The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 19

High horsetails of clouds streaked the afternoon sky like white smoke over the Pothohar Plateau, the celestial blue of the heavens so vivid it seemed painted. A cluster of dwellings encircled a clearing where young boys kicked a soccer ball with competitive enthusiasm. They were watched by a few old men who, with their working years behind them, spent their days gossiping and condemning the wicked ways of a world that had left them behind.

A silver Toyota Hilux truck pulled away from one of the modest houses and tore down a dirt road that led to town, the driver one of several men renting homes in the area, who kept to themselves. When he reached the main intersection, he made a left and headed south, away from the city, and kept going for fifteen minutes, at which point he pulled onto a tributary and then rolled onto the drive of a walled compound.

An armed guard studied the driver as though he’d never seen him before, a ritual that was repeated whenever the Toyota appeared, and the guard spoke into a handheld radio, fingering the trigger guard of the Kalashnikov AKM that hung from a shoulder strap, its curved magazine iconic and instantly recognizable.

The radio crackled and a voice brayed from the speaker. The guard nodded to the driver and moved to slide the heavy iron gate open. Inside, two men joined him in heaving the barrier aside, and the truck rumbled down the gravel drive toward the two-story main building.

A bearded man with a stern expression, wearing a flowing amber robe, a turban, and sandals, waited at the entrance. Intelligent eyes beneath a thick brow watched the truck approach, and when it stopped, he nodded to the driver, who returned the gesture as he stepped from the vehicle.

“Welcome, Abdul Aziz. It is good to see you,” the bearded man said.

“It is an honor, as always, Razzaq,” the driver replied.

Razzaq led him into the house, which was surprisingly cool thanks to overhead fans and thick walls, and they sat together while an attendant served them tea. Once they had sipped the pungent brew appreciatively, Abdul Aziz glanced around to ensure they were alone and leaned toward Razzaq.

“We have received the funds,” Abdul Aziz said. “Yesterday. They are ours to use as we wish.”

“Excellent. Will there be any problem withdrawing it in cash?”

“No. It was delivered in two suitcases. All euros, as requested.”

“Perfect. I trust you have it in a safe place?”

“I guard it with my life. There is no one so foolhardy as to attempt to steal from us, even in these difficult times. My oldest son watches it as we speak.”

“I am blessed to command such loyalty.”

“We would gladly lay down our lives for the cause.”

“Thankfully Allah has a different destiny in mind for you.”

“It is like a dream. To be so proximate to the avenging might of the will of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”

“Nothing can stand in our way. We will bring the sleeping dogs to their knees. Too long have our lands been used as pawns in their game. Too long have our people suffered at their hands while they go about their business like fat, spoiled children, blind to the damage they inflict. But all of that will change, and then we will have the upper hand.”

“I await the moment with every fiber of my being.”

“As do I, brother, as do I.”

They discussed the logistics of transporting the cash across the border. Razzaq was the leader of a particularly extreme sect of Islamic radicals who, in addition to buying whole cloth the most draconian interpretations of holy scripture, had developed a highly sophisticated funding network — contributions from mosques all over the eastern seaboard filtered through investment firms and, once pooled, were concentrated in offshore hedge funds, who laundered the money by investing in the unregulated over-the-counter derivatives market, where hundreds of trillions of notional value contracts traded hands, with no reporting required, completely outside of the safeguards of the banking system.

“It is laughable how the governments have clamped down on financial freedom in an effort to stop crime, when it’s well understood that real money operates completely outside of their banking system,” Razzaq observed, the theme a favorite of his. His cousin ran a fund that operated in the British Virgin Islands, and had engineered the mechanism which would soon allow Razzaq to become the most hated and feared figure in the world, and a hero to his fellow adherents.

He’d learned from watching ISIL that access to capital was the key to recruitment, and was one of a new breed of freedom fighter, as he thought of himself, educated in the American Ivy League university system, the son of prosperous parents. He was far more sophisticated than his predecessors and was equally at home discussing credit default swaps or oil futures as he was issuing scholarly and invariably militant interpretations of the Koran. Which made him extremely dangerous — or as he liked to say, a Renaissance man who understood his adversaries’ weaknesses well enough to exploit them for his own purposes. With a substantial war chest, there was no limit to what he could achieve, and his years subjecting himself to primitive conditions in Pakistan and Afghanistan would soon be over.

When Razzaq and Abdul Aziz had concluded their discussion, the older man led Abdul Aziz to the doors, which a servant had closed to keep out the dust that blew across the area from the nearby desert. Abdul Aziz embraced Razzaq, who returned the salutation in kind, and then watched the Toyota drive away, leaving the large courtyard empty except for the gunmen who protected him round the clock and several chickens frightened from the shade by the sound of the vehicle.

Tomorrow Razzaq would travel to Abdul Aziz’s humble abode to count the cash and confirm the amounts — some earmarked for the border guards, some for the customs officials, and the majority for his contact in India.

Allah indeed worked in mysterious ways, he thought as he watched the gate shut behind Abdul Aziz’s vehicle. Mysterious, and wondrous, for the patient man — and Razzaq had perfected the art of waiting.

But now, finally, the time was at hand.