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“Aashir,” the boy said. “His name’s Aashir.”
* * *
The rain inundated Hassim’s boat. But Sara was near the dock; there would be no problem taking it in. Once again, she thanked her lucky stars she had been brought up on her father’s boat. The care and feeding of motorboats was second nature to her.
Dockside, after the boat had been lashed to its slip, she sluiced the deck free of any remaining blood, dumped the chains overboard. Then she leaned over the gunwale, washed her Star of David thoroughly in the turbulent water. As she came back up, she noticed an object lying on the deck, only visible at this extreme angle. She turned, picked it up. It was Khalifa’s mobile.
She stepped off the boat in a veritable downpour. Already wet, she was instantly soaked to the skin. From a slope-roofed building up ahead, the harbormaster emerged at a swift pace. He opened a large, windproof umbrella, hurried to her side, and ushered her into his office. He was a bald, pudgy man with the hunched back of a beetle and weather-reddened hands like lobster claws.
He bade her sit down, then grabbed two large towels from a stack possibly meant just for occasions like this one, and opened them for her until she was completely covered. Turning away, he brewed her some tea, but as soon as he brought it, he sat down opposite her and said, “Madam, what has happened?”
Sara knew she would be asked questions, perhaps many questions, but her greatest ally was the weather.
“The storm came in unexpectedly. For some reason, Hassim had forgotten to turn on the radar, maybe it needed to be fixed, I don’t know.” She took a slow sip of her tea, batted her eyes at the harbormaster, and said, “Thank you for this.”
He waved away her words, his extreme concern still on his face. From a desk drawer, he brought out a large and much-dented first aid kit, from which he extracted alcohol, an iodine compound, and bandages. He brought out a hand mirror, set it so she could see her reflection, bade her to clean the cut on her cheek. He made no move to touch her, which for him would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette. So unlike Khalifa, who had had no qualms grabbing her, hurting her, trying to kill her.
She began to clean the wound, which had already started to swell. He had not seen, and she would not show him, the scrapes along her side from her encounter with the shark. The wound burned, but the seawater had cleaned it well enough, she felt.
“And Hassim?” the harbormaster said softly.
Sara sighed, summoned the memory of swimming with the sharks, and tears came to her eyes naturally. Natural was best, she had been taught.
“There, there, madam.” The harbormaster was rocking back and forth as if in prayer. “Do take your time.”
She nodded gratefully, sipped more tea, now that she had finished cleaning up her face. “There was another man on board. I was his guest, actually. We were having dinner at Red Pearl, it was getting late. Even so, he suggested we take a moonlight cruise. I…I didn’t want to, really, but he was so insistent…” She hadn’t wanted to mention Khalifa, but people had seen the two of them climb aboard Hassim’s boat. She lowered her head. “You know how men can be…”
“Yes, madam.” The harbormaster bobbed his head. “Indeed I do.” He wiped his lips. “Madam, who was the other gentleman with you and Hassim?”
“His name was Khalifa,” she said. “Khalifa Al Mohannadi.”
The harbormaster sat up straight. “Colonel Al Mohannadi?”
Sara shook her head. “He never mentioned he was a colonel, or even that he was in the army.”
“Hardly the army,” the harbormaster said under his breath.
Sara cocked her head. “What?”
“Nothing, madam.” He waved away her query. “Nothing. Please go on.”
Sara told the story she had concocted on her way in: How the storm had come up so suddenly and with such fury that the men had been taken completely by surprise. How a wave had taken Hassim clear off the deck before either Khalifa or she could do anything. Still, Khalifa, hero that he was, tried, and was swept overboard for his effort.
“This is a sad story,” the harbormaster said. “A tragedy.” He rose, refilled her glass. “Is there anyone in Doha with you? Anyone I can call?”
She pulled out Khalifa’s mobile. “I’ll do it.”
The harbormaster nodded. “As you wish.” He pointed. “I have several chores that require my attention, but I’ll be just through that door if you need me.”
“Thank you,” Sara said. “You’ve been extremely kind.”
When she was alone, she called Levi Blum. He didn’t answer, so she left an urgent voice mail for him to come fetch her at the marina.
Then, idly, she began to scroll through the list of Khalifa’s recent calls and texts made and received, and she discovered one item that made the silken hair on her arms stir.
* * *
The mobile buzzed while Levi Blum was still in bed. He did not answer it. He was not in bed alone. Darlene was with him, or, more accurately, under him. He had hooked up with Darlene almost eight months ago. They had found each other in Nite Jewel, a sumptuous club used by expats and business transients alike as a hangout—a place to get together in every sense of the word.
When Blum had first spied her, she had been with another man—a swarthy Indian Blum loathed on sight. In the way of Indians, the man was as limp as a noodle, the kind of person of ambiguous gender for whom Blum felt only contempt. On the other hand, the Indian was bloated with wealth, a peculiarity, he learned later, that Darlene considered a magnetic character trait.
She was hardly alone. In his time in Doha, Blum had encountered this type of woman again and again. Sadly for him—since he was as yet far from rich—they were gorgeous, the kind of woman he dreamed of at night, alone in his bed.
No matter how charming or witty he made himself, without the requisite wealth he struck out again and again. It was depressing on so many levels that he considered using his local network to dig up dirt on Darlene’s flabby Indian mark. But he was Mossad; he knew better than to use company assets for personal gain.
And yet he had to find a way to make his fortune—another way. He was at that moment ripe for being suborned. There were those who had become aware of him, who had been watching him as casually as a friend, but tracking him constantly. He remembered the precise moment he had cottoned on to them: a familiar face, smeared in reflection in a mall shop window. He had gone into the shop, looked around thoughtfully before picking out a shirt. By the time he paid for it, he was certain he had eyes on him.
After that, he no longer dreamed of Darlene or the other gorgeous women displayed like precious gems at Nite Jewel. He dreamed of his tailing eyes. There were five of them, on him in random shifts. This was smart tradecraft, as regular four- or six-hour shifts were too easy to spot.
So he bided his time until someone made contact, in the gentlest possible way, again, as if he were an old friend. The payment metaphorically laid on the table was far too generous for Blum to pass up. He realized that he had been given a one-in-a-thousand chance, the chance field personnel prized above all others. He was doubled, and now he would double back. A perilous game, to be sure, but it was the only one he would play.
His newfound wealth had attracted Darlene—a shallow triumph, it was true, but for an opposite-sex also-ran like Blum, a satisfying one nonetheless. Now that he had caught his prize, he wasn’t about to curtail their time together for anyone or anything, but then the phone rang again, this time with a special ringtone he had devised to alert him to the identity of the caller.
Groaning, he broke his intimate contact with Darlene, rolled over, reached for the mobile on his bedside table. Crawling after him, Darlene slid her mouth all the way down his phallus. Then, in a way he had yet to understand, her tongue began to swipe him up and down. Then she started making those sounds deep in her throat that always egged him on, faster and faster…
He closed his eyes for a moment, the ecstasy sweeping away all thought and sense of oblig
ation. Far more quickly than he could have imagined, his pelvis lifted off the bed and he pulsed in her throat, again and again, while she emitted a long, drawn-out sigh.
Too soon, he flipped over the mobile, confirmed the identity of the caller. He had left no message, but then he never did. Checking the previous call, he heard Rebeka’s voice asking him to pick her up at the marina immediately. His heart skipped a beat. Why the hell was she calling on Khalifa’s mobile?
With heavy thighs and lips that felt bee-stung, he rolled out of bed, padded across the room into the bath. He turned on the shower taps, stepped in, and began to soap up. Moments later, Darlene joined him, rubbing herself along the length of his back and thighs.
But there were some things that trumped even his time with Darlene, and with an inward groan, he broke their connection, stepped out of the shower, and quickly dried himself.
“Where are you going at this time of night?” she said with a sexy pout. “To see another woman?”
21
Bourne left Eisa at a late-night café. He called Zizzy to check in, told him to come as quickly as he could and to bring certain items with him.
“Hafiz is dead,” Zizzy said mournfully when he arrived by taxi twenty minutes later. He handed the driver a fistful of money and told him to wait.
“So’s his killer.” Bourne redressed himself, shoved all the other items Zizzy had brought into the pockets of the wide trousers he wore underneath the robes, then turned to his friend. “Zizzy, I want you to check out of both our rooms, call your pilot, and fly back home to Doha.”
“Without you?” Zizzy was aghast. “Are you crazy?”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Bourne said.
Zizzy regarded Bourne for some minutes before giving way. “And you?” he said with genuine concern. “Where are you going?”
“The less you know the better. Now get on with it.”
“But really—”
“Do as I say,” Bourne ordered. “You’ve done enough.”
* * *
With Eisa in tow, Bourne drove through rain- and windswept streets.
Nairabein Park was not large. It was ringed by parked cars, and it was surrounded on three sides by apartment blocks. Nevertheless, it held several advantages, chief among them that it was deserted at this time of the very early morning. It was also located close to the western edge of Damascus, and was therefore out of the line of fire between the antagonist forces, at least for the time being.
In any event, according to what Furuque had told Eisa, it was the place of choice for the Tomorrow Brigade’s recruiting efforts. The leaders had chosen well, as the park was unlovely even by the lowest of urban standards. There were trees, true enough, but they were broken up by concrete barriers topped with crescent iron bars. Lately, much of it had become a staging area for abandoned earthmoving equipment, idled by the civil war that had brought construction and real estate investment to a standstill.
The rain had subsided to a barely felt drizzle by the time Bourne parked the stolen motorcycle near Zee Qar Battle Square. He and Eisa crossed the virtually deserted road, heading toward where a group of young men were ranged around a makeshift podium on which stood three men, their bodies clothed in white, their heads and faces wrapped so only their eyes and mouths were visible. The man in the middle, clearly the cadre leader, was in mid-spiel. The men flanking him were armed with assault rifles, as were approximately a dozen terrorists patrolling the periphery of the park.
* * *
Bourne spoke to one of the jihadists who emerged from the shadows to accost them. He used Furuque’s name, placed his hand on Eisa’s shoulder, calling him Furuque’s latest recruit, saved at the last moment from the raid on the underground club.
The terrorist nodded and they were through, approaching the fringes of the semicircle surrounding the leader, whose sonorous voice was raised and perfectly audible without the assistance of amplification.
“We must fully understand the role of the Muslim Brother in the West,” he was saying as they edged through the crowd of upturned young faces. “The process of settlement, of being embedded, is a jihadist process. You ikhwan”—here he invoked the Arabic word for brothers, especially brothers in a militia—“must understand that your work is a kind of grand jihad in eliminating and destroying Western civilization from within and sabotaging its miserable structure by your hand and the hands of like believers so that it is eliminated and God’s religion is made victorious over all others.”
His eyes blazed and his face seemed to be alight with the inner fire of his fervor. He was a tall man with a face like a fist. Like all demagogues, he employed his voice like a weapon, at times blunt, at others surgical.
“Without this level of understanding,” he continued, “we are not up to this challenge and have not prepared ourselves for jihad yet. It is a Muslim’s destiny to perform jihad and work wherever he is and wherever he lands until the final hour comes and there is no escape from that destiny.”
Bourne looked around at all the rapt faces, Eisa’s included, and a terrible suspicion crept over him, one that was soon enough borne out by the leader’s words.
“Ikhwan, our plan for you in North America is good, our plan for you in North America is solid. We have five phases to our plan. Phase One: a discreet and secret establishment of elite leadership. Phase Two: a gradual appearance on the public scene…establishing a shadow government. Phase Three: escalation prior to conflict and confrontation with the rulers. Phase Four: training in the use of weapons domestically and overseas in anticipation of zero hour. Phase Five: open public confrontation with the government through exercising political pressure. Seizing power to establish an Islamic Nation.”
The leader paused, his head turning slowly as if looking into the eyes of each and every recruit. “You are here now to begin Phase Four.”
* * *
In the small hours of the morning Doha’s Corniche was all but deserted. The scimitar sweep, the march of needle-sharp high-rises lit up like New Year’s fireworks was breathtaking, making the cityscape look like a colossal carnival from another planet of the distant future. But as the government liked to say, “In Qatar the future is here.”
Sara, feeling as if all she wanted was to sleep for the next twelve hours, walked along the water, watching a slow-moving fishing boat parallel her route, the crew making ready the giant nets before swinging away, moving out into deeper water. Watching it sail off, Sara shuddered, remembering her literal brush with the shark. Her side burned horribly.
Having reached the Corniche, she had directed Blum to park, then, without a word to him, had got out and begun to walk. At some point she heard him trotting after her to make up the distance between them. She had Khalifa’s mobile in one hand.
When he reached her side, he said, “You look like you’ve been to war. Will you tell me now what the hell happened?”
That was when she pressed the redial key on Khalifa’s mobile. A moment later, Blum’s mobile buzzed. Automatically he brought it out, took the call without looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
Sara, turning to him, held up the colonel’s mobile for him to see. “Khalifa’s dead, Levi. That’s what happened to me tonight.”
Blum looked from one mobile screen to the other. “Ben zona.” Son of a bitch.
“Just so. What did you tell him about me?”
“Nothing. I swear. He knew about you already.”
Hassim, she thought dully. And then, “You and Hassim.”
Out in the gulf, the fishing boat was now no more than a smudge against the horizon along which oil tankers crawled like a line of ants, bearing their burdens.
“Part of the job,” he said, nervously licking his lips. “Let me explain.”
“What job? Levi, what fucking job!”
Her voice, powerful rather than raised, caused him to wince. “Kus-emec!” God-fucking-dammit!
“If you’re going to explain, do it now.”/> “Not while you’re ready to bite my head off.”
Grabbing hold of his arm, she swung him around to face her. “That’s not the only thing I’ll bite off. Give it the fuck up.”
She watched his face, pale and drawn, grow as big as a moon. Then it started to shimmer like the moon’s reflection on the water. Streaks of blinding light crossed her vision field, as if she were moving at the speed of light.
Then a pool of darkness opened up in front of her, into which she pitched. She fell, and kept on falling.
* * *
“No,” Hunter said, leading Camilla away from Starfall’s stall. “Tonight you’ll be riding Dixon.”
The stable was ablaze with light, as if awaiting their arrival. They stopped in front of a stall near the end. A black stallion lifted his head, eyes blazing. His nostrils dilated as he scented her. He bared his teeth.
“Lovely,” Camilla said.
A sly smile informed Hunter’s face. “Lead him out and saddle him.”
The instant Camilla unlatched the door, Dixon stepped back, tossed his head, and snorted in a most unfriendly manner.
“Has anyone ridden him?” she asked.
Hunter laughed. “I have. You want me to saddle him for you?”
Camilla held up her hand. “To what end?”
“Atta girl!” Hunter stepped back, leaned against the far side of the stall area.
Camilla entered, reached up to grab the horse’s bridle, and almost got her fingers bitten off.
“Fuck me!”
Hunter, unconcerned, crossed her arms over her breasts. “You know how to approach him, Cam. Take it from there.”
Camilla nodded, moved to the side of the stall so Dixon had a better view of her. She smiled at him, started to talk to him softly the way she talked to Starfall. The great eye observed her with what seemed to be a fiendish intensity. Then the horse moved, pinning her against the side of the stall.
