Secret Soldier Read Online Free Page A

his mind he was seeing something else—news reports of his victory.
    The vivid picture in his head chased his bad mood away. He always had the ability to see clearly the things he wanted, as if they’d already happened. He was a visionary—one much needed by his people.
    The first strike had to be spectacular—bigger and more devastating than the U.S.A. had ever seen. After that, once everybody knew his name, recruits would be abundant and funding would flow in. And with that, the second attack would be even better. His cause was just, and he would not stop until he brought his enemies to their knees. He could no longer argue reasonably while no one in political office listened. He could not stand by and watch as western businesses, backed by their governments, robbed and raped his country.
    He was a successful businessman, but what he and his family had paled in comparison to what should have been rightfully theirs. They should have been living like princes. They would have been, if westerners had not supported King Majid’s claims to the throne, ensuring his favor that came with hefty government contracts. El Jafar fisted his hand. Contracts that should have gone to his company and other local interests, not to some global conglomerate who siphoned the profits back to the West, harvesting the riches while leaving Beharrain in poverty.
    Fair Trade was nothing but a slogan. If trade were fair, countries with valuable natural resources wouldn’t have to watch their citizens starve while their western trade partners got richer and richer, to the point of obscenity.
    But not much longer. The day of reckoning was coming soon. And the thieves would have nowhere to hide.
    Tsernyakov had come through. He trusted the man, or, at least, he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. Still, he’d been careful. He had not revealed his real name, his purpose or his location. At each meeting, he’d sent a car to pick up Tsemyakov at his hotel and drive him out into the desert. The tent, a reminder of his Bedouin ancestors, had been set up at a different place each time.
    “Forgive me, El Jafar.” One of his men was at the tent’s opening. “Hamid begs for a word with you.”
    “Send him in.” He smiled, pleased beyond measure with the way his plan was progressing, faster than even he had expected. In another ten days or so, the world would know his name. And his enemies would learn to fear him.
     
    ABIGAIL GRABBED FOR her seat as Gerald swerved to avoid a giant pothole. She glanced at Leila next to her on the back seat. Neither she nor Abdul, riding shotgun with his rifle slung over his shoulder, seemed perturbed by the road conditions. As far as Abigail could see in the approaching twilight, their path was riddled with craters from shelling. Although the civil war had been over for almost four years, no one had the money to even begin repairs. But Gerald was proving useful at last, handling the obstacles with the agility of a race car driver.
    Mrs. Gerald Thornton. She turned the words over in her head for the hundredth time since they’d left Rahmara. She was married. Just like that. She caught Gerald’s gaze in the rearview mirror and he winked at her.
    She bit back a groan. God, what had she done?
    Their marriage was a lie and, beyond any other sin, she hated deceit the most. She should have thought of that earlier. And, of course, she had. But she had to be practical. Their marriage hurt no one, while it made possible for her to stay in Tukatar and save children. That outweighed everything. And then, of course, there was that whole “stoning to death” issue. She hoped the locals would think twice before enforcing such a punishment on a U.S. citizen, but she hadn’t been brave enough to test the mullah.
    Leila, her chaperone, a short but stocky widow covered from head to toe in a black abayah, said something to her brother. He shrugged. Maybe she was too hot. They had the Jeep’s roof up to keep the sun off them,