Gary prodded his brother again and pointed at the key-logger stream. Most of it had been in the foreign language, but now there was an English stream.
Will he live? I see. Well that is too bad. No, there is no need to eliminate him. Too risky. Besides, he’s completely insulated. If he talks, we’ll handle it. Can you secure the computer? Oh well, it would have been nice.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Gilbert.
I need a report by 19:00 hours GMT. Everything on the O’Brien case.
Gilbert ripped his headphones off. Gary just brought his hands together, index fingers extended to form a pistol and put the barrel over his lips pushing up against his nose as he continued staring at the screen.
“Do you see this?” whispered Gilbert furiously, air hissing through his teeth. “Am I losing my mind or do these guys have somebody on the inside feeding them information?”
“That’s what it looks like,” responded Gary calmly. “Makes you feel like a small fish in a big ocean teeming with sharks, doesn’t it?” Gilbert said nothing.
“We need to call Gwyn.”
“Right. Remember, no names.”
Gary opened the chat window. The email address she had provided said she was online. He hit the ‘call’ button and waited for her to pick up.
“Hello.”
“Sis? This is your little brother. Your older brother is sitting right here beside me. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, we can hear you fine.”
“I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice. We’re so glad to hear you are safe. We thought . . . .” His voice cracked, and he stopped for a moment to regain composure. “Is Z. there with you?”
Zeki’s deep baritone filled their headphones. “Yes, I’m here too. Please accept my sincerest condolences for the loss of your father.”
Gilbert cut in. “Thank you for your sentiments, but we owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude for saving my sister’s life.”
“God was gracious to us and allowed me to get there in time,” said Zeki solemnly. “I’m glad you received the note from my friend.”
“Your friend? He works for the police force?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say more than that.”
“I understand. Listen, we don’t have much time. What are the most urgent things we need to talk about?”
Zeki responded very earnestly. “First, let me remind you to use no names in our conversation. These people may be able to track more than cell phone calls. Anything you do on the Internet might be intercepted. They probably have the capability to monitor every search conducted on the Internet and unless you are using an anonymizer to hide your IP address, searching for specific words would lead them right to your physical location.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gilbert, “we’re using an anonymizer. Would you mind telling me who
they
are? Do you have any idea why they believe this document is worth killing people to get?”
Zeki grunted. “My friend,
they
are the people who want to kill you. Is that not enough? Will giving them a name change that? They have no name, and yet they have many.
They
might be
Hizb ut Tahrir
;
they
might be
Hizbullah
.
They
are clearly people you do not want to cross, and yet unintentionally we have managed to put ourselves squarely in their cross-hairs. To be quite frank, I am amazed that any of us are alive. It is Providence pure and simple. Nothing else can explain my good fortune in arriving in time to protect Gwyn.
They
are the ‘shadow of God’s shadow,’ or what some people call the ‘deep state.’”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Gilbert.
Gary decided to clarify. “He is referring to the power behind the Ottoman throne. The Ottoman sultan, who served as the Caliph, the supreme spiritual leader of Islam, was known as the ‘shadow of Allah.’”
“Bravo, that’s right,” continued Zeki clearly impressed, “But, just like today, he was often a puppet whose strings were pulled by others. That’s why I said these people are the ‘shadow behind the shadow of God.’ The real power is wielded by others. I don’t know who they are for sure, nor can I give their organization a name. What I do know is that the tentacles of this monster stretch across the centuries, and now they have slithered into our lives. Our situation is grave indeed.”
“But, you know who they are?” asked Gilbert, pushing the issue.
“No, I know what they do, and I know how they operate, but I don’t know who they are. They are an idea with many faces. Let’s not waste more time on this. Tell us what you’ve learned.”
Gilbert started by filling them in on events in London—the autopsy results, the Interpol notice against Zeki, their simple but effective counter-surveillance at the hotel, how they had planted the key-logger and how they had warned Gilbert’s wife and children to cut their vacation short and come home. Zeki immediately cut him off.
“Gilbert, you must consider the possibility that they might try to abduct your family. It would be nothing for them. They certainly have the resources. Maybe the information you have gathered from the key-logger can help us.”
Gilbert and Gary both fell silent. Finally, Gwyn broke in.
“What’s wrong? Do you guys know something you’re not telling us?”
Gilbert interjected, “I’ve tried to call my wife several times, but there is no answer. We think the key-logger information indicates they’ve already been abducted. Several messages refer to a ‘package,’ ‘ETA’ and ‘a boy giving them trouble.’”
Gwyn drew in a sharp breath. “Oh my God!”
Zeki cut in. “We have to find out why this document is so valuable to them. It is the only way we can understand what they are after. Is all the data you’re getting from the key-logger in English?”
“No, it’s not,” said Gary. “More than half of it is in Turkish, but I’d like you to look at them. My Turkish is still a bit shaky.”
“Since when do you speak Turkish?” asked Zeki puzzled.
“I’ve been living in Istanbul for a while now.”
He didn’t volunteer anything else and Zeki didn’t ask. He only said, “The guys that came for your sister spoke Turkish as well. Send me those logs and I’ll have a look if you can do it securely.”
“I was just about to suggest that. I can upload it to a secure ftp over an encrypted connection and give you the login, but you will have to supply a secure connection on your side. This chat is certainly not safe.”
“No problem. Make the password something your sister will know.”
“Okay, I’ll make it the name of my sister’s first dog. You’ll see the ftp info in your chat window.” He hit return, sending the ftp address zipping through cyberspace.
Zeki spoke again. His voice was grave.
“If they have your family, they will use them as leverage to acquire the document. You will have no choice but to comply with their demands. They would think nothing of killing your family or something far worse. I wish I could say that it will come out right in the end, but this is a different league from any you have ever played in before. They play for keeps.”
“We’ll see who keeps what,” responded Gilbert angrily.
“What have you guys learned?” asked Gary.
“The document found by your esteemed father, Professor O’Brien, may God grant that he rest in peace, was written in Ottoman Turkish in 1736. It’s not an official state document. I suspect that it was probably an order issued by a secret society. It seems to be an order for a covert operation in England. There is a Spanish translation of the order at the bottom of the page, but it’s in
aljamiado
, which is essentially Spanish written with the Arabic alphabet. That means it must have gone through North Africa.”
“You guys keep talking about a document I haven’t seen,” said Gary.
“Sorry,” said Gwyn. “Let me read it for you.
‘The council’s decision to cancel son of prophet and erase every trace remains among our most solemn duties. It will be a red English sunset on Suri-Strend with a golden sunrise in Tunis when the bird which has flown is brought back to Südde-i Saadet. Walk in the snow, but leave no footprints. Assistance for the sendoff may be obtained from our ever faithful D. Hasten delivery.’”
“Do you have any idea how this could be related to George Sale?” asked Gary.
“I have no idea who that even is,” replied Gwyn. “Why do you ask?”
“Dad gave Mrs. Askwith George Sale’s diary the night he was killed. I’m wondering if maybe it was something he meant to give to you but forgot, and so when he got home, he took it to her house.”
“Wait a minute. George Sale. G.S.”
“G.S.?” asked Gary.
“His initials are G.S. There was a sticky note on the folder that said, ‘The original ass. order for G.S.?! G.O.B.?
“Dad had circled three passages at the end of the diary.” They could hear Gary flipping through the pages. “Listen to these three entries:
July 5th 1736, My meeting in Amsterdam with the Morisco printer was peculiar in the extreme. His lavish hospitality and overanxious manner made me apprehensive. When I inquired about his business and family, he was elusive. After some pleasantries, he quickly came to the point, offering me ten thousand guineas for my copy of the Spanish translation. It is impossible for me to conceive what purpose would warrant such an exorbitant sum. I asked for a few days to consider his offer, at which point he became very agitated and insistent. When I refused to budge, he dismissed me out of hand, saying I was a fool to even consider rejecting such a magnanimous offer. Needless to say, it is incumbent upon me to ascertain what his true purpose is. A friend recommended I contact an acquaintance of Eugene of Savoy, which I intend to do on my next visit to Amsterdam.
September 3rd 1736, It is now two weeks since I sent the printer a letter informing him of my unwillingness to part with the Spanish translation in my possession. Now, for the last three days, I have been shadowed on the street by two men. I could swear one of them was present at my meeting in Amsterdam.
September 29th 1736, I saw the two shadows again today in the market. This evening, Mr. Callamy informed me that several foreigners have been making discreet inquiries about me. I am more convinced than ever that this is a matter of State. It is imperative that I find out more. In the meantime, I must take measures to protect it.”
“Spanish translation of what?” asked Gwyn.
“I don’t know,” said Gary closing the diary, “but I researched the man and jotted down a few things while I was waiting for Gil. Sale was a lawyer and an Orientalist educated at King’s College. He edited an Arabic version of the New Testament, but is best known for a highly appraised translation of the Qur’an into English. He owned an extensive collection of Arabic, Turkish and Persian documents. He died in 1736 at his home on Surrey-Strand at the age of thirty-nine just two months after the date on the document.”
“Surrey-Strand?” asked Gwyn incredulously.
“Yes. Why?”
“The document refers to a ‘red English sunset on Suri-Strend.’ That has to be a misspelling of the street name.”
“Do you think this document could have been an order to assassinate Sale? For refusing to sell them a book?” asked Gary.
“Well, it was obviously important to them. That was an enormous sum of money,” replied Gilbert, “Maybe, when he refused to sell it, they decided to take matters into their own hands.”