Jihada: The Lost Scriptures Read online

  Jihada

  The Lost Scriptures

  by

  Bill McNaught

  Copyright © 2014 Bill McNaught

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  KINDLE edition

  THE WORLD WAS TO BE THROWN INTO CONFUSION AND CONFLICT

  THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT WAS NO LONGER OUR WORLD

  IN THE NEW WORLD ORDER

  THERE WOULD ONLY BE ISLAM

  THERE WOULD ONLY BE ISLAM THERE WOULD ONLY BE ISLAM

  THE LOST SCRIPTURES OF THE QURAN WERE THE

  NEW GOSPEL

  THE LOST SCRIPTURES PREDICTED THE

  COMING OF THE JIHADA

  The Muslim world was DESTINED to rule

  ALL OTHERS WERE EXPENDABLE------ THERE WOULD BE NO OTHERS

  THERE WOULD ONLY BE ISLAM

  ALLAHU AKBAR---ALLAHU AKBAR---ALLAHU AKBAR

  GOD IS GREAT

  BILL McNAUGHT IS A PSEUDONYM

  He completed 22 years in the army, many of them with Special Forces, and served throughout the world’s trouble spots.

  During the 70’s, he conducted 4 tours of Northern Ireland, either with his Infantry battalion or on attachment,-- before joining the SAS.

  The amount of time he spent with the SAS in Northern Ireland is unknown.

  What he did in Northern Ireland is unknown.

  What he did anywhere in the SAS is unknown.

  The IRA are still looking for him.

  NOVELS BY BILL McNAUGHT

  JIHADA-----THE LOST SCRIPTURES is the first release in a trilogy of novels.

  THE WRONG PACKAGE is to be released early in 2015

  THE LIGER SYNDROME mid 2015

  CONTENTS

  1 TWINS

  2 MAGIC

  3 MICHAEL

  4 MISSING

  5 THE MEETING 1

  6 MY BROTHER

  7 THE JIHADA

  8 THE MEETING 2

  9 INFINATE POWERS

  10 THE LOST SCRIPTURES

  11 TERROR

  12 THE FATWA

  13 SHARIA LAW

  14 SIR JAMES McNAUGHT

  15 MY SON

  16 THE MEETING 3

  17 THE JOURNEY

  18 THE MEETING 4

  19 THE RULES

  20 ON HOME SOIL

  21 MIND CONTROL

  22 POWER SHIFT

  23 BACK ONBOARD

  24 THE PESTILENCE

  25 THE HOMECOMING

  26 THE MEETING 5

  27 AN UNPLEASANT MAN

  28 A PRESIDENTIAL LIE

  29 THE MEETING 6

  30 FULFILLED

  CHAPTER 1

  Twins

  .

  Mary Jacobs was in a great deal of pain; she should have been in a hospital;--- giving birth, no matter how simple and straight forward the delivery, should not be done alone in a wooden holiday cabin somewhere in the Catskill mountains, way up in New York State.

  ‘Why now’? she kept asking herself; ‘ the baby isn’t due for another two months’.

  The baby should never have been due at all; Kevin Jacobs was sterile; producing sperm had never been Kevin’s problem, producing live sperm was the problem, and despite countless tests and treatments, the doctors had never found a live one.

  Mary and Kevin had spent the last 5 years, and most of their savings, searching for the miracle cure to Kevin’s problem, until finally in desperation, they had travelled to Egypt in order to explore the lucrative adoption market that was now thriving throughout both the Middle and the Far East. On their return to their Syracuse home, a re-occurrence of the sickness that had so badly affected her in Egypt provided both Mary and Kevin with the unimaginable news of her pregnancy.

  Now she was on her own. Where was Kevin? Throughout their marriage, and for most of their childhood, they had never been separated for more than a few hours; they even worked together in their own little family business, and now, when she needed him more than at any time in her life - he wasn’t here with her.

  This was not a normal birth; there had been no warning signs; no contractions; no bursting of the waters. Everything had just happened in the space of a few seconds; the head was now outside and the rest of the body required only one more push; just one more super human effort and the pain would go away.

  ‘Kevin’ she cried out. ‘Kevin, where are you? Please Kevin, please hurry’.

  Kevin did not hear Mary’s cries and screams for help: Kevin Jacobs was no longer fishing in the picturesque little lake that ran alongside the log cabin; he had joined the lake’s inhabitants, a soft nosed .22 hollow point bullet fired from a silenced pistol lodged firmly in his brain.

  Two bearded men, both with dark Arabic features silently entered the log cabin. They gazed down at the new born child, who returned their stare through wide open dark and deep soulless eyes, before dropping to their knees in prayer and reciting an unknown chapter of the Quran that only a handful of Muslims in the world had ever heard before. Their recital was the LOST SCRIPTURES; the missing verses of the Quran, as written by the Prophet Mohammad himself, - and as spoken directly to Mohammad by Allah. Before leaving, with eyes closed and their heads bowed until they were almost touching the wooden floor of the cabin, they simultaneously repeated,

  ‘Allahu Akbar – Allahu Akbar – Allahu Akbar’.

  God is great

  Mary Jacobs was now in a completely immobile and transcendental state; not sleeping, yet not fully conscious. She could observe the two men at prayer, yet she was powerless to act as they gently lifted the child, wrapped it in a blanket, and left the log cabin.

  Slowly Mary’s brain began to function normally, and as her senses returned, so did the birth pains.

  It was some two hours later that the police entered the cabin. Her husband Kevin’s body had been reported to the police by a couple of fishermen whose boat had ploughed into it at speed, almost throwing them both overboard. The body was well mutilated by the boat’s twin propellers, and the severed head had sunk to the bottom of the lake. As the fishermen had attempted to untangle the clothing that had caused their engines to seize, they had made their gruesome discovery.

  Mary Jacobs was dead on the wooden floor of the cabin with a serene smile on her face. She was surrounded by a pool of blood, lying in the middle of which was the new born child; a baby boy, whose twin brother had been removed a little over two hours earlier. The child did not look like either Mary or Kevin. The child’s skin color was much darker, and its’ features were Middle Eastern,-possibly Arabic; it was however identical to its brother, as were the all seeing, wide open, dark and deep soulless eyes.

  As the two police officers gently lifted the child, and looked beyond his deeply hypnotic stare, a strange feeling overwhelmed them; it was a mixture of pleasure and of well being; -- a feeling of pious serenity and tranquility that they had never witnessed before.

  Neither of the two men mentioned the experience, either to each other or to anyone else.

  That evening, both the two officers visited their respective churches for the first time in many years.

  CHAPTER 2

  Magic

  ‘Good morning Sir James, I trust that you and your lovely wife are keeping well’?

  Sir James McNaught stopped walking and turned around to be greeted by Sir Rupert McAdam MP, a dye in the wool Conservative Member of Parliament for the Hinckley and Bosworth co
nstituency in the East Midlands; a constituency encompassing some of Old England’s finest fox hunting countryside. For many years, the “do gooding” Liberal chattering classes had managed to have fox hunting banned throughout the British Isles: a major outbreak of the deadly rabies virus among the British foxes had seen a complete reversal of fortune for the fox hunting gentry, and foxes were now rightfully relegated to their former pariah vermin status of the late twentieth century.

  ‘Good afternoon Rupert’, McNaught replied, ‘Mary and I are naturally in perfect health, after all I am a magician, and can conjure up anything that I wish, even good health. Is Sheila ok? I haven’t seen her for a couple of months now, not since that evening with the Prime Minister; we really must organize an evening out together as soon as Mary returns from her latest holiday, maybe at the Opera, I hear that the production of La Traviata at Covent Garden is particularly good’.

  ‘Great idea James, the girls will adore that, and you are of course right as always, it is afternoon; time for a couple of drinks before the afternoon session in the house begins; would you care to join me in my club; I think that I may be able to sneak you in by the back entrance so that no one sees you, after all, a knighthood really is no substitute for breeding old chap’.

  ‘You know that I cannot stand that blessed club of yours Rupert, the whole place gives me the creeps’, McNaught made a spitting motion before continuing, ‘I have never come across such a boorish group of snobbish old farts in all my life; all they seem to talk about are the good old days of Empire. They may well have been good old days for them and their ancestors, as they were born with all the privileges of wealth, a bit like yourself Rupert, the rest of us had to work bloody hard to make it where we are now’.

  ‘Now now James, do I detect a little class envy; the burden of the working classes; forever adding more grist to the tyrannical and unjust capitalist mill’?

  ‘Bloody right you do Rupert and for good reason. I most certainly am not a socialist, but at the same time, I hate all the country’s wealth being held by a small group of fat cat boring old farts, many of whom you now want me to drink with; that is not my idea of an interesting way to spend an afternoon’.

  Rupert McAdam laughed out loud. ‘You are the magician James; just try getting one single penny off any of us. A fool and his money are easily parted; the boring old farts at my club have managed to keep a firm hold of their money for generations; not even an act of God would work. When the world ends, we will still have every penny of it; I am taking mine with me to make sure those damn socialist don’t get their grubby little hands on it. I am going to skip my club today and give you a treat James; have you heard of the young magician who is performing this week over at the Aspin club in Pall Mall? One or two members of the house have been along and are really enthusing over him. One of them had the temerity of even comparing him to your good self’.

  ‘I do hope that you put him right Rupert’ McNaught said sternly. ‘That most certainly will not do; I have come across these “Great Pretenders” on many occasions, and the best that they have ever come up with has merely been a very amateurish rework of some of my more simple tricks. No one has ever fathomed out my more famous ones, not even the Great Randola himself; he gave up trying after a few years; almost sent him mad. In the end, he explained it as unexplainable magic’.

  ‘Let us see James’, Sir Rupert winked, ‘You may well be billed as the world’s greatest magician, and received a knighthood for same, but there always comes a time when experience has to step aside for youth’.

  ‘A bottle of wine of your choice Rupert, if he manages to perform one single trick that I cannot explain or haven’t performed a hundred times myself. You seem to have forgotten that I devised, invented and perfected most of the tricks that you now see on both stage and television. There is precious little new in the world of magic Rupert, just variations on half a dozen different themes. It shouldn’t really be called magic; there is no magic, - just illusion,- smoke and mirrors,- sleight of hand, -nothing else’.

  Sir Rupert McAdam smiled; it was a knowing smile. He had detected a hint of anger in McNaught’s voice. He knew from past experience that to even hint of comparing any magician with the great Sir James McNaught would provoke this anger. What he also knew was that the young man in question was no ordinary magician. He had seen him himself only two days before. The boy really could perform magic; not illusion, - smoke and mirrors, - sleight of hand, but real magic. Sir James McNaught was to be in for quite a shock. He had himself seen McNaught perform on many occasions, often at very close quarters; there was no doubting that he was good, but there was just something about the tricks performed by the boy that defied all logic: inanimate objects cannot fly of their own accord, even Sir James cannot lift a hat off a hat rack and make it fly around the room before replacing it onto the head of someone. Sir James was going to be in for quite a shock.

  ‘I will meet you outside the Aspin club at precisely one o clock James, I have just got to pop into my club to do a little business; one of your old farts wants me to raise an issue in the house this week’.

  ‘To his advantage and no doubt extremely profitable to yourself Rupert,- I presume’?

  ‘Naturally James, I wouldn’t have it any other way: you know as well as I do; that is how the system works. We have a duty to protect our inheritance from the ravages of Socialism. What is ours, - we keep; what is yours, - we covet, and ultimately get to own it.Life has never been any different, nor will it ever be. Old money never wanders James, it is much too attached to old families like mine; new money just isn’t the same; it likes to wander, and is quite prepared to settle with the most inappropriate and unsuitable families’. With a little chuckle, Sir Rupert walked purposefully into the entrance of his private members’ club, and Sir James McNaught resumed his afternoon stroll, changing his direction and heading towards Pall Mall.

  -----------

  Both men met at one o clock outside of the once hallowed halls of the Aspin club, and gazed up at the imposing facade; McNaught in quiet admiration at the magnificent age old structure, and Sir Rupert McAdam in disgust at what the Old Colonia Club, one of London’s finest Gentlemen’s clubs for well over 150 years, had become.

  Sir Rupert was the first to speak. ‘What is the world coming to James, please tell me; standards seem to be dropping away and disappearing by the minute. Not too many years ago, before they changed the blessed name from the Colonial, this club truly was the last refuge of Gentlemen, and counted Barons, Earls, even Kings as its’ members; now we are going in to watch a bloody magician. There used to be an old joke around Parliament James, - if you wanted to meet someone from the British Aristocracy, you would be unlikely to meet them at the House of Lords because they would all be sipping their brandies and planning their next colonial conquest deep in the bowels of the Old Colonial Club, away from the prying eyes of those interfering MP’s in Parliament’.

  McNaught laughed out loud, and still chuckling retorted, ‘I would like to bet that your ancestors were in the vanguard of most of these colonial conquests Rupert’.

  ‘Naturally James, where do you think the family silver came from? Most of today’s better families made their money from the colonies, either that or they did some form of dutiful favor or patriotic service to the Crown’.

  ‘Rupert my dear boy, you are such a snob, now let’s go inside to sit among the peasantry and watch this blessed magician. Oh and by the way, what time are you due back in the house; I assume that your old fart has made his requests by now’?

  ‘I am not going in this afternoon James, I have been asked to have a good long talk with your good self by the Defense Secretary who was in the club; he is extremely worried and would like your opinion on a couple of matters’.

  ‘WHAT, that sniveling little creep wants to speak to me Rupert’?

  ‘I didn’t say that James, you know as well as I do that you will probably come to blows the next time you meet’.

 
‘There is probably, no probably about it Rupert; after the way he insulted Mary, the pretentious little shit, he is very lucky I didn’t belt him there and then’.

  ‘It’s a good job you didn’t James, the PM was looking on, and other than dropping a few bombs on the odd unfortunate African country, he hates violence; besides, you are almost twice his size; I did say that he wants ME to have a word with you’.

  The two men entered the club, Sir Rupert nodding at the doorman who returned a salute, and walked down the steps to a smoking and drinking room which contained a long curved old wooden bar, behind which a smartly dressed young bar tender was busy pouring drinks; they sat at an equally old table on two rather incongruous fairly modern chairs.

  McNaught looked across the room at two elderly gentlemen, one of whom was smoking a pipe, the bluish smoke drifting across the room and hovering above the heads of the two men. He closed his eyes, and taking a deep breath of the sweet aromatic smoke through both his mouth and his nose, thought of the many years that he himself had enjoyed the by now almost pariah status of a pipe smoker.

  Sir Rupert smiled, ‘I bet it has been a good number of years since you last saw anyone smoking a pipe inside a club James? If it really is so bad for one’s health, how has that dear old octogenarian survived for so long? At least in some of the better clubs, they have retained a few of the old standards despite those interfering buggers making it now illegal. I often come here when I need to think; a fine brandy and a good Cuban cigar help the process; nicotine and alcohol enjoyed together always seem to stimulate the old grey matter.