A Call to Prayer

By M. Jules Bevans

Ricin! Drones! Al Qaeda! Suicide bombers! The stuff in today's headlines is accented in this character driven thriller. A Call to Prayer concerns a teacher of English in a private boys school in Istanbul, Mehmet,who has a long-standing association to a terrorist, Ali Bin Shah ram. Turkish intelligence and the CIA force him into becoming a double agent. His handler, Josie, teaches him the craft of spying and in the process he teaches her the lessons of love. But when it comes down to it who will Mehmet betray, his friend or the woman he has come to care for? From the cobblestoned streets of Istanbul to the back alleys of Athens and Cairo, to the safe houses in Yemen; from terrorist plots aimed at the Paris metro, the American Embassy in Madrid and New York's Waldorf-Astoria hotel, this page never lets up and fails to let you down

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493162437

M. Jules Bevans

M. Jules Bevans was the creator of the Playboy Book Series, The World of High Fashion, for which he authored three of the six novels under a pseudonym. His articles and interviews have appeared in national and international magazines and newspapers including the Sunday New York Times, Us, Ladies Home Journal and Penthouse (UK). "The Roommates," a two act drama, was successfully produced at New York's Manhattan Theater Club. He was also editor in chief a national fashion magazine, Men's Style. As a young man he had the opportunity of visiting many American embassies and became fascinated with the lives of individuals who were part of the foreign corps.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by M. Jules Bevans.

Author’s photo by Taghi Naderzad

Library of Congress Control Number:                        2014900664

ISBN:                  Hardcover                                978-1-4931-6242-0

                            Softcover                                 978-1-4931-6241-3

                            eBook                                      978-1-4931-6243-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/17/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

143532

CONTENTS

PART ONE

On the Road to al-Jawf, Yemen

The Boys Academy of International Arts, Istanbul, Turkey

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

Topkapi Neighborhood, Istanbul, Turkey

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

Al-Awlaki Home, Sana’a, Yemen

Along the Bosphorus, Istanbul

On the road from Sana’a to a coastal village toward Ataq, Yemen

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen,

Topkapi Neighborhood, Istanbul, Turkey

American Consulate, Istanbul, Turkey

A Safe House in the Mountains on the Outskirts of Ataq, Yemen

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

A Safe House Near the Coast in Southern Yemen

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

A Coastal Village Near the Town Not Far from Ataq, Yemen

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

The Mountains of Lawder, Abyan Province, Yemen

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

An Apartment in Doha, Qatar

a Safe house, Sana’a Yemen

Topkapi neighborhood, Istanbul, Turkey

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

The Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

On the Ferry to Buyukada, Turkey

Gare de Lyon, Paris, France

A Coastal Village Near Ataq, Yemen

On the Road to Madrid, Spain

Nice Airport, France

Plaza Mayor, Madrid, Spain

An Apartment Off Taksim Square, Istanbul, Turkey

American Embassy, Madrid, Spain

American Embassy, Madrid, Spain

A Coastal Village Outside of Ataq, Yemen

American Embassy, Madrid, Spain

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

The W Hotel, Istanbul, Turkey

MIT Headquarters, Istanbul, Turkey

Home, and the W Hotel Restaurant, Istanbul, Turkey

A Coastal Village South of Aden, Yemen

Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey

On the Outskirts of Ataq, Yemen, Near the Coast

A Coastal Village South of Ataq, Yemen

PART TWO

En Route to Athens, Greece

A Coastal Village Close to Ataq, Yemen

Athens Hilton, Greece

Musee D’Orsay, Paris, France

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

An Animal Hospital, Les Goblins, Paris

Hotel Caravelle, Athens, Greece

Avenue de Breteiil, Paris, France

A Safe House, Sana’a Yemen

American Hospital, Neuilly, Paris, France

Hilton Hotel, Athens, Greece

Melandrou Street, Athens, Greece

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

The Vadim Apartment, Athens, Greece

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

The Old Port, Mykonos, Greece

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

Nikiou Street, Mykonos, Greece

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

En Route to Cairo, Egypt

PART THREE

Off the Coast Egypt, on the Red Sea

En Route to Sana’a, Yemen

A Public Square, Sana’a, Yemen

The Port of Aden, Yemen

Sana’a International Airport, Yemen

The Streets of Aden, Yemen

Mercure Hotel, Aden, Yemen

On the Road to Ataq, Yemen

Jordan Hospital, Amman, Jordan

On the Road to Ataq, Yemen

A Compound in Ataq, Yemen

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

On the Road to Sana’a, Yemen

Not Far From the Compound, Ataq, Yemen

The Four Seasons Hotel, Amman, Jordan

A Safe House in Sana’a, Yemen

Queen Alia International Airport, Amman, Jordan

A Safe House in Sana’a, Yemen

Pinkberry, Fifty-eighth Street in New York City

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City

A Safe House, Sana’a Yemen

Sheraton Hotel, Sana’a, Yemen

A Safe House, Sana’a, Yemen

Masjid Uthman Bin Affan Mosque, New York City

The Marketplace in Soufan, Sana’a, Yemen

Sheraton Hotel, Sana’a, Yemen

A Safe House in Ataq, Yemen

Sheraton Hotel, Sana’a, Yemen

Ground Zero, New York City

A Safe House in Ataq, Yemen

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

A Safe House in Ataq, Yemen

American Embassy, Sana’a, Yemen

Twenty-six Federal Plaza, New York City

Empire Hotel, Lincoln Center, New York City

South Ferry, New York City

Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City

Rich is the reward of those that obey Allah. But those that disobey Him—if they possessed all that the earth contains, and as much besides, they would gladly offer it for their ransom. Theirs shall be an evil reckoning. Hell shall be their home, a dismal resting-place.

The Koran, 13:18,

from the Book of Thunder

For Sam, who showed me the world

Part One

In the Name of Allah

SEPTEMBER 30, 20, 2011

On the Road to al-Jawf, Yemen

Despite the early morning hour, the desert sun was oppressive. Five men crammed shoulder to shoulder were speeding along the open road, traveling between Marib and al-Jawf, in the northeastern corridor of Yemen.

The air-conditioning of the Ford SUV had finally petered out so that the men’s bodies were coated in perspiration. Desert sand flew in through the open windows, caking their faces, necks, and limbs, and, because they were driving at such a high speed, all they could catch of their surroundings was a blur of the forlorn black mountains ahead of them that dissected a fine line between sky and sand.

In the distance could be seen the glimmer of an oasis of trees, and adjacent, a forsaken Bedouin tent that was perfect for shade, should this be needed. There were also some rock formations with caves that nomads would use as shelter that was farther on in the distance.

Do you want to stop near there? the driver asked.

If we have breakfast, let’s make it fast, Anwar responded. We’re expected at noon, and I need someone to call my son. He’s staying with my relatives in the south.

The terrorist leader al-Awlaki had only just received word in Marib that his sixteen-year-old, Abdulrahman, had run away from their home in Sana’a to go out in search of him in the mountains of the south. They had not seen each other since al-Awlaki had gone into hiding two years before, and the young lad could simply wait no longer.

I can’t believe he just climbed out the bedroom window and ran away, said Ali Bin Shah Ram, al-Awlaki’s second in command.

He does not yet realize the risk, the leader responded flatly. Then he glanced upward toward the sky.

Slowing to a halt, the driver, Samir, parked the SUV on the side of the road, and two men sprung out, ready to unfurl a red and white blanket, while Samir went into the trunk and brought out a tray with a tin of black olives and white feta cheese, both marinated in olive oil and black peppercorns. Ali Bin Shah Ram brought out a platter of hard cheese, halvah, sweet rolls, and boiled eggs that had been simmered overnight in black coffee, transforming the white shells into a darkened shade of cocoa brown.

Allowing for no distinction between him and the others, al-Awlaki brought out a pitcher of fresh lemonade and began pouring it into paper cups, all the while making idle chatter about the latest hubbub over the use of land between tribal leaders and Al-Qaeda fighters in the city of Zinjibar.

But there were bigger goals at play than simply domestic squabbles in Yemen. At the meeting in al-Jawf that afternoon, al-Awlaki intended to outline a blueprint of international intrigue. In the preparation stages were high acts of terrorism planned in Paris, Madrid, and the United States, each organized to be executed only weeks apart.

These exploits would demonstrate al-Awlaki’s resolve to the West and underscore his particular brand of terrorism. Bin Laden’s end only marked his assent, as it was his turn at center stage to serve notice on the West that the jihad was not over but was flourishing.

The irony was, of course, that al-Awlaki, with his long flowing black beard and wire-rimmed glasses, looked professorial and pious, like a wise Gandhi figurehead advocating nonviolence. But when he used his deep, rich voice as a call to arms, he was a Pied Piper for the disenchanted, leading a battalion of followers to uncertain glory. Inshallah.

All the main players are in place for the Madrid plan, al-Awlaki revealed to the group once they were seated. I have a very capable Frenchwoman, and she is sensible when it comes to spending euros.

And the maid? Samir asked. Is she in place at the American embassy?

She has been for a while now, simply waiting, al-

Awlaki responded.

It was Ali Bin Shah Ram, tall and photogenic, that was smiling now. We shall have our day, Anwar, and have our revenge in the name of Allah.

Revenge, al-Awlaki repeated, almost dissecting the word by half, is necessary—he paused to stare at his friend—but let us never forget Ali, that it is simply the other side of tears.

Samir passed around a plate of olives. Too many tears. The young acolyte sighed.

Like anwar al-Awlaki, Samir Khan was American born, a journalist and editor who had created an online publication, Inspire, which reached out to many new converts to followers of Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. He had come to Yemen motivated by al-Awlaki’s sermons and had since become a valuable member of the group.

I can use that line in my publication, Khan suggested, repeating, Revenge is the other side of tears.

Laughing, al-Awlaki replied, Use it, I won’t charge. With me, it’s all about message.

The men were seated in a semicircle, passing around the rolls and cheese and eggs, and drinking lemonade. But Bin Shah Ram noted that al-Awlaki appeared distracted.

Abdulrahman will be fine, he whispered into his friend’s ear.

"They’ve hunted me down several times, with near success, and several times I’ve escaped. Obviously, I don’t want my son near me."

You cannot blame him.

But I can worry.

Allah will protect you, Bin Shah Ram emphasized.

Allah has been protecting me, I know, but there has to be a limit to his patience.

Al-Awlaki’s voice suddenly dropped. Bin Shah Ram’s cell phone began chiming out the old Arabic tune Mustapha, alerting him there was a call. The group seemed surprised, and to break the mood, one of the men got up to dance with the lively music awhile.

It was surreal hearing the mobile ring in the middle of the Yemini desert. It had to be urgent as Bin Shah Ram was using a burn phone, and few individuals had the number. He dared not respond, unless given permission. Besides, it might give away his location. Fearing that it might be bad tidings about his son, al-Awlaki nodded his assent.

Your girlfriend, Samir Khan joked as Bin Shah Ram went for his cell phone.

Bin Shah Ram shouted out As-salaam . . . several times, but all he could hear was a crackling noise, and he could scarcely make out the caller. Finally, he understood that the caller was a tribal elder in Jawf reporting on the death of a senior official. He was simply al-Awlaki that many elders would be attending the funeral so that the meeting had to occur later on that day, toward early evening.

The elder was obviously aggrieved as he related the details of the tribal leader’s unexpected demise from an asthmatic attack, but his voice began fading as he spoke. Out of respect, Bin Shah Ram felt he could not end the call, so he moved several hundred meters into the distance, toward the gathering of trees. Still the voice kept wavering.

After trial and error, Bin Shah Ram finally found a spot close to the forsaken Bedouin tent. Finally, he was able to hear with clarity, and he stayed on with the elder who had lost his brother-in-law. While listening, his eyes remained firmly fixed upon al-Awlaki.

Suddenly, the terrorist leader rose and looked skyward, and he appeared to become quite agitated. In retrospect, Bin Shah Ram could pinpoint the exact moment when his leader’s eyes turned upward to the sky. It seemed that al Awlaki was screaming out the name of his son, Abdulrahman, as he and the others began scrambling like runaway sheep in search of shelter.

The skies above were gripped by a deafening noise, like the loud sound of a whistle exploding in the air. Two predator drones, with hellfire missiles, zeroed in on their target, while the larger reapers took aim directly at the group. The pilots, who were thousands of miles away, steadied their focus and fired their missiles.

From where Ali Bin Shah Ram stood, he could see Anwar al-Awlaki, Samir Khan, and the others all frantically jumbling toward the SUV to maintain some semblance of cover. Their instinct was to flee, to drive away. But where would they go? There was no way out.

Dropping his phone to the ground, Bin Shah Ram thought it was over, that they were all going to die. Too stunned to even move he screamed Allah! Then he picked up his cell phone and began running toward the Bedouin tent.

As the melee ensued, explosions reverberated, and a huge ball of tangerine fire engulfed the area where the car had once been parked. The fire hadn’t reached the Bedouin tent, but eventually would.

What do I do? Bin Shah Ram cried.

Every one of the men in the group was incinerated. There was total annihilation. The bodies were burnt to a crisp and were beyond recognition. Only one had had been saved from the onslaught; ironically, because of poor cell phone reception. But Ali Bin Shah Ram knew he was still perilously close to being a statistic as he kept running from the scene.

If there were tears that threatened to fall from his eyes as he ran for his life, they remained dry; if there was sadness in his heart, his face displayed only determination. Allah had spared his life for a reason, but he had taken away that of Anwar al-Awlaki’s, and that, at the moment, was truly unfathomable.

Bin Shah Ram made it into the Bedouin tent and quickly phoned the sheik who had sheltered the men in Marib the previous evening and relayed what had transpired. He requested to be picked up as soon as possible.

Get out of there, he cautioned him. They’ll come back and hunt you.

They don’t know about me.

Their computers have already picked up your movements. They know someone is alive. They’ll be back.

Where can I go?

Find someplace to hide. I’m on my way.

Feeling dazed and alone, Bin Shah Ram sat immobilized for a few moments. Suddenly, the sound of the drones returning finally snapped him back into reality. Nearly too late, he realized that he was just as much a target in the tent, so he hurriedly made a run for it toward the rocks further on in the distance.

The drone flew overhead and was fixing a position before blasting a missile straight toward the tent. A step ahead of the game, Bin Shah Ram ran as though he was a man on fire himself. He was within the sight of the drone when he came upon rocks and caves. There he saw an opening that mercifully led into a deep set of extended caves, one leading into another, like branches of an ancient tree.

It was pitch-black inside. He held on to the walls with his hands and kept walking in a straight line. Farther and farther he walked deep into the cavity of one of the caves, hearing what he thought might be explosions in the distance. Finally, there was no place left to proceed, for he had come to the end. So there he remained, huddled in a corner, shivering with fear, for nearly one hour.

A sense of loneliness engulfed him, a feeling that he was standing on the edge of a precipice waiting to fall into the great abyss. There was no escaping, only running and hiding.

Allah! he cried out, his voice echoing threefold.

Nearly an hour later, when Bin Shah Ram eventually walked back out into the open air, the scene appeared as though the world had been dismantled. Pockets of fire were still burning freely. The air was dank with the smell of flesh. Clusters of burnt-out debris cluttered the sand, a sneaker here and one man’s belt there. Bin Shah Ram picked up his mobile and telephoned the sheik, who told him he would arrive within minutes; he was already en route and could see the flames.

Allah, Allah, the sheik cried out as he came upon the carnage shortly afterward.

Allah, Allah, Bin Shah Ram echoed, in a voice that sounded like one elongated cry of a wounded animal.

At that moment, Bin Shah Ram remembered al-Awlaki’s last words: Revenge is the other side of tears. And it was only then, when everything finally appeared to be irrevocably lost, that he had discovered the wherewithal and grace to sob bitterly and uncontrollably. The tears had sprung from a residue of despair that had been festering for years.

Allah, Allah, he repeated, for he knew that only God, the Merciful, could help him out of his misery now. All that came to Ali bin Shah ram’s mind now was one word: revenge!

SEPTEMBER 30

The Boys Academy of International Arts, Istanbul, Turkey

Mehmet Hakim was in no mood for student shenanigans, especially not on this dreadful day. There were days when he simply despised their smugness and baseless assumptions that they had all of the answers. What did they really know about life and the world? They who had never bothered to read a newspaper and who were enraptured by MTV and the Cartoon Network, what did they know?

Open your books to page 83 and read quietly, he commanded.

One day their hearts might skip beats, or little growths would sprout from their skins, like turnips in a garden, or their breaths would become labored into a staccato of stops and starts; he thought as he gazed upon them. And one day they would lose someone they loved and know the unremitting pain of loss. But now they owned the world because they were young!

Anwar al-Awlaki had been incinerated from the face of the earth that morning. His loss was immeasurable. And it was more than likely that in the group of murdered martyrs were some of his friends, even one in particular.

Had his students even heard of al-Awlaki’s name? Probably not, but they could go down a list of the latest rap artists, the newest cell phone apps, the best designer sneakers, and the most popular music videos or smartphones. Texting, texting, texting, they loved that, so that oral communication was obsolete, and picture taking, and cameras represented their myopic view of the world. Sometimes they really made him feel ill with all of their sharing.

Mehmet stared long and hard at the rows filled with vacuous Facebook faces seated in their pastel-colored Lacoste and Hollister shirts and Polo and Levi jeans, and he felt a rising disgust. He kept staring at a student’s white patent leather or cherry-red sneakers, half admiring them, half desiring to step on them. They were spotless and needed to be crushed.

Mehmet looked about, not bothering to smirk, as his class continued to read. Whose turn was it to be now? He wondered. Whose attitude was the cockiest? Which face did he feel like slapping, and whose face would he enjoy watching crumble into a pile of humiliation and equivocation?

Essam, he sang out across the room, I would like you to respond to the following. He began princely, making certain to use his best-sounding English. Class, eyes front. As a caution, he added, Listen and think before you reply. Essam, the question a mother poses to her son is this, ‘Do you want any more pie?’ The response she receives from the boy is, ‘No, I don’t.’ You heard that, Essam?

Yes. After noting a look of displeasure on this teacher’s face, Essam added, Sir.

Now for an analysis of the boy’s response, what is understood, or implied, in the son’s reply that he does not have to articulate in words?

Essam’s English was debatable, at best, but the fact of the matter was that he certainly didn’t understand this mumbo-jumbo question. Mr. Osman spoke English far too rapidly and always asked odd questions. His English was also a bit grand.

Eh?

Eh is not an answer. I’m waiting, Mehmet said.

And look at me when you speak, not at your book.

Pie! What is pie? Essam asked himself, suddenly drawing a blank on the word. He wondered if pie wasn’t something related to the arithmetical term he had recently studied in math class. Pie. But then, that made no sense at all.

I don’t know, he responded in halted Turkish. Sir. He once again added.

Speaking anything but English in class was strictly forbidden. Mehmet wished for one moment so he could squash Essam silly for that infringement alone.

Mehmet removed his horn-rimmed eyeglasses, waited, and then placed them back on. Along with this action came a long demoralized sigh.

In this class we only speak English, he advised the student, desperately modulating his tone so as to avoid sounding bitter. All he needed was another parent complaining about his attitude. This is an English class, not Turkish or Arabic or Vietnamese.

I don’t know, sir, Essam repeated, this time in perfect-sounding English.

Of course you don’t. Keep listening to that music by Cool Tea, or whatever his name is.

The class giggled, and a few laughed.

I didn’t mean to be amusing. What did you get on your last test, Essam?

I did not pass, sir.

I know. But the girls love you with your nearly shaved head and that superfluous earring, and that’s good enough for you in your Diesel jacket. But, Essam, there are consequences to pay in life. Few of us can escape them. If you learn one thing in this room, it’s that if you don’t do the work, you don’t pass the course. Use that as an axiom for life.

It’s only that you speak English too quickly for me to understand, sir. And then I get nervous and can’t think.

Listen to me. Mehmet counseled after a long pause, sounding like a kindergarten teacher. Become unnervous, if such a word exists. Perhaps you can learn.

Yes. And then, Sir.

What is implied, or understood, are the words not spoken but are implicitly understood. ‘Esam is handsome.’ Your girlfriend says, ‘He is,’ is a response. He is what?

Handsome?

"Precisely. Handsome is the word implied but not spoken."

I understand.

Good. The mother asks if her son if he wants more pie. He answers that he doesn’t. What doesn’t he want?

More pie.

Does he have to say, ‘I don’t want more pie’?

No, just ‘I don’t want.’

Exactly. You don’t have to respond, ‘I don’t want any more pie,’ you simply say, ‘No, I don’t.’ Esam, repeat your answer.

What is not stated but implied is that the son doesn’t want any more pie.

Good. Class, why? Because the son . . .

The son doesn’t want any more pie, the class replied in unison.

"When you imply, you do not state directly. Now, Essam, I will try and speak more slowly in class, but in New York they speak at ten times the speed. And you want to