Chapter 55
Nabeed had been raised as a casual Muslim by his mother and a French grandfather, a leftover from the Foreign Legion.
But his ordeal and imprisonment had fortified his faith.
During his eight years at Guantánamo he had memorized the entire Quran, like many of the prisoners, and he strove to live by the Word.
He didn’t believe in killing. The Quran strongly condemned it, though many of the faith believed violence against the faith justified more violence.
He didn’t want to kill the Americans, not for money anyway.
The killing of the former soldier in Tennessee wasn’t murder, it was justice.
Second, he could carry out his threats and start killing the hostages.
The video of the first one being decapitated would probably jar loose the money in Washington.
However, the spilling of American blood would never be forgotten.
They could be erratic, heavy-handed, misinformed, and remarkably clumsy, as he had learned years earlier when his only crime was being an Arab.
But they could also be fearless, brilliant, superbly equipped, well led, and lethal.
They had the technology, the tools, and the manpower to chase him until the end.
Just look at bin Laden. Nabeed wanted a simple, peaceful life in his small city, with his flowers, and hopefully with a wife and plenty of children. He did not want to live on the run.
His third choice was to crank up the pressure; one last operation to show the Americans, and the French, that he could come and go as he pleased, and when he left he could take with him valuable goods.
The eight-hour drive gave him plenty of time to sort through his options.
He discussed them with Edouard, his French Algerian lieutenant who had successfully orchestrated the first three kidnappings.
Edouard had never lived outside France but had strong ties to Algeria and even stronger anti-Western sentiments.
He was confident the publicity was not a factor.
The French had certainly downplayed it in an effort to protect tourism.
Edouard monitored hotel bookings, car rentals, restaurant reservations, guided tours, even photographers, and he had seen no downtick in interest from the Yanks.
The Christmas season was as busy as ever, and the newlyweds seemed oblivious to any dangers.
They arrived midafternoon at the safe house in a grungy industrial section of northwest Paris. Christine was waiting with tea and sandwiches, and also a hug for Nabeed and a long kiss for Edouard, the man who had recruited her and now shared her bed.
At 5 p.m., Nabeed retired to a tiny bedroom and powered up a sat phone.
He called a contact in Brussels, who relayed a message that was not welcome news.
According to the back channels, the Americans were still at war with each other over the payment of the ransom.
The president was no longer vehemently opposed to the idea, but was straddling the fence and getting kicked from both sides.
The spooks wanted to pay the money, save the hostages, and close the book.
The generals wanted the green light to start dropping bombs, though they weren’t sure of the targets.
Nabeed ended the call and stretched out on the cot. He closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep. What the Americans needed was more incentive.