Café Crem

Art, Music and Words around The Coffee Table

Atlantic Bridge – 10 –


(Prologue) (Atlantic bridge 9)

Al Qaida Operation Room, Paris

Nazir Mahmood was pacing up and down. The thinnest moustache traced the cruel line of his upper lip. His shiny black hair was cut close to his scalp. He shaved twice a day, but still looked to have two days growth on his chin and down his neck. He prided himself on his virility.  There was a trace of blood beneath his immaculately manicured fingernails. Mahmood had always been a hands on sort of officer. He glanced up at the garish portrait of the revered martyr Osama Bin Laden on the wall. The painting was ridiculously stylised, reminiscent of the gaudy religious icons of Catholicism, but the irony was lost on Mahmood. To him, Bin Laden had been the Prophet Mohammed’s right hand, his swift and terrible sword. His eyes sparkled with a terrible sadistic zeal. He was currently debating the veracity of the information he had squeezed out of the infidel Malachi. He reasoned it was likely to be reliable, given the close attention he himself had paid to the interrogation.

He interrupted his pacing to stop at a small side table, where he indulged himself in a little ritual, the preparation and pouring of his hot black Arabic coffee, from an elegant long spouted silver pot. It was one of his most prized possessions, from the sacking of Jerusalem fifteen years previously. He was but a humble foot soldier in those days, but oh, how he’d spilled the blood of the holy land invaders, driving them back into the sea. He’d been noticed, and his relentless, cold and calculated rise to the top of the hierarchy of terror had begun. He used his current position to impose Shariah law with ruthless efficiency. His own life, however, like many religious zealots, was far from his twisted view of the Koran’s perfection. He was frequently drunk, and took any and all women to his bed, to abuse as he pleased. In public however, he was careful to nurture the perception that he was a hard-line fundamentalist who would rather give his soul to Allah than succumb to the temptations of the West.

He savoured the bitter taste of the coffee. He considered the coming campaign to stamp out the wretched Lumiere de Liberte. By the prophets, what annoying little insects they were!  He would crush them and watch their life drain away. He had bigger plans to make. If all went well, he would feel in a position to tell the Radical Muslim Council of his fears. Britain and America were becoming an evermore solid alliance, and there were whispers in the air, nothing more, of some grand design, some huge joint project that threatened to strengthen their collective position.  He could not allow that! Not now, when so much of Western Europe cowered in the name of Mohammed, they must push onwards, they must not make the same mistake as the twentieth century madman, Hitler.  Britain must be ground beneath our boot heels to the greater glory of Islam!
Mahmood’s hand closed tightly around the filigreed silver glass holder as he succumbed to his rage. It shattered in his palm, shards of glass flying everywhere. He threw it into the fireplace and examined his bloody hand. A cruel smile crept across his face. He withdrew a silk handkerchief from his tunic and wiped his hand, revelling in the pain from the tiny splinters of glass embedded in the flesh.  Grabbing the phone, he barked an order.” Get me a progress report on the Ambialet incursion!” The phone was slammed down into the cradle.
“By all the prophets, I shall rip the hearts from these infidels!” he said to himself.

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 11)


February 4, 2009 - Posted by | books, Cafe Literati, Entertainment, Kev Moore's Novel Atlantic Bridge, literature, random, writing | , , ,


  1. What a nasty piece of work(the character I mean!) I do hope he comes to an equally nasty end….

    Comment by viv66 | February 5, 2009

  2. I could really see this guy when I was writing …and I didn’t like him at all!

    Comment by kevmoore | February 5, 2009

  3. It shows; the more vivid the character in your mind, the more powerfully they emerge on paper.
    I wish Dan Brown could see more than cliches when he writes!

    Comment by viv66 | February 5, 2009

  4. I know what you mean, Brown does lace his books with cliches, but despite that I enjoy them. (Though the film of Davinci code was a terrible let-down) I also like an Australian writer named Matthew Reilly, who writes preposterous adventure tales, but his sheer breakneck pace is fabulous.

    Comment by kevmoore | February 5, 2009

  5. I am looking forward to Angels and Demons; i read it before the da Vinci code, and it’s a better book in some ways. I have read a reilly recently, the Six sacred stones, I think and laughed a lot at it. Boy’s own books for the 21st century.
    Brown does have a tendancy to over egg the pudding and he can’t “do” women very well at all, but even so, it’s good fun for a holiday read.
    believe it or not, there is a whole bible study course based around the Da Vinci code…very entertaining I can tell you…I did behave though… mostly.

    Comment by viv66 | February 5, 2009

  6. I often wonder… how good must male writers know women to be able “to do” women?
    Now I am waiting with increasing curiosity to see how good Kevin can do women… 🙂
    I also read Angels and Demons before the da Vinci code. I like it better also. But both belong to the very few books I can read, and I guess the only book taste (except Joanne Harris) we have in common Kevin and me.
    No, this is not true. I also loved The Prey from Crichton, in fact much more than the Dan Brown’s books…

    Comment by Miki | February 5, 2009

  7. Great story Kev and it is flowing to you; that I can see.

    Did you know Miki Michael Crichton died this year a few months back. Sad.

    Comment by Michael Pokocky | February 8, 2009

  8. Michael – it was sad indeed about Crichton – such a creative man.

    Comment by kevmoore | February 8, 2009

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