Dead Shot by USMC (Ret.) with Donald A. Davis Gunnery SGT. Jack Coughlin Page B

would be worthless the moment that the details of the new and virulent nerve agent were out of their possession, so that could not be allowed to happen.
    Saladin appeared undisturbed. He had a handsome face with a well-trimmed beard and sharp black eyes that flashed intelligence, and he was dressed in a dark business suit and a subdued pearl gray tie. Actually taller than Juba, he weighed less and was thin. “You look well, and you have done well,” he said as he squeezed Juba affectionately on the shoulder. “I am so proud. Come, please, and meet our host.”
    The second man stood. In contrast to Saladin, he wore a cheap suit that could not be buttoned over his stomach, and his belly overlapped the creased belt. The collar tips of his brown shirt flared like dirty wings, and a clump of chest hair had wiggled out above the second button.
    “Let me introduce our new friend, Youcef Aseer, a very important leader among our al Qaeda comrades,” said Saladin with some deference. The fat man’s tiny eyes did not leave Juba’s face.
    “I am honored,” said Juba and gave a slight bow. He was not about to embrace this unclean fat man who carried the smell of shallots and sweat.
    “No, it is I who enjoy meeting you, the famous Juba. Your work in London has left the infidels in panic. God is great! Well done, young man.” The voice was oddly small for such a large man.
    They took seats, and Saladin got straight to business. “I know you were surprised by this summons, Juba, but something very important has happened to change our plans. Since the London episode, Youcef Aseer has been designated by al Qaeda to see that we all should henceforth work together. It is a great opportunity for us. Al Qaeda offers a generous sum of money and also manpower—dedicated foot soldiers, street demonstrators, and willing martyrs—that we can use in certain situations. In turn, we supply the formula and our field leadership. They want a strike in France, to subdue this wicked nation like a whipped puppy.”
    Youcef Aseer chuckled. “We are closer here than in any other Western nation. One good push is all we need! Imagine an Islamic government in France!”
    Saladin clapped his hands. “Exactly, my friend.” He turned to Juba. “Our friend Youcef here is now within our small circle of trust. You are to do as he says, Juba. Do you understand that?”
    “Yes, Father.” Juba understood very clearly: Al Qaeda was taking over.
    “Good. See, Youcef! I told you there would be no difficulty. It will be good to work with al Qaeda again,” said Saladin. “Let Juba see your list.”
    The al Qaeda chieftain handed over a small envelope. The small move was peremptory, the sort of wave of a hand that a master gives an underling. This was his home, and his bodyguards were skillful. Unless these two renegades cooperated, he would have them killed.
    Juba rose from his chair, and since he could not go between the two because of the table, he circled behind the al Qaeda leader. “Excuse me. The light is better by the window.” He looked out at the fading sunlight playing with shadows on the rooftops and ran his thumb beneath the gummed flap of the envelope, pulled out the paper, and read three names, three addresses, all in the southern part of the country. Of course. The port of Marseille had been the initial arrival point for the first waves of immigrants from North Africa.
    Aseer grinned. “The first is a judge who has sentenced our brothers to long terms in prison, the second an undercover detective with a particular skill for infiltrating our group, and the third simply a worthless traitor. Juba, I want you to kill them all to show that our enemies cannot escape the Prophet’s justice.”
    “And the attack in France?”
    “You leave that to us. We will have our own chemists and physicists construct the weapon under your supervision.”
    “It is not yet ready. The London experiment showed the dispersal rate remains too high.”
    “Another