Ops Files II--Terror Alert by Russell Blake Page A

news to fit government agendas, relegating the regular atrocities that were an everyday part of his people’s lives to the back page, or failing to mention them at all.
    But all that would soon change.
    They would have no choice but to notice. And the message would be unmistakable: we will bring the war to you, just as you have to us. Countless children with their legs blown off, maimed by the West’s war machine, slaughtered like so many ants by conquering armies of imperialists bent on a new colonialism, would no longer be sound bites on the network news, positioned between the misbehavior of the latest celebrities and the sports scores. No, Kahn would bring his enemies a reality they couldn’t ignore – and with it, a new future for his cause.
    He would give the legions of the oppressed a powerful voice.
    The voice of death.

Chapter 9
    When Uri arrived at the hotel he looked harried. The frown lines were carved into his face deeper than they’d been earlier and his manner was agitated.
    “What is it?”
    “Our watcher says Kahn is on the move earlier than usual today. He’s still at the mosque closest to his home, but it will take a long time to get across town.”
    “But you have someone in place.”
    “A local asset, but frankly I distrust anyone who isn’t from home.”
    “Which is why you wanted more resources.”
    “Of course. If I just wanted to throw bodies at the problem, I could hire truckloads of them here. I need skilled agents I can depend on.” Uri eyed her. “You did well this morning with the bug.”
    “It was an easy assignment.”
    “Not for everyone.”
    “I’m not everyone.”
    Uri nodded. “I’m beginning to appreciate that.”
    When they arrived at the mosque, Uri had a brief conversation on his cell phone, alerting the watcher that they were in position. Uri was in the process of telling the man that he could stand down when Kahn emerged from the building with his two bodyguards and another man they’d never seen before. Kahn embraced the man, who then hurried off toward a bank of motorcycles as Kahn made his way to the usual VW van.
    Uri hesitated and caught Maya’s eye. “New player?” she asked, and he scowled as he told the watcher to stay with Kahn.
    He hung up and started the engine as the motorcycle rider pulled away. “Looks like we’re going for a drive. We know Kahn’s routine – mosque for prayer, then back to his house, where he’ll stay until his Zuhr salat around noon, when he usually goes back to the mosque. He performs the Asr and Maghrib at home, and then finishes the day with the Isha at the mosque at night.”
    “And he never varies?”
    “Rarely. Sometimes he’ll go to the mosque for all five salats, because prayer in congregation is thought to have more spiritual benefit than alone. But we’re convinced that’s more to prove his standing as a pious man than anything.” Uri gunned the gas and took off after the motorcycle, nearly toppling a passing rickshaw and drawing a curse from the driver.
    After fifteen minutes, it became obvious that the motorcycle was leaving the city, headed northeast on the Dhaka-Sylhet highway toward Bhairab Bazar. They followed at a prudent distance, but the rider didn’t seem to be looking for a tail, and they had no problem keeping him in sight.
    The urban skyline transitioned to countryside dotted with industrial buildings and ever-present smokestacks belching clouds of toxins into the air. A train rattled along parallel to the highway for a stretch, and Maya could see the bright colors of festive clothes worn by those hitching a ride on the roof – a common means of travel for the impoverished, although deadly when the surface was slippery in the rain. Young men in red tunics ran on a soccer field near the tracks, impervious to the oppressive heat as they chased a ball like maniacs.
    They passed over the Meghna River, its water so murky and greenish with sludge it looked like pea soup, and Uri muttered a curse.