The Old Boys by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online Page A

was believed at the time.”
    “And now?”
    “Paul left me a letter. I know what you told him.”
    “He wrote down everything?”
    “Themain points. An outline.”
    “So now you plan to kill my cousin again and you need money to do this and you think that I will give it to you? You
are
an extraordinary fellow.”
    I said, “I have no plans to kill Ibn Awad. Obviously I’m not very good at that. And I am no longer in the business of saving the world.”
    “Then what will you do with a million dollars?”
    “A million one hundred. I’ll carry on with Paul’s search.”
    “For what?”
    “For his mother, my aunt. For the Amphora Scroll.”
    “Do you plan to sell that, too?”
    “Would you be interested in the right of first refusal?”
    Kalash played deaf to this uppity remark. He said, “And if you happen to stumble on Ibn Awad?”
    “We can talk about old times.”
    “You should have let him set off one of his bombs and
then
murdered him. In those days Tel Aviv would have been his preference, so America would have come to no harm. You would have been the toast of the West instead of being driven into the wilderness.”
    “Is that still your recommendation?”
    “No. Times have changed. If I were the Crusader in charge of this manhunt, I would think it best to keep him from coming back from the dead.”
    “And how would you accomplish that?”
    “Not by killing him again. That would inflame the pious, because they would never believe that he was not immortal. If he lived through one murder, why should he not live through another? Murder him again and you create a Hydra.”
    “What, then?”
    “Capture him. I realize you’re an American, but for once, renounce braggadocio. Say nothing to the world. Let him stay dead.”
    “And then?”
    “Sendhim off to some Saint Helena in the Indian Ocean— he couldn’t be happy in a cold climate—and let him live out his days in prayer and fasting. It would be a kindness to tell him that all twelve of his bombs had gone off as planned in American cities. Show him videos of the devastation. Lots of corpses clutching crucifixes.”
    I said, “Very creative. But I thought we were doing all this to prevent devastation.”
    “Obviously. But surely your organization can make very convincing fake footage for a fraction of what it would cost to rebuild New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and so forth. It’s said that you faked the moon landings, so this should be child’s play.”
    “You believe that?”
    “About the moon landings? No. But I am not my cousin nor one of his half-mad followers.”
    What, then, was he? His callousness was so matter-of-fact that it was comical.
    “Excellent advice,” I said. “But do you really think such an operation can be kept quiet forever?”
    “You’re in a better position to judge such things than I am. But I say again, if this does not happen in impenetrable silence, if you advertise Ibn Awad’s return from the other world, if you describe what he has in mind, if you plaster CNN with his picture and pictures of his unexploded bombs, if you congratulate yourselves on saving the world in the usual all-American fashion, you will merely create another monster.”
    I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “If you show the world that Ibn Awad, just one pious man no matter how rich, held in his hands the means to inflict a mortal wound on the enemies of Islam, and that he accomplished this miracle not once but twice, you will demonstrate that inflicting the mortal wound is feasible. Therefore you will create the next Ibn Awad. And if you kill
him,
yet another one. There will be no end to it.”
    I said, “This is your cousin we’re talking about.”
    “Exactly. Iam trying to save his life.”
    “Naturally. But what else are you trying to save?”
    Kalash said, “‘What else?’ I should think it was obvious. If the bombs go off in America, Islam will be incinerated by the United States Air Force. I’d like to prevent