequented that bar nearby and they had asked him a few times if he was like them too.He still politely denied it, and replied that he was waiting for his Miss Right. Diaries reveal that he believed gay men should be stoned to death slowly, piece by piece.The thought of lying next to fat, pork-eating white pagan cows made him sick. His anger and hatred were not caused by the preacher's preaching, those were just the triggers.His laptop showed that he had been a fanatical follower of the missionaries for two years.But while always eager to contribute, he never joined the Preacher fan base.Ultimately, he decided to follow the preacher's teaching: to perfect his worship of Allah and the Prophet with the ultimate sacrificial act, and then go to their eternal heaven. He needs to kill as many Americans as he can before dying as a Said martyr at the hands of the heathen police.So he needs a gun. He has a Virginia driver's license with his photo on it.But the document was in Hussein's name.He'd seen the media coverage of the several murders that had occurred in the spring and summer of this year, so he thought it might be a problem. Staring at his face in the mirror, he realized that his black hair, eyes and dark skin made him look distinctly from the Middle East.His surname also bears witness to this. One of his lab colleagues who looked a bit like him was Hispanic.So Tariq Hussain decided to get another driver's license with a name that sounded like Spanish.He started searching on the Internet. Everything was so simple that he was amazed.He doesn't even need to go there in person, nor does he need to write any materials.He just applied online from New Mexico under the name Mikel Hernandez, nicknamed "Mitch."Of course, there was a fee: $79 for the global Smart ID card, plus $55 for express mail.The VA government emailed him to give him permission to replace the "lost" card with the card. However, the main thing he searches online is guns!A proper gun.After spending a lot of time poring over thousands of web pages about guns and gun magazines, he sort of knew what he needed and what he needed to do.He started looking for advice on what gun to buy. He repeatedly studied the Bushmaster rifle used by the shooter in the Sandy Hook shooting.He eventually gave up, though, because the Viper bullets were 5.6mm and lighter, and he wanted something heavier, which would have more penetrating power.In the end he chose the G3 from Heckler & Koch. The G3 is an improved version of the A4 military assault rifle, using the NATO ordnance standard, with a bullet caliber of 7.62mm.He was pretty sure that the G3 bullet could penetrate the tinplate, not just shatter it. A web search engine also let him know that, based on existing US laws, it was impossible for him to obtain a fully automatic model.However, the semi-automatic model has served his purpose well.Each pull of the trigger delivered a round—quick enough for what he had in mind. If he was amazed by how easy it was to get a driver's license, he was even more baffled by how easy it was to buy a gun.He went to the Prince William County Gun Show in Manassas, just an hour away in Virginia. He walks through the various exhibition halls.There is a range of legal firearms available here, in enough variety and quantity to start several wars.He eventually found a Heckler & Koch G3 automatic rifle.He handed over his driver's license and cash, and the beefy salesman happily sold him the "shotgun."He just walked out with the gun and put it in the trunk of his car.No one noticed. The ammunition required for a twenty-round magazine is also not difficult.From a gun shop in Falls Church, he bought a hundred rounds, a spare magazine and a magazine lock, which held the two magazines together.This allowed him to fire forty rounds at a time without changing magazines.He prepared everything he needed, drove quietly, and returned to his house, ready to face death.
On the afternoon of the third day, Afrit returned to visit his new prize.The large sloop was halfway between the Malmö and the shore when Captain Ikrud spotted it from the bridge.The captain saw through the binoculars that there was a pergola on the sailboat, and there was a man under the pergola, wearing a white robe.Abdi was next to the man. Guimari and his band of pirates had been replaced by a dozen other young men.These young people look like Somalis with every gesture.The Swedish captain never saw them.They came on board with great bundles of greenery, not sticks with leaves, but whole bundles of shrubs.This is their khat and they chew on it all the time.By sunset, Stig Ikrud noticed, they were already chewing hard.The whole person was groggy for a while, and very irritable for a while. The Somali man standing beside him followed his line of sight and found the sloop, sobered up immediately, ran down the deck along the elevator, and shouted at his companions under the awning. The old patriarch climbed onto the deck from the aluminum gangway and stood up straight, looking around.Captain Ikrud took off his hat and saluted him.Rather than causing any regrets, it is better to ensure safety first, he thought.They were introduced to each other by Mr Abdi, who was accompanying interpreter. Afrit was wrinkled and coal-black.His cruelty is well known.Gareth Evans in London wanted to remind Captain Iklud, but he didn't know who would be next to the captain, so he didn't say it.Neither did Abdi.So the captain didn't know whose prisoner he was. They circled the bridge and the living room of the ship's management, with Abdi following behind as an interpreter.Afrit then ordered all the foreigners to line up on deck.He walked slowly past the front of the line, ignoring the ten Filipinos, but staring at the five Europeans. He stared at the nineteen-year-old intern, Off Carlson, for a long time.Carlson was neatly dressed, wearing the white peaked cap typical of people in tropical regions.He told Abdi to tell him, ordering the boy to remove his hat.Afrit stared into his pale blue eyes, then reached out and stroked his corn-colored blond hair.Carlson backed away, trying to avoid him.The Somali looked annoyed, but took his hand away. As the group left the deck and headed for the gangway, Afrit finally spoke Somali.The four guards he brought rushed forward, grabbed the trainee, and pinned him to the deck. Captain Ikrud rushed out of the line, wanting to protest.Abdi grabbed his arm. "Don't do anything," Abdi said softly. "It's okay, I'm sure it's okay. I know the man. Don't provoke him." The trainee was forced to climb down the gangway and was grabbed by more hands on the sloop. "Captain, save me," the boy called. Abdi was the last to disembark.Captain Ikrud, flushed with rage, said sternly to Abdi: "I hold you responsible for the safety of this child," he shouted. "This is not the civilized way." Abdi was very worried. He stepped on the gangway with one foot and his face was pale. "I'll stop the chief," he said. "I will inform London," replied the captain. "I will not allow you to do this, Captain Ikrud. This is a negotiation, very delicate. Let me handle it." Then he left.The sailboat rides the wind and waves back to the coast.Abdi sat next to Afrit, without saying a word, cursing the old devil in his heart.If this guy wants to hold this intern hostage, put pressure on London and raise the ransom, it will ruin everything.Abdi is an expert negotiator and he knows what he's doing.Besides, he was worried about the boy.Afrit has long been "famous" for his treatment of prisoners.
That night, the tracker called Ariel in the attic in Centerville. "Do you remember that short video I gave you last time?" "Of course, Colonel Jackson." "I want you to get it on a jihadist online channel. The one the missionaries use a lot." An hour later, the video was broadcast all over the world.The missionary is sitting in his usual chair, speaking directly to the camera.This is how he addressed the entire Muslim world.The pre-recorded talk was about an hour long, and the audience included the missionary's entire fanbase, the millions of interested but not yet converted extremists, and all of the counterterrorism agencies around the world. Everyone was stunned, and immediately attracted firmly.They saw an ugly man in his early thirties.This time he didn't have a hood covering the lower half of his face.He had a black beard and those strange amber eyes. Only one person in the audience knew: Those eyes had contact lenses, and the speaker was Tony Suarez, who lived in an unoccupied house in Malibu and had no idea of the scriptures on the backdrop behind him. The voice acting is perfect.The British voice actors only listened to the sermon for two hours before recording it, and they dubbed the exact same voice. "My friends, brothers and sisters who believe in Allah, I have not been in your life for some time. But I have not wasted time, I have been studying the scriptures, studying our most beautiful faith-Islamic teachings. I Thinking of many things, there has been a change, Inshallah. "I was wondering how many of you have ever heard of Muraaja'aat, which is a revised version of Salafist jihadism. That's what I'm working on. "Many times before, I have asked all of you not to simply give yourselves to Allah, may the name of Allah be praised, and at the same time hate others. But the revised edition teaches us that this is wrong. We are supremely beautiful The true meaning of the teachings of Islam is never suffering and hatred, even for those who think differently from us. "The revised edition is most famous for its corrigenda to a series of concepts. Just as the people who came out of Egypt taught us to hate, so too did the Islamic group write this corrigendum for us. Now I understand that they are correct and that Not those paranoid tutors who are filled with hatred." The tracker's phone rang in the embassy's office.It was Gray Fox calling from Virginia. "Is what I'm hearing true, or is there something out of the ordinary?" he asked. "Listen a little longer," the tracker replied, before hanging up. On the screen, Tony Suarez, who actually didn't understand anything, continued. "I have read the English translation of this revised edition dozens of times. I recommend this book to everyone, whether you know Arabic or speak Arabic. "Because it is clear to me now that our brothers, the Islamic bloc, are right. Democracy and true Islam are perfectly compatible with each other. Hatred and bloodlust are totally incompatible with everything that the Prophet Muhammad said. May he rest in peace. "Those who claim to be true believers call for mass killings and use brutal methods of torture that result in the loss of thousands of lives. They are really like the Khawaliji rebels attacking the Sahabis . "Now we have to consider all jihadists and Salafists as Hawaliji. Those of us who only worship the One and Only Allah and His Prophet Muhammad must root out these heretics. That's them , has been leading the people of Allah astray for so many years. "We, the true believers, must eradicate those who promote hatred and violence. Just like in ancient times, the Sahabis eradicated the Khawaliji. "But now is the time to declare who I really am. I was born in Islamabad as Zulfikar Ali Shah and was raised to be a devout Muslim. But I fell and became Abu al-Shah. Assam. An executioner of men, women and children." The phone rang again. "Who the hell is this guy?" cried Gray Fox. "Listen to him," said the pursuer. "It's almost over." "Then, before the whole world, and especially before you, my brothers and sisters who believe in Allah, I repent. I repent of everything I have done and said from wrong motives before. I declare that I am completely Wrong. All the things I said and preached before are contrary to Allah, the merciful and merciful, and now I completely deny it. "Because I have shown no kindness or mercy. Now I must ask you to give me mercy. Just as we are taught to give - to sinners who have really renounced their former sins." The screen gradually dimmed.The phone rang again.事实上，在乌玛——全世界的伊斯兰社区——无数的电话在响。很多人愤怒得尖叫起来。 “追踪者，你究竟干了什么？”格雷·福克斯问道。 “我希望我刚才已经把他毁了。”追踪者说道。 他想起那个智慧的艾资哈尔大学的老学者的话。多年前，在他还是开罗的一名学生时，那位老学者告诉他： “贩卖仇恨的人将憎恶对象分为四个等级。你可能认为你们基督徒在这个层级中的最高位置。不是的，因为你们还是信徒，和犹太教徒、亚伯拉罕诸教教徒一样有一个唯一的上帝。 “高于基督徒的是无神论者和偶像崇拜者，偶像崇拜者没有神明，只有假的人偶。这就是阿富汗的圣战战士更仇恨共产党人的原因，他们是无神论者。 “对宗教狂热分子来说，无神论者之上就是不信奉他们那一套的普通穆斯林，这就是为什么这些圣战战士摧毁亲西方的穆斯林政府的原因，他们在超市引爆炸弹，屠杀无辜的穆斯林同胞。 “所有这些人中，级别最高的，无法被原谅的首恶分子，是叛教者，那个放弃圣战主义，或者公开谴责圣战主义，放弃自己之前的主张，回归他的祖先信仰的人。” 老学者说完，把茶倒掉，开始祈祷。
阿布迪先生的套间在加拉阿德湾的后面，里面有卧室和办公室。这会儿他一个人坐在房间里，指关节在桌面上显得非常白皙。墙壁是隔音的，但房门不是。他能听到走廊那头鞭笞的声音。他想，又是哪个可怜的仆役惹得他的主人不高兴了。 刑具在上下挥舞中发出了碎裂声，那可能是鞭打骆驼用的手柄，对此没什么好掩饰的，更别想用粗制滥造的木门掩盖每次鞭打下那令人战栗的尖叫声了。 尽管意识到烈日中被劫持在船舱的海员非常不幸，阿里·阿布迪也不会更卖力地谈判，因为拖延时间可能可以榨取更多的赎金，但这并不意味着他就是残忍的人。他也认为完全没有理由虐待——即使是对索马里的雇工。他开始有些后悔答应帮这个海盗头子谈判了。这家伙是个暴君。 鞭笞的间隙中，他听到那个倒霉蛋求饶。那人说的是瑞典语。阿布迪的脸色更加阴沉了。
传教士对托尼·苏亚雷兹向全球播报的颠覆性言论的反应绝对是歇斯底里的。 他三个星期都没上线布道了。所以视频播放的时候，他没有看到伊斯兰圣战士的帖子。他的一个巴基斯坦保镖能懂一点英语，是他提醒传教士的。传教士看了个尾巴，完全难以置信，于是又从头放了一遍。 他坐在自己的台式电脑前，满心惊恐地看着。这是假冒的，当然是假冒的。不过它很有说服力。一切都像得可怕：胡子、相貌、穿着、那块黑布，甚至那双眼睛——他正在看自己的二重身。而且还是他自己的声音。 不过，和视频里说的话比起来，这些都不算什么，重要的是，正式放弃主张等于死刑。现在需要花很长时间才能说服那些忠诚的人，他们是被一个巧妙的骗局骗了。他的仆人在书房外面，听见他冲着屏幕上的人物形象嘶喊，忏悔是假的，自己放弃教义不是真的。 美国演员的脸从画面上慢慢消失了，传教士在椅子里坐了差不多一个小时，整个人像被抽干了一样。然后他犯了个错误。他想：“至少那个人会绝对相信他。”他联系了那个真正的朋友——在伦敦的盟友。他写的邮件。 切尔腾纳姆一直在监听，米德堡也一样。海军陆战队的中校安静地待在美国驻伦敦大使馆的一间办公室里。格雷·福克斯在弗吉尼亚，办公桌上放着来自追踪者的请求。追踪者告诉他，传教士可能已经被毁掉了，但这还不够。传教士手上有太多的血债，现在必须干掉他。追踪者列出了几种方案。格雷·福克斯要亲自把这份请求递交联合特种作战司令部的指挥官威廉·麦克瑞文海军上将。他确信这件事需要讨论，决定权在椭圆形办公室。 邮件从马尔卡发出的几分钟之内，确切的内容、每台电脑的精确位置和各自的主人，都被核实了。传教士的情况完全没有疑问了，他的同伙穆斯塔法·达达里也是一样。 格雷·福克斯通过技术行动支援局和大使馆之间的保密线路，在二十四小时之内回复了追踪者。 “我试过了，追踪者，但回复是不可以。用导弹袭击那片地区被总统否决了。部分原因是周边有密集的平民，部分原因是奥珀尔还在里面。” “那其他请求呢？” “都不可以。不允许登陆那片海滩。伊斯兰青年军遍布马尔卡。我们不知道他们有多少人，或者他们的武器装备怎样。高层认为他会潜入那个到处是胡同的迷宫，我们可能会永远找不到他。 “像对本·拉登一样用无人机轰炸的申请也被否决了。不可以使用游骑兵，不可以使用海豹突击队，甚至不可以使用空军特种航空团。从吉布提和肯尼亚去那儿距离太远，从摩加迪沙去又太张扬，而且还有被击落的危险。'黑鹰坠落'这四个字至今仍能招致梦魇。 “抱歉，追踪者。你干得漂亮。你证实了他的身份，找到了他，毁了他的信用。不过我想，一切都结束了。那个混蛋躲在马尔卡，不可能出来的，除非你能有非常好的诱饵。另外还有个问题就是奥珀尔。我想你最好收拾一下回来吧。” “他还没死，格雷·福克斯。他双手沾满的鲜血能灌满整个大洋。他可能没法再传教了，但他仍然是个危险的混蛋。他可能会向西转移去马里。让我结束他吧。” 电话那头沉默了一会儿。然后格雷·福克斯又说道。 “好吧，追踪者。再多一周。然后你就收拾行囊。” 追踪者挂上电话，意识到自己误算了。他的本意，是想通过在全世界的伊斯兰原教旨主义的圈子里摧毁传教士的信用，把他从巢穴里逼到外面来。他希望传教士被自己人追得四处逃窜，没有掩护，重新成为一个难民。他从没想过自己的上司会让自己停止追捕。 他发现自己面临道德危机。尽管他可以像普通人一样投票选举，有作为美国海军陆战队军官的种种好处，还对长官绝对忠诚——也就是他服从上级，但这件事，他不能听命行事。 他被分派了任务，但任务还没有结束；他被交付了使命，但使命还没有完成。情况发生了变化。从现在开始，这是个人的恩怨了。他曾向那躺在弗吉尼亚海滩重症监护室里的老人——那个他深爱的老人——许下承诺，但现在他要放下这个许诺了。 这是从作为军校学员起，他第一次考虑从部队退役。不过几天后，他的职业生涯被那名他从没听说过的牙医挽救了。
阿弗里特把一张恐怖照片捏在手里留了两天。当照片猛然间闪现在昌西·雷诺兹控制中心的屏幕上时，大家都吓了一跳。加里斯·伊万斯一直在和阿布迪先生协商。谈判的主题显然是赎金和时间表。 阿布迪把价码从两千五百万降到了两千万，不过对欧洲人来说，时间被拖长了。已经过去了一个星期，但这对索马里人来说不算什么。阿弗里特想拿到所有的钱，他现在就要。阿布迪向他解释，瑞典船东不会考虑两千万的。伊万斯私下里一直坚持的观点是最终以五百万解决。 然后，阿弗里特接手了，他把自己准备好的照片发了过去。碰巧当时雷诺兹和哈里·安德森都在办公室，安德森先前被建议飞回斯德哥尔摩的家等消息，但他并没有回去。那张照片令三个人沉默了，他们感到一阵反胃。 照片上实习生的脸朝下，冲着一张非常粗糙简陋的木头桌子，一名身材硕大的索马里人摁着他的手腕。他的两个脚踝被分开绑在两边的桌子腿上，裤子和内裤都被脱掉了。 他的臀部被藤条打得血肉模糊，脸侧着朝向木质的桌子，显然在尖叫。 伊万斯和雷诺兹意识到，他们在对付的，是一个暴虐的疯子。以前从来没有发生过像这样的事。哈里·安德森的反应则更极端。他大叫一声，冲进洗手间。有人听见他跪在地上，脑袋冲着马桶干呕。他回来的时候脸色灰白，除了脸颊两边红色的印记。 “那是我儿子！”他喊道，“我的儿子！用的他母亲年轻时的名字。”他抓住加里斯·伊万斯的领子，把他从椅子里拖出来，直到脸对着脸，只有几英寸远。 “你把我儿子弄回来，加里斯，你把他弄回来！那些混蛋要什么就给他们什么。无论是什么，你听到了吗，你告诉他们，我给五千万，我要我的儿子，你告诉他们！” 他冲了出去，留下两个英国人面色惨白，浑身战栗。屏幕上，是那张恐怖的照片。
Notes:
Amber eyes stared at the young prisoner for dozens of seconds.The room was silent.Opal could feel behind him the educated Somali who led him into the compound, and the two bodyguards.The man began to speak, in Arabic, with a surprisingly gentle voice. "What's your name?" Opal told him. "Is that a Somali name?" The Somalis behind him shook their heads.Some Pakistanis do not understand. "No, Sheikh, I'm Ethiopian." "Most people in that country are Kafir. Are you a Christian?" "Thanks be good to Allah, no, no, Sheikh, I'm not a Christian. I'm from Ogaden, just across the Somali border." The face with the amber eyes nodded in approval. "Then why did you come to Somalia?" "It was rumored in our village that the Ethiopian army recruiter was coming, and he was going to arrest young men to join the army and invade Somalia. So I fled and came here with my brothers who believe in Allah." "You came to Marka from Kismayo last night?" "yes." "why?" "I'm looking for a job, Sheikh. I have a job as a stocker at the docks. But I'd like to find a better one in Marka." "Then how do you have these documents?" Opal told the story he had told before.In order to escape the heat and sandstorm during the day, he rode a motorcycle all night.He found that he was running low on gasoline, so he stopped to refuel with the tank he had prepared.It was on a concrete bridge over a dry valley, by accident. He heard a faint cry.At first he thought it was the sound of the wind rushing through the canopy of the tall trees growing nearby.Then he heard the voice again.It appeared that the sound was coming from under the bridge. He climbed down the bank, into the valley, and found a pickup truck, completely wrecked.It appeared to have fallen off a bridge and crashed into the river bank.The driver, a man, was badly injured. "I tried to help him, Sheikh, but I couldn't do anything. My motorcycle couldn't carry two people, and I couldn't get him to the river bank. I dragged him out of the cab in case the truck caught fire. But he is dying, Inshallah." The dying man begged Opal to send his satchel to Marka.The man described the courtyard: near the market on the street, straight ahead from the buildings built by the Italians, there was a wooden gate with a bolt that opened in two. "When he died, I supported him, Sheykh, but I couldn't save him." The man in the robe thought about what he said, then turned to look at the documents in the satchel. "Have you ever opened your satchel?" "No, Sheikh, that has nothing to do with me." Amber eyes watched thoughtfully. "There's money in the bag. Maybe we've met an honest man. What do you think, Jama?" The Somalis smiled.The missionary spoke Urdu to the Pakistanis.They grabbed Opal and stepped forward. "My men will go back to that place. The wreckage of the car and the bodies of my men must still be there, and they will check. If you lie, you will wish you had never been here. In the meantime, you stay Here, wait for them to come back." Opal was locked up again, but this time not in the shack in the yard.A shrewd person would surely be able to escape from there at night.He was taken to the basement.It was dark inside and the ground was sandy.He was locked inside for two days and one night, and only a plastic bottle of water was given to him.Opal sipped slowly and drank sparingly.Let him out, and on the way up the steps, the sunlight from the shutters made him squint his eyes.He blinked hard, and was taken to the missionary again. The man in the robe is holding something in his right hand, and he is turning it around on his fingers.Amber eyes turned to the prisoner, fixing on a panicked Opal. "It seems that you are right, my little friend," he said in Arabic. "My man did hit the bank of the valley with his car and died there. The reason is..." He held out his hand and squeezed That thing, "This nail. My guys found it on the tire. You're telling the truth." He stood up, walked across the room, and stood before the young Ethiopian, looking at him thoughtfully. "How do you speak Arabic?" "I learned it myself, sir. I wish it would be easier to read, and I wish I could read it more clearly." "Can you speak other languages?" "A little English, sir." "How did you get that?" "There's a school near our village. It's run by an English missionary." The missionary suddenly stopped talking, looking eerie. "Heretic. Kafir. Then you learned to be pro-Western from him?" "No sir. Quite the contrary. It made me understand the suffering they have caused us through the centuries. I hate them. He taught me to study the words and life of our Prophet Muhammad. Peace be upon him." The missionary thought for a while, and finally a smile appeared on his face. "That is to say, we have come across a young man," he apparently said to his Somali secretary, "who was honest enough not to steal; And hoping to serve only the Prophet. He speaks Somali, Arabic, and some English. What do you think, Jama?" In this case, to please him, the secretary agreed that they were really lucky to have such a discovery.But missionaries have a problem.He had lost his computer expert—the man who brought him the downloaded information from London and never revealed the fact that he was actually in Marka and not Kismayo.Only Jama could replace him in Kismaayo; no one else knows how to use a computer. It's just that there is one less secretary.But now there was a young man in front of him who could read and write, including the Ogaden dialect, spoke three languages, and was looking for a job. The missionary survived this decade with a caution bordering on paranoia.He has seen most of his contemporaries stalked, tracked, locked down, and wiped out.The Lashkar, the March 13 Brigade, the Khorasan Jihad Federation, the Haqqani clan, as well as the "Al Qaeda" organization in the Arabian Peninsula, and the Yemeni Army are all like this.More than half were betrayed. And he, like avoiding the plague, stayed away from the camera, often changed his place of residence, changed his name, always covered his face and the color of his eyes, so he was still alive. His retinue were people he was sure he could trust.His four Pakistanis could die for him, but they have no brains.Jama is smart, but he needs him now to look after Kismayo's two computers. He was very satisfied with the newcomer who had just arrived.There is evidence that he was a man of integrity and honesty.If you let him use it for yourself, you can keep monitoring day and night.He doesn't have to talk to anyone about it.He needed a private secretary and couldn't imagine the young man in front of him as a spy.He decided to take a chance. "Would you like to be my secretary?" he asked softly.Jama gasped in surprise. "It is such an honor beyond words, sir. I will be faithful to you. Inshallah." The order came.Jama picked a pickup from the yard and drove to Kismayo to take over the Masala warehouse and the computers used to spread the missionaries' sermons. Opal stayed in Jama's room and became familiar with his duties.An hour later, he put on his bright red baseball cap with the New York logo on it.It was taken from the wrecked truck, which belonged to the captain of an Israeli fishing boat.When new orders came from Tel Aviv, the captain had to give up his hat. Opal drove his own motorcycle out in the yard into a shed by the wall, where it was parked out of the sun.He stopped for a while, looked up, then nodded slowly, before continuing to move forward. In an underground control room on the outskirts of Tampa, the hovering Global Hawk spotted and recorded the image far below it.Following the warning call, the images were captured and sent to an office at the U.S. embassy in London. The tracker watched as the slender figure in the long shirt and red baseball cap gazed at the distant sky of Marka. "Nice job, boy," he whispered.Agent Opal is in that fort, and has just confirmed everything the tracker needs to know.
The last killer was neither a supermarket stocker nor a garage handyman.A Syrian, well-educated, with a dental degree, he was a technician for a very successful orthodontist outside Fairfax, Virginia.His name is Tariq Hussain. When he arrived from Aleppo ten years ago, he was neither a refugee nor a student, but a legal immigrant who had passed all judicial admission tests.His residence is in the suburbs, clean and tidy.The Virginia State Police and the FBI stormed his house and found out from his writing that he hated the Western world in general, and America in particular.But they have never been able to determine whether this hatred was early on in him, or developed slowly during his time in the United States. His passport shows that he has returned to the Middle East three times in ten years.It is estimated that he was infected during these three trips and became so angry and full of hatred.His diaries and laptops reveal some answers, but not all. His employers, neighbors and his social circle were all closely questioned.But it seemed he had fooled them all.Beneath his polite, smiling exterior was a fanatical Salafist jihadist.Salafist is the basest and most brutal branch of jihadism.In his diary, the lines are filled with his contempt and hatred for American society. Like other Salafists, he doesn't feel compelled to wear the traditional Muslim robe, grow a beard or stop for his five daily prayers.He shaved clean every day, and his short black hair was always neat and tidy.He lived alone in a detached house in the suburbs and never interacted with colleagues or other people.Americans like to call their names by nicknames to show friendliness, so he was called Terry Hussein. With his friends at the local pub, he explained that he was strictly abstaining from alcohol in order to "keep in shape".The reason was accepted; no one even noticed that he didn't eat pork—never touched it, even if it was on the table. He is single, and when some girls pay attention to him, he always refuses gently and politely.There were one or two gays who frequented that bar nearby and they had asked him a few times if he was like them too.He still politely denied it, and replied that he was waiting for his Miss Right. Diaries reveal that he believed gay men should be stoned to death slowly, piece by piece.The thought of lying next to fat, pork-eating white pagan cows made him sick. His anger and hatred were not caused by the preacher's preaching, those were just the triggers.His laptop showed that he had been a fanatical follower of the missionaries for two years.But while always eager to contribute, he never joined the Preacher fan base.Ultimately, he decided to follow the preacher's teaching: to perfect his worship of Allah and the Prophet with the ultimate sacrificial act, and then go to their eternal heaven. He needs to kill as many Americans as he can before dying as a Said martyr at the hands of the heathen police.So he needs a gun. He has a Virginia driver's license with his photo on it.But the document was in Hussein's name.He'd seen the media coverage of the several murders that had occurred in the spring and summer of this year, so he thought it might be a problem. Staring at his face in the mirror, he realized that his black hair, eyes and dark skin made him look distinctly from the Middle East.His surname also bears witness to this. One of his lab colleagues who looked a bit like him was Hispanic.So Tariq Hussain decided to get another driver's license with a name that sounded like Spanish.He started searching on the Internet. Everything was so simple that he was amazed.He doesn't even need to go there in person, nor does he need to write any materials.He just applied online from New Mexico under the name Mikel Hernandez, nicknamed "Mitch."Of course, there was a fee: $79 for the global Smart ID card, plus $55 for express mail.The VA government emailed him to give him permission to replace the "lost" card with the card. However, the main thing he searches online is guns!A proper gun.After spending a lot of time poring over thousands of web pages about guns and gun magazines, he sort of knew what he needed and what he needed to do.He started looking for advice on what gun to buy. He repeatedly studied the Bushmaster rifle used by the shooter in the Sandy Hook shooting.He eventually gave up, though, because the Viper bullets were 5.6mm and lighter, and he wanted something heavier, which would have more penetrating power.In the end he chose the G3 from Heckler & Koch. The G3 is an improved version of the A4 military assault rifle, using the NATO ordnance standard, with a bullet caliber of 7.62mm.He was pretty sure that the G3 bullet could penetrate the tinplate, not just shatter it. A web search engine also let him know that, based on existing US laws, it was impossible for him to obtain a fully automatic model.However, the semi-automatic model has served his purpose well.Each pull of the trigger delivered a round—quick enough for what he had in mind. If he was amazed by how easy it was to get a driver's license, he was even more baffled by how easy it was to buy a gun.He went to the Prince William County Gun Show in Manassas, just an hour away in Virginia. He walks through the various exhibition halls.There is a range of legal firearms available here, in enough variety and quantity to start several wars.He eventually found a Heckler & Koch G3 automatic rifle.He handed over his driver's license and cash, and the beefy salesman happily sold him the "shotgun."He just walked out with the gun and put it in the trunk of his car.No one noticed. The ammunition required for a twenty-round magazine is also not difficult.From a gun shop in Falls Church, he bought a hundred rounds, a spare magazine and a magazine lock, which held the two magazines together.This allowed him to fire forty rounds at a time without changing magazines.He prepared everything he needed, drove quietly, and returned to his house, ready to face death.
On the afternoon of the third day, Afrit returned to visit his new prize.The large sloop was halfway between the Malmö and the shore when Captain Ikrud spotted it from the bridge.The captain saw through the binoculars that there was a pergola on the sailboat, and there was a man under the pergola, wearing a white robe.Abdi was next to the man. Guimari and his band of pirates had been replaced by a dozen other young men.These young people look like Somalis with every gesture.The Swedish captain never saw them.They came on board with great bundles of greenery, not sticks with leaves, but whole bundles of shrubs.This is their khat and they chew on it all the time.By sunset, Stig Ikrud noticed, they were already chewing hard.The whole person was groggy for a while, and very irritable for a while. The Somali man standing beside him followed his line of sight and found the sloop, sobered up immediately, ran down the deck along the elevator, and shouted at his companions under the awning. The old patriarch climbed onto the deck from the aluminum gangway and stood up straight, looking around.Captain Ikrud took off his hat and saluted him.Rather than causing any regrets, it is better to ensure safety first, he thought.They were introduced to each other by Mr Abdi, who was accompanying interpreter. Afrit was wrinkled and coal-black.His cruelty is well known.Gareth Evans in London wanted to remind Captain Iklud, but he didn't know who would be next to the captain, so he didn't say it.Neither did Abdi.So the captain didn't know whose prisoner he was. They circled the bridge and the living room of the ship's management, with Abdi following behind as an interpreter.Afrit then ordered all the foreigners to line up on deck.He walked slowly past the front of the line, ignoring the ten Filipinos, but staring at the five Europeans. He stared at the nineteen-year-old intern, Off Carlson, for a long time.Carlson was neatly dressed, wearing the white peaked cap typical of people in tropical regions.He told Abdi to tell him, ordering the boy to remove his hat.Afrit stared into his pale blue eyes, then reached out and stroked his corn-colored blond hair.Carlson backed away, trying to avoid him.The Somali looked annoyed, but took his hand away. As the group left the deck and headed for the gangway, Afrit finally spoke Somali.The four guards he brought rushed forward, grabbed the trainee, and pinned him to the deck. Captain Ikrud rushed out of the line, wanting to protest.Abdi grabbed his arm. "Don't do anything," Abdi said softly. "It's okay, I'm sure it's okay. I know the man. Don't provoke him." The trainee was forced to climb down the gangway and was grabbed by more hands on the sloop. "Captain, save me," the boy called. Abdi was the last to disembark.Captain Ikrud, flushed with rage, said sternly to Abdi: "I hold you responsible for the safety of this child," he shouted. "This is not the civilized way." Abdi was very worried. He stepped on the gangway with one foot and his face was pale. "I'll stop the chief," he said. "I will inform London," replied the captain. "I will not allow you to do this, Captain Ikrud. This is a negotiation, very delicate. Let me handle it." Then he left.The sailboat rides the wind and waves back to the coast.Abdi sat next to Afrit, without saying a word, cursing the old devil in his heart.If this guy wants to hold this intern hostage, put pressure on London and raise the ransom, it will ruin everything.Abdi is an expert negotiator and he knows what he's doing.Besides, he was worried about the boy.Afrit has long been "famous" for his treatment of prisoners.
That night, the tracker called Ariel in the attic in Centerville. "Do you remember that short video I gave you last time?" "Of course, Colonel Jackson." "I want you to get it on a jihadist online channel. The one the missionaries use a lot." An hour later, the video was broadcast all over the world.The missionary is sitting in his usual chair, speaking directly to the camera.This is how he addressed the entire Muslim world.The pre-recorded talk was about an hour long, and the audience included the missionary's entire fanbase, the millions of interested but not yet converted extremists, and all of the counterterrorism agencies around the world. Everyone was stunned, and immediately attracted firmly.They saw an ugly man in his early thirties.This time he didn't have a hood covering the lower half of his face.He had a black beard and those strange amber eyes. Only one person in the audience knew: Those eyes had contact lenses, and the speaker was Tony Suarez, who lived in an unoccupied house in Malibu and had no idea of the scriptures on the backdrop behind him. The voice acting is perfect.The British voice actors only listened to the sermon for two hours before recording it, and they dubbed the exact same voice. "My friends, brothers and sisters who believe in Allah, I have not been in your life for some time. But I have not wasted time, I have been studying the scriptures, studying our most beautiful faith-Islamic teachings. I Thinking of many things, there has been a change, Inshallah. "I was wondering how many of you have ever heard of Muraaja'aat, which is a revised version of Salafist jihadism. That's what I'm working on. "Many times before, I have asked all of you not to simply give yourselves to Allah, may the name of Allah be praised, and at the same time hate others. But the revised edition teaches us that this is wrong. We are supremely beautiful The true meaning of the teachings of Islam is never suffering and hatred, even for those who think differently from us. "The revised edition is most famous for its corrigenda to a series of concepts. Just as the people who came out of Egypt taught us to hate, so too did the Islamic group write this corrigendum for us. Now I understand that they are correct and that Not those paranoid tutors who are filled with hatred." The tracker's phone rang in the embassy's office.It was Gray Fox calling from Virginia. "Is what I'm hearing true, or is there something out of the ordinary?" he asked. "Listen a little longer," the tracker replied, before hanging up. On the screen, Tony Suarez, who actually didn't understand anything, continued. "I have read the English translation of this revised edition dozens of times. I recommend this book to everyone, whether you know Arabic or speak Arabic. "Because it is clear to me now that our brothers, the Islamic bloc, are right. Democracy and true Islam are perfectly compatible with each other. Hatred and bloodlust are totally incompatible with everything that the Prophet Muhammad said. May he rest in peace. "Those who claim to be true believers call for mass killings and use brutal methods of torture that result in the loss of thousands of lives. They are really like the Khawaliji rebels attacking the Sahabis . "Now we have to consider all jihadists and Salafists as Hawaliji. Those of us who only worship the One and Only Allah and His Prophet Muhammad must root out these heretics. That's them , has been leading the people of Allah astray for so many years. "We, the true believers, must eradicate those who promote hatred and violence. Just like in ancient times, the Sahabis eradicated the Khawaliji. "But now is the time to declare who I really am. I was born in Islamabad as Zulfikar Ali Shah and was raised to be a devout Muslim. But I fell and became Abu al-Shah. Assam. An executioner of men, women and children." The phone rang again. "Who the hell is this guy?" cried Gray Fox. "Listen to him," said the pursuer. "It's almost over." "Then, before the whole world, and especially before you, my brothers and sisters who believe in Allah, I repent. I repent of everything I have done and said from wrong motives before. I declare that I am completely Wrong. All the things I said and preached before are contrary to Allah, the merciful and merciful, and now I completely deny it. "Because I have shown no kindness or mercy. Now I must ask you to give me mercy. Just as we are taught to give - to sinners who have really renounced their former sins." The screen gradually dimmed.The phone rang again.事实上，在乌玛——全世界的伊斯兰社区——无数的电话在响。很多人愤怒得尖叫起来。 “追踪者，你究竟干了什么？”格雷·福克斯问道。 “我希望我刚才已经把他毁了。”追踪者说道。 他想起那个智慧的艾资哈尔大学的老学者的话。多年前，在他还是开罗的一名学生时，那位老学者告诉他： “贩卖仇恨的人将憎恶对象分为四个等级。你可能认为你们基督徒在这个层级中的最高位置。不是的，因为你们还是信徒，和犹太教徒、亚伯拉罕诸教教徒一样有一个唯一的上帝。 “高于基督徒的是无神论者和偶像崇拜者，偶像崇拜者没有神明，只有假的人偶。这就是阿富汗的圣战战士更仇恨共产党人的原因，他们是无神论者。 “对宗教狂热分子来说，无神论者之上就是不信奉他们那一套的普通穆斯林，这就是为什么这些圣战战士摧毁亲西方的穆斯林政府的原因，他们在超市引爆炸弹，屠杀无辜的穆斯林同胞。 “所有这些人中，级别最高的，无法被原谅的首恶分子，是叛教者，那个放弃圣战主义，或者公开谴责圣战主义，放弃自己之前的主张，回归他的祖先信仰的人。” 老学者说完，把茶倒掉，开始祈祷。
阿布迪先生的套间在加拉阿德湾的后面，里面有卧室和办公室。这会儿他一个人坐在房间里，指关节在桌面上显得非常白皙。墙壁是隔音的，但房门不是。他能听到走廊那头鞭笞的声音。他想，又是哪个可怜的仆役惹得他的主人不高兴了。 刑具在上下挥舞中发出了碎裂声，那可能是鞭打骆驼用的手柄，对此没什么好掩饰的，更别想用粗制滥造的木门掩盖每次鞭打下那令人战栗的尖叫声了。 尽管意识到烈日中被劫持在船舱的海员非常不幸，阿里·阿布迪也不会更卖力地谈判，因为拖延时间可能可以榨取更多的赎金，但这并不意味着他就是残忍的人。他也认为完全没有理由虐待——即使是对索马里的雇工。他开始有些后悔答应帮这个海盗头子谈判了。这家伙是个暴君。 鞭笞的间隙中，他听到那个倒霉蛋求饶。那人说的是瑞典语。阿布迪的脸色更加阴沉了。
传教士对托尼·苏亚雷兹向全球播报的颠覆性言论的反应绝对是歇斯底里的。 他三个星期都没上线布道了。所以视频播放的时候，他没有看到伊斯兰圣战士的帖子。他的一个巴基斯坦保镖能懂一点英语，是他提醒传教士的。传教士看了个尾巴，完全难以置信，于是又从头放了一遍。 他坐在自己的台式电脑前，满心惊恐地看着。这是假冒的，当然是假冒的。不过它很有说服力。一切都像得可怕：胡子、相貌、穿着、那块黑布，甚至那双眼睛——他正在看自己的二重身。而且还是他自己的声音。 不过，和视频里说的话比起来，这些都不算什么，重要的是，正式放弃主张等于死刑。现在需要花很长时间才能说服那些忠诚的人，他们是被一个巧妙的骗局骗了。他的仆人在书房外面，听见他冲着屏幕上的人物形象嘶喊，忏悔是假的，自己放弃教义不是真的。 美国演员的脸从画面上慢慢消失了，传教士在椅子里坐了差不多一个小时，整个人像被抽干了一样。然后他犯了个错误。他想：“至少那个人会绝对相信他。”他联系了那个真正的朋友——在伦敦的盟友。他写的邮件。 切尔腾纳姆一直在监听，米德堡也一样。海军陆战队的中校安静地待在美国驻伦敦大使馆的一间办公室里。格雷·福克斯在弗吉尼亚，办公桌上放着来自追踪者的请求。追踪者告诉他，传教士可能已经被毁掉了，但这还不够。传教士手上有太多的血债，现在必须干掉他。追踪者列出了几种方案。格雷·福克斯要亲自把这份请求递交联合特种作战司令部的指挥官威廉·麦克瑞文海军上将。他确信这件事需要讨论，决定权在椭圆形办公室。 邮件从马尔卡发出的几分钟之内，确切的内容、每台电脑的精确位置和各自的主人，都被核实了。传教士的情况完全没有疑问了，他的同伙穆斯塔法·达达里也是一样。 格雷·福克斯通过技术行动支援局和大使馆之间的保密线路，在二十四小时之内回复了追踪者。 “我试过了，追踪者，但回复是不可以。用导弹袭击那片地区被总统否决了。部分原因是周边有密集的平民，部分原因是奥珀尔还在里面。” “那其他请求呢？” “都不可以。不允许登陆那片海滩。伊斯兰青年军遍布马尔卡。我们不知道他们有多少人，或者他们的武器装备怎样。高层认为他会潜入那个到处是胡同的迷宫，我们可能会永远找不到他。 “像对本·拉登一样用无人机轰炸的申请也被否决了。不可以使用游骑兵，不可以使用海豹突击队，甚至不可以使用空军特种航空团。从吉布提和肯尼亚去那儿距离太远，从摩加迪沙去又太张扬，而且还有被击落的危险。'黑鹰坠落'这四个字至今仍能招致梦魇。 “抱歉，追踪者。你干得漂亮。你证实了他的身份，找到了他，毁了他的信用。不过我想，一切都结束了。那个混蛋躲在马尔卡，不可能出来的，除非你能有非常好的诱饵。另外还有个问题就是奥珀尔。我想你最好收拾一下回来吧。” “他还没死，格雷·福克斯。他双手沾满的鲜血能灌满整个大洋。他可能没法再传教了，但他仍然是个危险的混蛋。他可能会向西转移去马里。让我结束他吧。” 电话那头沉默了一会儿。然后格雷·福克斯又说道。 “好吧，追踪者。再多一周。然后你就收拾行囊。” 追踪者挂上电话，意识到自己误算了。他的本意，是想通过在全世界的伊斯兰原教旨主义的圈子里摧毁传教士的信用，把他从巢穴里逼到外面来。他希望传教士被自己人追得四处逃窜，没有掩护，重新成为一个难民。他从没想过自己的上司会让自己停止追捕。 他发现自己面临道德危机。尽管他可以像普通人一样投票选举，有作为美国海军陆战队军官的种种好处，还对长官绝对忠诚——也就是他服从上级，但这件事，他不能听命行事。 他被分派了任务，但任务还没有结束；他被交付了使命，但使命还没有完成。情况发生了变化。从现在开始，这是个人的恩怨了。他曾向那躺在弗吉尼亚海滩重症监护室里的老人——那个他深爱的老人——许下承诺，但现在他要放下这个许诺了。 这是从作为军校学员起，他第一次考虑从部队退役。不过几天后，他的职业生涯被那名他从没听说过的牙医挽救了。
阿弗里特把一张恐怖照片捏在手里留了两天。当照片猛然间闪现在昌西·雷诺兹控制中心的屏幕上时，大家都吓了一跳。加里斯·伊万斯一直在和阿布迪先生协商。谈判的主题显然是赎金和时间表。 阿布迪把价码从两千五百万降到了两千万，不过对欧洲人来说，时间被拖长了。已经过去了一个星期，但这对索马里人来说不算什么。阿弗里特想拿到所有的钱，他现在就要。阿布迪向他解释，瑞典船东不会考虑两千万的。伊万斯私下里一直坚持的观点是最终以五百万解决。 然后，阿弗里特接手了，他把自己准备好的照片发了过去。碰巧当时雷诺兹和哈里·安德森都在办公室，安德森先前被建议飞回斯德哥尔摩的家等消息，但他并没有回去。那张照片令三个人沉默了，他们感到一阵反胃。 照片上实习生的脸朝下，冲着一张非常粗糙简陋的木头桌子，一名身材硕大的索马里人摁着他的手腕。他的两个脚踝被分开绑在两边的桌子腿上，裤子和内裤都被脱掉了。 他的臀部被藤条打得血肉模糊，脸侧着朝向木质的桌子，显然在尖叫。 伊万斯和雷诺兹意识到，他们在对付的，是一个暴虐的疯子。以前从来没有发生过像这样的事。哈里·安德森的反应则更极端。他大叫一声，冲进洗手间。有人听见他跪在地上，脑袋冲着马桶干呕。他回来的时候脸色灰白，除了脸颊两边红色的印记。 “那是我儿子！”他喊道，“我的儿子！用的他母亲年轻时的名字。”他抓住加里斯·伊万斯的领子，把他从椅子里拖出来，直到脸对着脸，只有几英寸远。 “你把我儿子弄回来，加里斯，你把他弄回来！那些混蛋要什么就给他们什么。无论是什么，你听到了吗，你告诉他们，我给五千万，我要我的儿子，你告诉他们！” 他冲了出去，留下两个英国人面色惨白，浑身战栗。屏幕上，是那张恐怖的照片。
Notes: