Insurrection

A few moments later, Kamilah returned, followed by a short, slightly built man. He was an Arab, originally from Yemen, but his skin was only a slight shade darker than the average Caucasian. His face, which was clean shaved, denoted no particular heritage. And in his work for both al Qaeda and Boko Haram, he made full use of the DNA, which allowed him to portray practically any race he chose to imitate simply by changing his clothes, language and attitude.

The bottom line was that Sam always looked like anything but what he actually was—a radical Islamic terrorist.

Hayat noted that this day, like most days when he was not undercover and gathering information within a specific ethnic group, Sam wore a gray pin-striped, three-piece business suit and a conservative burgundy-colored tie. His jacket was unbuttoned as usual, and Hayat saw the gold watch chain drooping across his abdomen from one pocket in his vest to the other.

Invisible at the small of his back, Sam would undoubtedly have his kris. The wavy, snakelike blade was encased in worn leather and secured by a steel clip to his belt.

Sam had used a wide variety of weapons during the time he had been liaison between al Qaeda and Boko Haram. But Hayat knew a .32 derringer and the kris were his favorites. They were simple, like Sam himself was simple, and they were always with him.

Although, as a member of al Qaeda rather than Boko Haram, Sam didn’t answer directly to Fazel Hayat, he had always treated the Nigerian with the utmost respect. So now, as he stopped in front of Hayat’s pillow and stood there looking more like some Latin American lawyer than the terrorist he was, he said, “You summoned me, sir?”

Hayat liked the man and liked his manners. They were in such contrast to Agbede’s. “Let us say I requested your presence,” he said now. “It sounds so much friendlier.” He indicated the empty pillow next to him where Patsy had been a few minutes earlier. “Would you like a seat?”

“No, thank you. I would prefer to stand.”

“As you wish, then,” Hayat said. “I have something I would like for you to do if you would.”

Sam nodded. “That is why I was sent here,” he said. “To assist Boko Haram in our mutual war against the West, Christianity and Judaism. To unite our two groups.”

“The bishop from New York City,” Hayat said. “The one who was born here and attended the local Christian seminary, then immigrated to the United States. He returned to be a speaker at their conference.”

“So I have been told,” Sam replied.

“And somehow,” Fazel went on, “he escaped both the bomb inside the chapel and our men outside.”

“So I also heard.”

“His name is Bishop Joshua Adewale, and how this happened, I do not know. Dhul and I were watching through binoculars from a few blocks away. And I had one man videotaping the machete executions as the bomb survivors tried to run out of the rubble. Dhul and I saw, and our man with the video camera recorded, Adewale clearly walking right between two of my other men and out of the picture.”

“I have watched the video,” Sam said. “I did not think you would mind.”

Hayat shook his head. “Of course not. I am happy that you are already familiar with the problem.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Sam said. “It appears that the two men he walked between were simply preoccupied with the killing of other bishops. And by the time they were finished, Adewale had left the scene.”

“Yes, that is the only answer I can come up with myself,” Hayat agreed. “But there is still something mysterious and unsettling about it all. Both men clearly looked at Adewale, but then seemed to immediately forget him and go back to what they were doing.” He cleared his throat. “Dhul and I saw Adewale leave the scene and head into a nearby neighborhood, walking unsteadily, as if in some kind of trance.”

Sam shuffled his feet slightly as if beginning to grow impatient. “And you would like me to find him and kill him?”

“Yes,” Hayat replied. “Dhul has gone after the American agent and the traitor who now calls himself Paul. He will be busy with them, I suspect.”

“Again, with all due respect,” Sam said, “I should have been sent after all of these men as soon as we recognized the threats they represented. In fact—and I do not wish to overstep my bounds—but I should also have been in charge of the strike against the university chapel itself.”

“You are correct,” Hayat said. “But I had Dhul manufacture the bomb, plant it and then position the men outside the chapel before he joined me on the rooftop. I thought that would be sufficient.”

Sam let a small smile of indulgence curl at the corners of his lips. “Would you allow me to speak freely, sir?” he asked.

“Of course. I value your input. And you possess the ability to disagree without being rude and offensive. Please continue.”

“Thank you, sir.” After clearing his throat, he said, “Dhul Agbede is an animal, sir,” he said. “A mindless mongrel dog more suited to the days of Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun or Shaka Zulu with his scorched earth policy. Granted, there is some use to be culled from the random and apparently conscienceless violence of which he is capable. And he does construct good explosives and forges fine-edged weaponry. Like this.” The wavy-bladed kris suddenly appeared in Sam’s hand, drawn from the small of his back so quickly Hayat saw only a flurry of movement as the man’s suit coat flared out and then fell back to his side. Sam rotated the kris into a reverse “ice pick” grip, then returned it to the sheath behind his back almost as quickly as he had produced it.

Hayat couldn’t help being awed. No one could forge steel into machetes and other edged weapons like Dhul Agbede, but he had never seen anyone who could use those blades with the skill that Sam possessed. The smartly dressed man from al Qaeda was famous for using his wavy blade. Many who knew him compared Sam to a mighty king cobra, who struck so fast with the kris that no man’s eyes could follow the movement.

Before Hayat could comment on his skill with the serpentine blade, Sam said, “If there is nothing else, sir, I shall begin my search. May I assume the last known sighting of this Nigerian-American bishop was when he was videotaped stumbling away from the scene?”

“It was,” Hayat replied.

“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me get started?” Sam asked.

Hayat squinted, thinking hard. He knew something else had been unusual, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. “No—” He stopped as a memory suddenly returned. “Wait. Yes... It may be of no consequence, but he appeared to have injured his arm.”

“And what makes you say that, sir?” Sam asked.

“He was holding his left arm, right above the wrist, as he walked away,” Hayat replied. “I remember that clearly now. But it must have been a minor injury. It did not keep him from disappearing down the street.”

“Could you tell what type of injury it was? A broken bone, perhaps? Or a puncture...an abrasion?”

“I could not tell,” Hayat stated. “Even through the binoculars or on the laptop screen.”

Sam nodded and turned, starting to go.

Hayat stopped him, saying, “Would you like a woman or two before you leave?”

San shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I am anxious to get to my task.”

“Do you think you will be able to find him?” Hayat asked.

Sam turned back briefly with a smile. “Of course,” he said. “It is what I do.”

Hayat shook his head, which caught Sam’s attention. “Is there something else, sir?”

“No. It was just the way you phrased your last comment. It made me think of Dhul. It is also what he does, but the two of you do it in such different ways.”

“I certainly hope so,” Sam replied. “I believe I would cut my own throat if I thought there were any similarities between the two of us.”

And with those final words, he turned quickly and was gone.

* * *

GALAB LED THE Executioner along what was primarily a series of alleys. But there were enough streets that had to be crossed, and enough curious eyes falling on them when they did, that the Executioner knew that they and his lime-green luggage would be remembered.

The bags had been an advantage at the airport, where they hid his weapons and other gear in what looked like typical tourist luggage. But here on the streets of Ibadan they had become a liability, drawing attention to him. Galab herself fitted into the landscape like a stalk of wheat in a wheat field, but with Bolan and his bags along, anyone could see that something out of the ordinary was taking place.

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through clenched teeth. Every mission he undertook had its ups and downs. Little things that worked for good as he progressed through the obstacles between him and his goal could easily turn around and hinder him a moment later. He was tempted to abandon the gaudy “sightseer” bags and carry on without them, but knew he might need much of the equipment the bags contained. And by now the damage had already been done. The only thing that would draw more attention than the lime-green monstrosities would be openly carrying the weapons and other equipment they contained.

The Executioner’s mind continued to work as they walked swiftly on, hurrying down alleys and crossing streets as quickly as they could. The bottom line was that he needed to find a different, lower-profile means of transporting his gear as soon as possible. But he needed to remember that some damage had already been done. The men and women who saw him and Galab would remember them, and that meant that soon the Boko Haram terrorists were going to learn that they had been in the area with their neon luggage.

Galab had to be thinking along similar lines. “We are almost there,” she said as they rushed on. “Soon we will be out of sight again and you can store those abominable bags in a safe place.”

Bolan just nodded. In all missions, he had found over the years, there were calculated risks that had to be taken. And at this point, the only alternative to allowing themselves to be seen was to turn and go back, forgoing this place where he planned to base his operations. And even then, he had already drawn too many curious looks. If the Bokos didn’t already know Bolan and the Isaac Center director were in the area, they soon would. So the best plan of action at this juncture was to make sure they didn’t learn exactly which building they’d be in.

The soldier clenched his teeth again and moved on. Finally, he and Galab hurried into another deserted alley and the woman from the Isaac Center led him to a back door. The asphalt on which they stood was crowded with stacks of building materials: wallboard, boxes of nails, plywood sheets and other items.

The door led into a building constructed long ago of clay, but that appeared to be undergoing a major remodeling. It was at the end of a half-dozen other clay buildings that shared common walls and looked like some ancient shopping center. A walkway led away from them to the right, and Bolan looked down it and saw that it would take them to the busy street in front of the buildings. As if to confirm his assumption that the building was getting a makeover, he could hear the sounds of various power tools on the roof overhead. Whoever was operating them was too far back from the edge to be visible from below.

Galab caught his line of sight and answered his question before he could ask it. “This structure is old and beginning to fall apart,” she said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the racket. “The roof is currently being repaired. The men are back too far for us to see them.”

Bolan nodded. “Just get us out of sight, too,” he said, glancing up and down the alley to check if anyone was watching.

“In addition to the bakery out front, the repair work also adds to the cover,” the woman added as she raised a fist to knock on the door. “It gives us an excuse for people to be going and coming, in case any of the Boko Haram spies take note.”

Without another word she knocked three times on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked four more times. A moment later, a soft single knock came from the other side. Galab replied with one last thump of her fist, and the door swung open.

A man wearing black slacks and a blue tunic unbuttoned at the neck ushered Galab quickly inside. Bolan took a final look both ways down the alley, satisfying himself that there were no prying eyes taking in this final leg of their trip, then followed.

The man in the tunic closed the door behind them.

Bolan found himself in a dimly lit hallway. Copper pipes and white PVC plumbing, heat and air-conditioning lines were exposed overhead. A steady hum came from the ceiling, punctuated occasionally by a strange buzzing sound. Bolan wondered briefly at its source, then turned his attention to the man who had opened the door.

Galab and he embraced quickly, then stepped back from each other. “Paul,” the woman said, “this is Matt Cooper, the American I told you would be coming.”

Paul extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “We can use all the help we can get.” He had evidently seen the Executioner’s glance toward the ceiling. “Many of our converts are skilled artisans,” he said. “They are in the process of making the currently unused areas of this building more livable for those who must hide here.”

Bolan nodded. Faintly, from the roof, he could hear the same hiss and snap of a nail gun that he’d heard at the construction site back at the Isaac Center. Men on the roof would indeed add to the secrecy of this Christian hideout. It made it even less conspicuous than if the building was left unoccupied. The construction was a perfect example of the old ruse of “hiding in plain sight.”

The soldier glanced at Paul, somehow knowing that having workers on the roof had been this man’s idea. It was strange, sometimes, how warriors could recognize each other—even in the most peaceful settings. As they’d traveled the alleys, Galab had told Bolan a little about Paul. The man’s main mission in life since his conversion to Christianity might be leading other souls to Christ, but his background as a member of Boko Haram—in short, his experience as a working terrorist—made him an excellent strategist.

As Bolan finished that line of thought, he heard the sound of the air-conditioning kick on from the pipes overhead. The sporadic buzz continued, but seemed now to be coming from some more distant source.

He looked upward again just as Paul said, “We have many elderly people here. They dehydrate and collapse easily. So we must keep things at least moderately comfortable for them.”

Bolan nodded. Men and women lost resistance to both heat and cold as they grew older, and heatstroke or exhaustion, even hypothermia, could kill them in temperatures that younger, more able-bodied individuals barely noticed.

Paul raised the sleeve of his tunic to his mouth and coughed. Then, lowering his eyes from the ceiling to Galab’s, he said, “Did anyone see you?”

“Everyone saw us,” she replied, pointing at the gaudy green bags. “At least on the streets. But I do not believe anyone noticed our entry here.” She looked back over her shoulder at the door, then turned her eyes to Bolan for a second opinion.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone when we came in, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t see us. There are plenty of places up and down that alley to hide.” He turned to Paul. “Bottom line, it’s impossible to be sure.”

For the first time since Bolan and Galab had entered the building, Paul smiled. “That is the state in which we Christians constantly find ourselves. Not just here but all over Nigeria. We are never sure whether we are safe. Not since Boko Haram started its campaign of death and destruction.”

He raised his forearm to his mouth, turned his head and began coughing into his sleeve once again. But this time, instead of a single cough, a long series of choking sounds came out. When the fit finally ended, he turned back to Bolan and said, “At the very least, our Boko Haram enemies will soon know something unusual is happening in this area of town. But if we are lucky, they will not know exactly what or where.”

Fixing his attention on the Executioner, he spoke to the woman. “Tell me more about this man, Layla,” he said, changing the topic.

“As I said, his name is Matt Cooper.” She smiled up at the soldier. “At least that is the name I have been given. I do not know any more about him except that he is from the United States, he is supposed to be the best agent America has to offer and he has been sent here to help us.”

The man in the blue tunic nodded. “And you trust him?”

“Implicitly,” Galab said. “He has already proved himself in combat against the Bokos. They attacked us as we were leaving the center.” She gazed up at Bolan again, her brown eyes filled with feeling. “Without him I would be dead right now.”

Paul stared intensely at the Executioner. “Then I will trust him, too,” he said. “I will call him Matt Cooper, whether that is his real name or not.”

Bolan smiled. “And I’ll call you Paul. Although something tells me that wasn’t the name you were born with, either.”

Paul’s head moved back and forth as he returned the smile, but his expression was that of a weary man, one with too much on his mind to waste time or energy on formalities. “No,” he said. “I was born with the name Enitan. It means ‘person of the story’ in the Yoruba tongue. Paul is the name I took after Christ visited me in a dream.” He raised a fist to his mouth, coughed yet again, then said, “The dream was much like the experience the Apostle Paul had on the Damascus Road. Are you familiar with it?”

Bolan nodded, remembering the Catholic sermons of his youth. “His name was Saul up until then,” he said. “Jesus appeared to him in a waking vision rather than a dream, however. In a sudden light so bright it temporarily blinded him. Jesus asked why he was persecuting His followers.”

Paul nodded in turn, and for the first time since they had met let a real smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Exactly,” he said. “Up until my dream I had been active in Boko Haram. I had persecuted Nigerian Christians and even brother Muslims, just as the original Paul had persecuted the early Christians for the Sanhedrin.”

He stopped speaking and clenched his teeth for a moment. Pain spread across his face at the memory. “There is more to this story,” he said. “Background. But I will have to tell you the rest when we have time.” The hurt on his face seemed to disappear as quickly as it had come. “The bottom line is that Christ forgave my sins and changed my heart in that dream. And since then I have fought against the persecution meted out by Boko Haram and other Islamic terrorist groups.”

Bolan stared down at the shorter man. “That must have delighted your Boko buddies,” he said.

Paul let out a sudden laugh that sounded like gravel banging the insides of a washing machine. “At first they did not know. So I continued to pretend to be a part of them, but leaked information to the Christians.” He jerked his chin to one side, indicating that Nigerian Christians were hiding in the building, somewhere behind him. “But then my duplicity was discovered and a price was put on my head. Since that time, I have hidden here. I go out only at night, and even then I must wear a disguise.” He lifted his left arm and tapped the sleeve of his tunic. “But I will help you in any way I can. And like the original Paul, I will give my life for Christ if it comes to that.”

“It very well might,” Bolan told him.

Paul nodded again. “Then let me take you to meet some of the other Christians hiding out here,” he said. “A few are warriors and ready to assist us in our struggle. But most—as in any group of people—do not have the temperament for violence, even when it is warranted.”

“Not everyone does,” Bolan said.

Paul squinted slightly, looking as if he was taking the soldier’s measure. “But you do,” he said. “You have the capacity for violence. Wouldn’t you say you were a violent man?”

“No,” the Executioner replied. “I wouldn’t. I’m just good at it when it’s necessary.”

“I understand.” Paul looked down at the lime-green luggage Bolan and Galab had set on the floor. “Perhaps we can find some less eye-catching bags for you.”

The Executioner let out a small chuckle. “I was going to ask you to do that,” he said. “These bags have been an albatross around my neck ever since I left the airport.”

Paul turned to lead them down the hall. Overhead was more exposed wiring, plastic pipe, and long strips of insulation stapled to the ceiling. The unexplained buzzing had increased in volume threefold.

Now, the soldier recognized the sound as some sort of electric saw. It was just more of whatever construction was happening on the roof. In addition to the saw, he could still hear the sounds of electric guns spitting out nails, and other hand tools such as hammers, wrenches and pliers twisting metal.

The ancient structure’s outside belied its interior, and made a good hiding place for people who had been forced into going underground. The restoration wasn’t finished, but the place seemed livable. They passed two rooms that contained stored furniture, canned goods and other “survival” items. An armed man was stationed in each room. In the first, a dark-skinned Nigerian had a Smith & Wesson revolver stuck in his belt. The white-skinned guy in the other storage room held an Uzi in both hands.

Paul and Galab led Bolan through a confusing labyrinth of twists and turns.

“Many of these hallways lead to dead ends,” Paul told him. “We have designed it this way in order to confuse any attackers unfamiliar with the layout. Layla and I, and the people hiding here, know the place by heart.” He paused a moment and coughed several times. It was a low, grumbling, garbling sound that bespoke some serious upper respiratory problem rather than just a sore throat or allergies. When he had finished, he said, “I doubt that you will be here long enough to need to know the floor plan.”

“No, maybe not,” Bolan replied. “But it never hurts to know things like that. I’ve been memorizing these corners and turns as we’ve walked.”

The soldier found more of the same when he followed Paul and Layla around a bend to yet another doorway. The room it led to was larger, and appeared to have been chosen primarily as housing. Men and women sat scattered around the space. Bare mattresses covered much of the floor, and the furnishings consisted of a few mismatched chairs and tables, plus one well-worn sofa. Most people in the room sat on the mattresses or the tile floor. At the rear an open door exposed a white sink and toilet. Although he didn’t count them, it looked to Bolan as if there were roughly a dozen individuals present, and the single bathroom appeared to service them all.

Paul stopped just outside the doorway and turned to Bolan. A moment passed during which the Christian convert took in a deep breath prior to speaking. At the same time, the people in the room suddenly noticed their presence, and all eyes in the room swept to Bolan and Galab as conversation ceased.

In the quiet seconds that followed, the soldier heard faint crunching and swishing sounds somewhere in the distance. He could hardly be certain, but it sounded like someone digging. And it was not all that different from the sounds that issued from Paul’s congested chest.

Bolan looked through the door at the uprooted Christians gathered. There were slightly more men than women, and a good number of them suffered from one kind of physical disability or another. Wheelchairs and crutches were prevalent, and one man wore an oxygen nose piece that was attached to a tank by clear plastic tubing.

“I don’t see any children,” Bolan said.

Paul’s chest rumbled when he spoke. “We have shipped the children out of Nigeria to Christian families in neighboring countries,” he said. “Much like the British sent children to the United States during World War II. These are people who have been attacked by the Bokos and escaped. Or a few who we know were targeted, but got away in time with their families. Boko Haram has a death list, and most of these people are on it.”