Hell Encounter

We knew that a Dx / 4 CIA Special Purpose Agent was arrested in Moscow two years ago. Foreign affairs worked on his release with a proposal to exchange agents and some possible concessions. But there was no success.

I was pleasantly surprised when my friend’s PGP message arrived. He said that he was released from prison and is working on the biggest job in his career. He promised to see me soon. It was three months ago. I tried to call him several times, but his cell phone was turned off.

I looked at his PGP message again today. Dx / 4 mentioned a conflict between the three most significant powers globally, but not America, Russia, or China. It was puzzling because it is generally believed that these three states are the strongest and most extensive. Only later, from the data in the file called “Hell’s Encounter,” I realized that something was even more potent. The mysterious forces in this conflict had immense power, a strong desire for domination, and fanaticism in their background.

Data in the CIA’s central archives file was scarce, but the secret of the conflict between the great powers was revealed. Agent Dx / 4 played an essential role in this risky and brutal conflict. The dossier of this case served as the book’s foundation, which I somehow owed to my friend.

At the edges of the last page of the dossier, it was handwritten that any trace of Agent Dx / 4 had been lost.

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The black Audi slid slowly and silently along the N310 towards the Mollenbeek district. It used to be a remote village and then swallowed up by Brussels. Well, yet Mollenbeek never became part of the city. He looked a little awkward. One hundred thousand new inhabitants suddenly settled, of which over 80 percent were Muslims.

Before leaving, they repeated every detail of the plan twice. After turning right, the Audi entered Bonenweg and finally the side Veelhorsterweg.

“Stop at number 26,” the driver heard the command.

Three bent, dark figures approached number 26. White lace caps on shaved heads and long black beards without mustaches were recognizable signs of Salafi Islamists. The tall jihadist pressed a button on the right side of the door. A voice came from the speakers.

“What do you want?”

“Salam Alaykum! Khalid el Bakroui is sending us. We are looking for his brother Ibrahim el Bakroui,” was the answer in good Arabic.

The door opened, and he was greeted in a vast hall by a huge man with broad shoulders. The dark suit could not hide the entire and plump torso.

“Alaykum salam,” he replied.

Three guests behind the porter saw a man in a turban at the top of the wide staircase. He held the Kalashnikov pointed at them. From the approach to the building, everything was happening fast. The tall jihadist had only a second advantage because he knew that the shooter from the top of the stairs would hesitate to burst because of the security guard in front of the three guests. His left hand searched the big man’s eyes in a short, lightning-fast motion forward. The jihadist’s outstretched and outstretched index finger and middle finger went deep into the eye sockets. A howl of pain broke through the hall; the man covered his head with his hands and slowly dropped to his knees. Tall, with his right hand, quickly reached for the pistol from his belt and fired from his side. He hit the shooter on the stairs in the head, but Kalashnikov’s trigger was already reflexively activated. Thirty bullets of 7.62 calibers ended harmlessly on the ceiling of the hall.

In a split second, the other two jihadists pulled out their machine guns and burst into the space in front of them with a burst of long nines. After a loud noise, there was silence. The grave silence was disturbed only by the hoarse moan of the great man on the floor. The three jihadists cautiously climbed the stairs to the first floor. One had a devastating MR8 hand grenade in his hand. He threw her into a long hallway, and all three took cover around the corner.

Two minutes after the loud explosion, a hand with a white cloth appeared on one of the doors in the hallway.

“All right. Get out slowly,” was the order.

Four came out. One held a crumpled white shirt in his hand as a sign of surrender.

“I am Abdelsalam Salah. I know you are looking for me.”

“Where is el Barkaoui?” Ablelsalam did not respond.

The tall jihadist lowered his gun and hit him in the knee from the side anyway. A shot and a moan revived the space.

“You’re crazy. I surrendered; what more do you want?” Abdelsalam murmured.

Tall takes his cap off his shaved head. Then he plucked his long artificial chin and tossed it all together on the floor. His natural beard was only a few days old.

“You fooled me,” Corley said slowly. “I don’t know how or why, but it’s a scam for sure. I want answers.”