The Devil's Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

different from the flat horizons of his homeland, Al Zaroor allowed himself a moment of serenity. Then he turned to face Sharif.
    Despite his beard, the man looked alarmingly young, with a lineless face and liquid eyes in which pride warred with a curious vulnerability. But by reputation, Sharif was a skilled tactician who had mastered the art of ambush and surprise, slaughtering government troops through swift assaults in carefully chosen terrain. According to Al Zaroor’s sources, Sharif was barely more Taliban than al Qaeda, a man impatient with inaction and devoted to God. But Sharif’s hatred of the army involved more than principle: Government soldiers had raped his sister and killed a younger brother by driving nails into his skull. The coolness with which he exacted his revenge was a tribute to self-discipline.
    For a moment, Al Zaroor looked deeply into the young man’s eyes. Then he said, “I bring greetings from Osama Bin Laden, our Renewer, and Ayman Al Zawahiri. As I do, they wish to know if you’re unafraid to die.”
    Sharif’s eyes hardened abruptly, casting his face in a new light. “I’m more prepared to kill,” he answered coldly. “Were that not so, I would not have killed so many soldiers in this land.”
    â€œAre you prepared to kill them in the Punjab?”
    Sharif hesitated, then shrugged. “For jihad, it does not matter where. Only who, and why.”
    Al Zaroor nodded. “The assignment comes from the Renewer himself, and is vital to our cause. It will also require great skill.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œOn short notice, I will ask you to marshal three trucks and fifty or so crack fighters. For safety’s sake, you will bring them through Baluchistan, where the army does not go, to a site at the edge of the Punjab. There you will assault an armed convoy of Pakistani soldiers, leaving no survivors, and seize an important piece of property.”
    Sharif cocked his head. “Gold?”
    â€œIt is gold to Osama. That is all I can tell you, my brother.”
    The young man put a finger to his lips, regarding Al Zaroor with a chill curiosity. Al Zaroor admired his self-possession—Sharif had mastered the human need to fill silence with words. At length, he said, “Describe the site.”
    â€œIt is a road at the bottom of foothills near Multan, with ditches on both sides. The countryside is agricultural, the road lightly traveled. The convoy will come at night.”
    â€œHow many soldiers?”
    â€œAlso around fifty, the best the army has.”
    Silent, Sharif turned, gazing pensively into the gorge below. Then he faced Al Zaroor again. “I will want photographs of the site, an air map of its surroundings. That will help define the operation. Likely I’ll need plastic explosives, claymore mines, and rocket-propelled grenades. That requires money.”
    â€œYou will have it.”
    â€œI’ll also need to recruit men. My people prefer to fight in the Swat. Punjab is not their home.”
    â€œIt is, however, where they can strike a great blow against those who invade their lands. Those who value money over jihad will have more than they’ve ever imagined.”
    Sharif studied him. “You’re ripe with promises, brother. To what end?”
    Al Zaroor gave him a look of deep sincerity. “Only the Renewer and Zawahiri can know. This much I will say to you: Our aim is to wound our enemies on a scale beyond anything you’ve ever dreamed, or will be able to dream again. Not just the infidels in Pakistan, but the Zionists, the Americans, and the Shia. You will avenge your brother and sister a thousandfold. You might even live.”
    â€œI plan to,” Sharif said calmly. “We outnumber the army in the Swat. But in the Punjab the soldiers are many, and move with greater confidence. If this prize is as important as you say, an attack will bring them swarming like