The Brotherhood Conspiracy by Terry Brennan Page B

soldiers of the Jews, but this time on their soil. Is the heart of Amal prepared to strike?”
    “The army of Hezbollah moves at your wish,” said Nazrullah, who was heavier and younger than his mentor, but who wore the same clothes, grew the same beard, and nurtured the same hate.
    “Then begin inserting your men across the border,” said al-Sadr. “They will not engage the Israelis in any way, even if it costs them their own lives. Put them in place, then await my word.”
    Al-Sadr pointed to a map on the wall behind him. “Tunisia, Yemen, Bahrain are the dominoes that will fall first. And when our Brotherhood stirs up the fury of the poor and oppressed in Egypt, Kamali will receive justice.”
    “Yes, yes . . . we know all that, Moussa,” said the Syrian president with a dismissive wave. “Kamali upholds that blasphemous peace with the Jew and has poured billions into his own bank accounts. He bent his knee to the American dollar. He will receive a just reward for his sins. And the family Saud? They have prostituted themselves for the petrodollars that fuel their debauched lifestyle. Abbudin is a traitor to the faith. We must wipe his family from the face of the earth, yes. But why Qaddafi? Why our friend and ally?”
    The force of al-Sadr’s hatred swept through the room like a stampede—pushing against dissent. “The king of all kings of Africa?” he mocked. “The man who was the West’s greatest enemy when he had courage? Where is he today? Not this whimpering dog who creeps to the door of our enemies for their blessing. This man is your ally? This effete pretender who takes his blonde, Ukrainian ‘nurse’ with him wherever he goes, flouting the chastity of Islam? This is your ally?”
    Baqir waved the back of his hand. “Moussa, we all know you have a vendetta against Qaddafi. It was thirty years ago, if it even happened. With you, it’s personal with Qaddafi, it’s not political.”
    Imam Moussa al-Sadr leaned across the table. An old, frail man, yes, but also a physical force of threat and revenge. Baqir moved back in his seat.
    “You may unleash your disrespectful tongue and your well-equipped army against your people,” al-Sadr said. “You may insult your servants, even your wives, Baqir, but do not believe you can insult me without consequences. You are only president by the will of others—and not the poor, oppressed people of Syria whom you rape every day.”
    The imam looked long and hard at the president of Syria, then backed away. “My personal interest in our esteemed colonel is a poor cousin to the wrath of Islam. Yes, many years ago Qaddafi’s ego was unequaled. He was my enemythen, he is my enemy now. But his attempt to assassinate me is not the reason Libya must fall into our hands. We must control Northern Africa and the Suez Canal to cut off the supply of energy to the West, the oil and gas, even the hope of energy. We must be prepared to defend against an attack from the West, but we will also have the bases from which to launch our attacks against Israel. Libya must fall into the hands of the Brotherhood. Qaddafi is a prancing fool . . . an embarrassment.”
    “Qaddafi may be a prancing shadow of the man who once defied the West,” said Kashmiri, the power behind the Syrian president, “but he will not run. He has nowhere to go. More importantly, he truly believes he has been anointed by Allah as king of Africa. Blood will run deep in the streets of Tripoli—in all the streets of Libya—before Colonel Qaddafi will leave his bunker.”
    “That bunker will be his grave,” snarled al-Sadr. “The Brotherhood will control the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, the Mediterranean from Gibraltar to the Bosporus. The Jew will be surrounded with no help from outside. All will fall under the blade of jihad. All of our enemies, Baqir.” Al-Sadr pointed a crooked finger across the table. “All of them. And the world will tremble at the rise of Islam. A friend of our enemies is our enemy,