Compassion International

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Stealth Ops - Hadad and Saghir

Spoiler Alert: Read SHADOW MAKER before reading this or any of the forthcoming epilogue files marked Stealth Ops.



Aman Saghir sighed bitterly, lowering himself into a white-painted iron chair outside a tea shop in the Grand Bazaar. He had lost everything he built in London—his mosque, his flock, and most importantly, his bank accounts. Persecution by the British police had reduced him from holy man to vagrant, a burden on his Turkish relatives. And even they were becoming less and less enthusiastic about his presence.

While he waited for his order— mint tea and halva wafers—Saghir frowned at the dress of the European tourists passing by. These western women had no shame. Far from being covered by the hijab as they should be, they wore shorts cut off at the thigh and tied off their shirts to show off their midriffs.

Saghir harbored particular ire for the midriffs. In fact, he was concentrating so hard on his disdain for one woman with an sinfully flat, tan midriff and a blue rhinestone bellybutton ring that he hardly noticed the elderly Turk sitting down next to him.

An enormous waiter in a bright red jacket and fez brought Saghir's order, then tarried to take the order of the old man, who took far too long to spit it out, fumbling with the gilded head of his cane the whole time.

Saghir ignored them. He took a sip of his tea and returned to his disdain, but he found his view of all the sinful shorts and unholy, tan midriffs had been obstructed by a two-decker rolling rack of silk clothes, creeping down the lane under the power of a teenager who could barely keep it moving.

The teenager's rolling rack also blocked the rest of the market's view of Saghir and the tea shop.
When the kid finally made it past, Saghir and the big waiter had vanished. Only the elderly Turk remained, sipping his tea and slipping a small, black cylinder back into the hidden compartment in the head of his cane.

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