The First Commandment

CHAPTER 32

It was a crappy little café in a crappy little Mexican town, but it had halfway decent sandwiches, cold beer, and, unbelievably, a high-speed internet connection.

“Progress,” Philippe Roussard mumbled to himself as he wiped the lip of his bottle of Negro Modelo with his shirt and entered his password.

The setup was quite simple and had been around for quite some time, but with all their technology the Americans had yet to find a way to crack it. Which was why it was perfect.

Roussard and his handler shared a free, web-based email account. Instead of posting cryptic messages on an electronic bulletin board, or risking being undone by sending emails back and forth, they simply left brief notes for each other in the account’s draft folder. As soon as the other read the message, it was deleted. No trail, no trace, and no chance of anyone monitoring their conversations.

Roussard did what he had to do, logged off, and then dragged the cold bottle of beer across his forehead. What a country, he thought to himself. High-speed internet, but no air-conditioning.

The bottle felt good across his face and along the back of his neck. Earlier this morning he had stopped for gas, found the men’s room, and shaved. It was one habit he practiced religiously each day. He could thank his mother for his dark features. Stubble only made it worse. While some had told him over the years he looked Italian, that wasn’t how the majority of the world saw him. Roussard couldn’t escape his breeding. He looked like what he was — a Palestinian.

For all diplomatic intents and purposes, he was French. He spoke the language and carried a French passport. He even harbored a strong dislike of Americans, which meant he fit in perfectly when he was in France. But the reality of the situation was that he hadn’t been there for years. The war in Iraq had kept him quite busy.

Being Juba, being everywhere and nowhere, striking down Western imperialist soldiers one by one with a crack from his rifle was an all-consuming affair. Then he had gotten caught.

Between intensive interrogations, Roussard had had time to think — lots of it. And in that time, certain things had become clear to him. America’s time was drawing near.

It wouldn’t happen in months or even years, but in a matter of decades, America would fall. It was already happening. It was happening right before the eyes of each and every American, yet they were too fat and happy with their Big Gulps and satellite television to see it.

Roussard was amazed at how a nation once so proud could fall so far so quickly. The fabric of American society was in tatters. All one had to do was to pull at any one of the threads and it disintegrated even faster. If it wasn’t so arrogant, America might have been worth pitying. It had achieved much, but like Rome, its gluttony for power and world domination was already hastening its drumbeat to the grave.

Roussard was anxious to get back to work. The plagues were a brilliant idea. It added an extra element of torment to what Scot Harvath would be made to suffer. And after he was finally done with Harvath, Roussard planned to return to his work in Iraq. Though the Islamic Army of Iraq had trained and deployed excellent sniper teams, the fear they struck into the hearts and minds of their enemies was not as profound as that which Juba had been able to create.

Juba was a nightmare. Juba the sniper who struck without warning kept American troops awake in their beds at night wondering if they would be next. Juba was the angel of death who decided who would live and who would die. As soon as this assignment is complete, he told himself, I can return to my brothers in Iraq. Then once more I will be home.