As a direct result of a cowardly and murderous act of terrorism, an American expatriate and former Marine sets out to avenge the death of his wife and children. Using his fortune accumulated over twenty years of working abroad, this widower turns his grief into a relentless determination and pursues three intolerant Islamic fundamentalists. His quest takes him from Europe to Canada and to the United States and through the cities of Montreal, New Orleans and Phoenix. Along the way and helped by his former associates, the vengeance-focused man meets a woman who aids him in his efforts and in doing so falls in love. In a series of well thought out and precision-like actions, three post 9/11 jihadists are brought to justice in ways only dreamed about by those who have suffered the loss of innocent loved ones in a terrorist act. Sprinkled with humor and tinged in irony, this tale takes the reader on a magic carpet ride which is based on fact.

In the Shadow of Allah

By Allen R. Remaley

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Allen R. Remaley
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-8316-5

Chapter One

This story is written to commemorate the thousands of innocent men, women and children who, over too many years, have been slaughtered by Islamic fundamentalists. The victims, never able to protect themselves from cowardly acts of would-be terrorists, cry out for some form of retribution. The families, friends, lovers and acquaintances of bodies torn apart by improvised explosive devices, the vests worn by suicide bombers, and munitions planted aboard vehicles of public transportation need a voice, a champion to carry their frustration and anger to the perpetrators of such barbarous acts based on intolerance. Such a hero is a man who, if left alone in his devotion to job and family, would never have caused a cloud to hover over some religiously-crazed followers of an Islamic God. Such men, driven mad by over-zealous clerics, will soon walk in the shadow of Allah.

Our story begins when a man has just been told that his wife, the woman he loves, has committed an indiscretion; she has been unfaithful. While this recklessness occurred only once and perhaps caused by the man's over attention to his job and neglect of his marriage, the feelings of guilt brought the wife to realize that a terrible wrong had been committed against the man she loves. In a quiet and serious discussion where both parties realized the importance of continuing their union, the man and his wife became closer than ever in a willingness to share the rest of their life together. In an effort to further cement their understanding, a short trip was planned in which husband and wife and their two children would travel and work to reconnect broken ties.

Chapter Two

2March 2003, Morocco

Crossing over from the Spanish-speaking town of Ceuta on the Moroccan coast of the Mediterranean to Malaga in southern Spain took less than three hours. In the cramped cargo area of the broken down, small Liberian steamer, like some rat which had secured its passage among unsuspecting mariners, Muhammad Husam al Din, a Moroccan Arab and self-appointed terrorist, laid out his prayer rug, faced Mecca, and said his prayers. This "servant and sword of the prophet" asked Allah to make is voyage safe and quick. Forged papers and a stack of Euros provided him by the militant wing of Morocco's jihad would get him past Spanish customs as soon as the ship's cargo had been unloaded at Malaga. Once there, like some diamondback rattlesnake slithering and disappearing under some mesquite bush in the desert, al Din would blend into the Muslim community where he would pick up more money allowing him to make his way north to the Spanish capital. In Madrid, al Din would carry out his plan to get the Spanish government to pull its troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan where they were aiding the English and Americans in the fight against the holy freedom fighters of Islam. If this plan should result in collateral damage to innocent Spanish civilians, it would be Allah's will. Al Din's teachers in Morocco would be proud of his work. They would drink tea and revel in their convert's success.

Muhammad Husam al Din had never oozed an ounce of sweat in any manual labor during his first twenty years in Morocco. Like the child born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, much like al Din's hero, bin Laden, al Din himself had been raised by a wealthy merchant family in the city of Fez. Like others in his affluent community, al Din was expected to do his studies in the madrassas, the Islamic religious schools funded by Saudi Arabia. In these schools, a particularly austere and rigid form of Islam, Whhabism, is practiced which preaches death to all infidels. In such schools, al Din was not so much concerned with scholarship as he was on making war on the infidels. For hours on end, bobbing back and forth like some buoy in a raging sea, al Din memorized the Koran in a head-nodding ritual of repetition which, after many weeks and months, turns the young men who engage in such things into religious fanatics and allows their minds to transform their bodies into lethal weapons. In special classes, al Din learned from his mullahs that he was to hate Jews, Christians and all others of alternative faiths. His was a hatred which did not exclude any American man, woman or child, and if given the opportunity, he would kill the entire English-speaking world. These victims would be those who supported the Zionists, the people who had taken land from the Palestinians. They would all pay, and al Din would soon be ready to serve Allah.

Chapter Three

March 3, 2004 Paris, France

Frank Sarvey, an American expatriate and former captain of United States Marines, was about to see his wife and two children off by train on a short vacation in Spain. Sarvey and his wife, Marie-France had talked about such a trip for months, and this holiday would also serve to cement small cracks in a marriage caused perhaps by an overzealous work ethic on the part of the husband. The family's two children, Franois and Franoise, had been studying Spanish in school. Now twelve and ten, Frank's son and daughter looked forward to a week's stay in Madrid where sightseeing, shopping and general relaxation would be a break from the rigors of the French educational system. Both children were fluent in English and in their native language, French. Now, they hoped to polish their skills in Spanish before moving on to German. At the last minute, Frank was called back to his office for an international meeting, and he regretted not being able to accompany his wife and children on holiday. Both he and Marie-France had looked forward to this spring-time escape, and both had decided that such a trip would bring them both closer together especially after a recent disclosure of a break in the marriage. The parents wanted to share the joys of travel with their children, but Frank was still one of those loyal to his employer, Marie-France's father. However, Frank would join his family after a few short days, and cell phones would allow daily conversations and keep his heart and mind united with those whom he loved most in this world.

Frank Sarvey was a unique individual. A native-born Pennsylvanian, former Marine officer and still a man who loved his home town along the Susquehanna River, Frank was in the hierarchy of the French business world, no small accomplishment for an American who did not attend the grandes coles, those prestigious Parisian schools which trained future CEO's and PDG's of French industry. In the years immediately following the war in Vietnam, Frank entered OCS Quantico with a B.A. and M.A. in French from Penn State University. From there, after Basic School in Quantico, Frank served six years of his life in the Corps before he resigned his commission and returned to civilian life as a professor at Union College in Schenectady, NY. In an effort to further hone his language skills, he decided to spend a summer in Paris where, in a little bistro off the Latin Quarter, he met and fell in love with Marie-France Gagnon, the daughter of the European PDG (CEO) of Dom Perignon. Frank treasured the moment he first met his wife, and the setting of that moment was often the backdrop of many of his dreams.

Frank often remembered the first time he saw her. He was seated in the caveau of Le Bon Couscous, a small bistro located in one of the narrowest streets of the Latin Quarter. The Algerian owner/manager of the restaurant invited him in and suggested that he sit in the basement area of the establishment which, centuries ago, served as a dungeon for vagrants who were left to rot or suffer the ravages of yearly flooding of the area by the Seine River. Frank had taken a small table which faced the circular, stone stairway. He could observe the comings and goings of all who entered, and that made him think of Marcel Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase and the thought produced a smile across his face just at the moment when a pair of beautiful legs belonging to a perfectly formed young woman came into view. She was wearing a tight-fitting white, short skirt, a light blue pullover and soft leather sandals. The pull did nothing but enhance a beautiful, well-proportioned body so much so that Frank quickly became aware that he was staring, and he let his eyes drop politely to his table. The maitre d' sensed Frank's sudden interest in this new diner, and he made the effort of seating the young woman directly across from Frank at the next table. Over ordering and then lunch, Frank and the beautiful young woman got to know each other. They exchanged personal information, and within the coming weeks, the two young people became friends and then lovers. Before too long, they began sharing a small apartment in the Latin Quarter. Passions, moments of complete abandon, and long arm-in-arm walks along the boulevards in Paris, the City of Light, made for a magic potion which when savored, caused the two to believe that some form of karma had brought them together. Frank proposed. Marie-France said yes, and a fairy tale marriage took place between the American ex-patriot and this exotically beautiful young, French woman.

Just days before the marriage between the two young lovers was to have taken place, Frank learned that Marie-France lived with her father, one of the CEO's of one of the most well-known makers of champagne in the world-Dom Perignon. Once Monsieur Gagnon learned of his son-in-law's skills with the French language, that he, Frank, had been an officer in one of the world's most prestigious fighting groups and that his future son-in-law was a no nonsense go-getter, Frank was offered an entry-level position with the wine company. In less than two years, Frank became the French representative of Dom Perignon in the United States.

Chapter Four

In the Gare de l'Est train station, Frank hugged both his children, kissed his wife goodbye and wished them Bon voyage!, for their Spanish holiday. -Au revoir, papa ! Je parlerai anglais ou espagnol Madrid?

Franois loved to tease his father with such queries. Frank responded, "Parle 'spanglais' et haute voix. You turkey! " Not to be outdone by her brother, Franoise piped up with, "Papa, Franois n'est pas une dinde. C'est un diable." Marie-France replied, "Both of you behave. We have a nice trip coming up. Frank, we love you, and we will miss you until you join us in Madrid. Call us."

Frank nodded and waived to his family as they departed the station on a shiny TVG, the fast train which would get them to Spain in less time it took a plane to cross the Atlantic. He did not know that he would never again hold his wife and children in his arms. He did not know that, in the coming days, his entire persona would be altered. It would be as if he were walking under some dark, ominous cloud.

Chapter Five

5 February 2004, Madrid

At one time, the area just outside the center of the city was the meeting place of writers, university professors and city dwellers with a more than adequate income. Now, this same area was the domain of down and out retirees, lost souls and the African Muslim population. A series of little shops, grocery stalls and boarded-up store fronts was all that was left of a once thriving part of the city. One last, still breathing spot, like some part of the anatomy yet unwilling to give up on life, seemed to exhibit some animation. A small, typical, Spanish bodega frequented by those with little to do was located in the middle of all the flotsam of this once vibrant area.

Inside the little bistro, the walls were plastered with bullfight posters discolored by the smoke of hundreds of patrons. A zinc bar was fronted by a half dozen stools one of which was occupied by a young, bearded man who appeared to be in his twenties. Four or five circular tables topped with ashtrays awaited the evening's clientele. One of the tables was already occupied, and one of its customers was busily engaged in conversation with some friends.

The speaker was a grisly-looking man in his late 60's. He wore a four-day old beard, and the cigarette he was smoking dangled from his mouth as he talked. As if to punctuate his words, he waved his fourth glass of vino tinto around in the air while he bragged to those around him.

-I was a miner ... a good one. We would blast a hole in the veins of coal as big as the grand arena where you losers watch bull fights every Sunday.

The miner's friends listened attentively. They owed him their attention; the old man was buying their drinks that day. As long as the red wine continued to flow, they would be a willing audience. One of the old man's friends asked him, "And, when you retired, were you allowed to take your pick and shovel with you?" Everyone laughed out loud. The old miner scowled and answered, "I have more than a pick and shovel. I have 200 kg of C3, C4 and Goma-2. That's what I have! You want some? How about I stick some up your ass and push the plunger?" One of the listeners cautiously asked, "Is that legal?" The former coal miner held up his glass of wine, pointed at it and said, "Is this legal?" The captive audience applauded him with laughter and continued their drinking. But, the conversation was not lost by one of the other customers sitting at the bar in this little Spanish bistro. The young man at the bar was nursing a cup of black tea and pretending to read a manual like some university student. Slightly bearded, short haired and reading, the man seemed to blend in especially since he appeared to be one of the newcomers who lived in the Muslim section of the quarter. Many of the Muslim population were given free tuition to the Spanish universities. In the coming weeks, Muhammad Husam al Din would get to know the aging coal miner, and with enough red wine bought with the money given him by a newly-formed Islamic cell, a purchase would be made which would affect thousands of people around the world.

Chapter Six

Al Din wasted little time in his plan to speak to the retired coal miner. The very next day, the would-be terrorist took his place in the bistro where he had overheard the braggadocio of the old man. The Spaniard did not show up. He was probably sleeping off the preceding day's drunk in an extended siesta in some broken-down flat near the restaurant. Al Din detested these infidels who wasted God's time in breaking rules outlined by Mohammed. But, the very next day, at approximately the same time, the old man arrived and took a seat at his customary table and ordered his first drink of the day. Al Din did not wait for the miner's friends to arrive. He strolled over to the old man's table and introduced himself by saying, "Excuse me, sir. I do not mean to disturb you, but I happened to overhear you say that you were a coal miner. I come from Morocco, and I know very little of such things. May I ask you to please tell me of your work in such places?" Al Din sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses on the table, but he did not sit down.

The old-timer found it strange that a young, Arab-looking man would offer him a drink. Profiling at the time was not yet a sin, and even if it had been, the miner would not have given it a second thought. Yet, devout Muslims usually shunned alcohol. At first, the older man was hesitant to converse with anyone he did not know. But, the bottle of vino tinto beckoned to his addiction-a force too strong to be reckoned with at the moment. And, the young man had expressed an interest in his past, the only thing left to a man who had put most of his life in a deep-pit mine. What sealed the deal was a fist-full of money laid out on the table with the wine. The retired miner waived his hand over an empty chair, and al-Din sat down.

CH7[ At the very moment when the Islamic fundamentalist and the former coal miner were in discussion about the older man's past, Frank Sarvey and his wife, Marie-France were planning their trip to Spain. With some trepidation, Marie-France said, "Frank, instead of joining us a few days from now, couldn't you leave your work to someone in your office?"

-It is possible. But, right now, I think we both need a couple days alone. Both of us need time to think over your association with one of my coworkers. How could that have happened?

(Continues...) ]CH7

Excerpted from In the Shadow of Allahby Allen R. Remaley Copyright © 2009 by Allen R. Remaley. Excerpted by permission.
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