Pandemic Read Online Free Page B

wound resplendently below, but the publishing magnate was too preoccupied to notice.
    As he had every five minutes for the past two hours, Kabaal hit the "send/receive" icon again on the computer in front of him. Like each time before, all he saw in response was the same frustrating "no new messages" reply.
    What is the hold up? he thought for the umpteenth time as he dusted away imagined particles on the sleeves of his navy silk jacket. Vanity was one sin Kabaal had yet to overcome. He rationalized away his hand-tailored Italian suits and hundred-dollar haircuts as necessity, arguing that Mohammed would have understood the need to assimilate among the enemy. But Kabaal worked hard at maintaining his Omar Sharif-like good looks. At fifty, he was still in top physical shape. And he made a point of pride to never be seen publicly unless immaculately dressed.
    He tapped the "send/receive" button again. The lack of response was taxing the patience of the man whose patience and resolve had grown to legendary status after he transformed a series of obscure Arabic newspapers into a publishing conglomerate, one paper at a time. As a result, Kabaal wound up controlling a huge sphere of influence in the Arab world while amassing a personal fortune.
    Though his papers' readership was fiercely loyal, running an Islamic newspaper within Egypt's corrupt autocracy posed a daily challenge. Tacitly, most government officials agreed with his Islamic Brotherhood's beliefs. Denunciation of Israel was accepted, even encouraged, but the officials showed far less tolerance of similar condemnations of the U.S.A. or Europe. And retribution for criticism of the Egyptian government was swift and harsh. After publishing what authorities perceived as an attack several editors had learned firsthand the brutality of the Egyptian judicial system. Not Kabaal. He had a sixth sense for knowing how far he could push. Or at least, he thought, he used to.
    Kabaal tapped the key again, but the screen offered nothing in return. Discouraged, he leaned back in his seat and mulled over the details of his initiative. As he pictured the fallout, he felt the unwelcome twinges of doubt stir inside.
    Kabaal knew that few would have considered him capable of militancy. Most people saw him as a progressive Arab businessman. His extravagant wardrobe aside, he'd spent much time in the West. He completed his master's degree at the London School of Economics where he had experimented with alcohol and Western women who were easy prey for his exotic good looks and worldly charm.
    But things had changed since those halcyon student days. Kabaal had reconnected in a far deeper sense with his Islamic roots. And, as he had learned from Sheikh Hassan, with commitment came obligation. Obligation to disseminate the word of God. Obligation to strive for a state where religion and life weren't forced asunder as they were in the hedonistic West or corrupt Arab monocracies. The Sheikh made it clear that it was Kabaal's duty to push his brothers, by force if necessary, toward a nation like the Prophet Mohammed's Al Madinah, where the Shari'ah (or Islamic law) ruled supreme.
    Still, Kabaal had been slow to reach for the sword. When the twin towers fell in New York he even allowed a few of his papers to criticize the action. But then Kabaal watched with a sense of bitter betrayal as the West mounted a savage retaliation--Afghanistan, Palestine, and finally Iraq. The last aggression galled him the most. When the supposed weapons of mass destruction never materialized, "democratization" became the catchphrase. What hypocrisy! Kabaal knew it was always about the oil. And now the U.S. was already eyeing Syria and Iran with her gluttonous insatiable appetite for oil and power.
    Sheikh Hassan had predicted it all. In a voice that trembled with passion when the cleric spoke of the degenerate West, the Sheikh argued that the Crusades had never ended. In every country where Islam met Judeo-Christianity,