Mohammad Deif looked in disbelief as the small phone rang. Nobody knew the number, nor that he even had it. Its only purpose was for the sending of tweets to Pock-Mark. Even Pock-Mark didn’t know the number. It could just be a wrong number, a pure fluke but something deep down told him otherwise. Deif looked around him. He was in the center of Paris, crossing the Seine. Had he been in Gaza, he wouldn’t have even considered answering, the likelihood of an Apache gunship being on the other end would have been too high. However, not in Paris. Nobody was watching him, at least not that he could see.
“Hello?”
“Mohammed, my friend!”
The voice of The Sheikh chilled Deif’s blood.
“My Sh…”
The Sheikh cut him off. “Let us be careful, Mohammed, we don’t know who may be listening.”
“Of course…” Deif caught himself just in time and managed not to repeat his earlier mistake.
“I believe you have ignored my wishes?” the Sheikh asked matter-of-factly.
Deif knew the day would come when he would have to answer to the Sheikh. He had just hoped it would be after the event and not before. He also believed the Sheikh would have been grateful as it was he who had tried the very same once before but his tone suggested otherwise.
“Am I privileged enough to know where your new destination may be?” pushed the Sheikh.
Deif remained silent. He truly believed in a need to know mentality towards information and as much as he owed the Sheikh, the Sheikh did not need to know. Deif was acting on behalf of Allah. It was Allah who had told him that he could do more for his people. It was Allah who had told him to strike the Americans as well as the Jews. The American people would not be so quick to jump to the Jews’ defense after they understood the consequences of their allegiance.
“I am sorry, Allahu Akbar.” Deif ended the call and tossed his only link with Akram Rayyan into the River Seine.
He turned North and headed for the Gare du Nord. Even if the Sheikh tracked him to Paris, he wouldn’t be there long. His TGV train to Marseille was due to leave in 15 minutes. He had one job to take care of in Marseille before moving on to his eventual hideout, Saint Raphael, a small French resort on the Cote D’Azur. Mohammed Deif, mastermind of the downfall of the Zionist state, would spend the next two weeks relaxing in total luxury in the secluded coastal retreat of a Palestinian exile. As with every other part of his plan, nobody knew anything that they didn’t need to know. As all parts of the plan were now in play, there was nothing left to do. With no word from him, the five different teams would follow their orders and detonate the devices at midnight Yom Kippur. As such, nobody needed to know where he was and nobody did. Even the Palestinian exile did not know his summer mansion would become Deif’s hideout. As with most Cote D’Azur homes of the rich and famous, they sat idle for eleven months of the year. They did France in August.