Marc Cameron - National Security

Quinn stood in the scant shade of one of the many date palms that lined the main paved road. Squinting against a low sun, he surveyed the empty campus, considering his options. Sparrows huddled and chirped in the shadowed fronds above him, unwilling to venture out in the blazing sun. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of both knees. He had no weapons-travel into the Kingdom was dangerous enough-but planned to use whatever was available when the time came. The odor of horse manure and sweet grass hay told him he was near the stables. Oddly enough, the smell had a calming effect. He knew horses-even Arabians-and had always felt better around them while growing up.

Farooq’s operation was somewhere nearby, he could smell that, too. It was the bitter smell of something secret-the copper scent of death. Quinn looked at his watch-eighteen hours until his plane left Riyadh for Kuwait City. It would be his first window of opportunity for exit. All he could do now was explore and hope he stumbled onto something.

The main stable was a sight to behold. Arabs held horses to be their greatest treasures and it showed in the ornate architecture of their barns.

Quinn passed from the blinding sun between thick pink columns supporting a matching stucco facade that rose three stories above the circular courtyard and made his way into the relative cool interior of the barn. He walked slowly down the wide, tiled breezeway keeping his shoulders relaxed, eyes ever on the lookout for danger.

The barn was empty but for a deaf-mute hired boy who shoveled manure into a wheelbarrow while he mouthed the words of a silent song to himself. Large ceiling fans whumped over head; water misters located up and down the ceiling beams sprayed a constant cloud that evaporated in midair. Detailed wrought-iron work decorated eight-foot-tall wooden gates and stall dividers. The scent of clean wood shavings wafted up from the floor of each spacious enclosure. An abundant supply of fresh hay and cool water filled built-in troughs on the walls. These horses lived more pampered lives than average Saudi citizens.

Quinn heard muffled voices as he passed beside the heavy wooden beams and rough, slip-proof concrete that formed the wash rack and shoeing area. A coiled garden hose hung on a peg in the shadows of the inside wall. The medicinal smell of soap and wet horse lingered in the thick air. He stopped next to a portable acetylene torch used for horseshoeing and strained his ears to listen. Angry voices drifted down from an upper-level hayloft that ran above the stalls almost half the length of the building.

Conflict, Quinn thought, as he heard the harsh sound of a slap on bare skin and a yelp of someone in anguish. Just where I belong. He moved forward, reminding himself to think in Arabic so he would remember to speak in Arabic.

He stopped at the base of a thick timber ladder leading up to the storage loft. Voices tumbled down the wooden steps with bits of dust and trampled hay. Again, he heard the cry of a woman. Closer now, Quinn could make out the words.

“Please, this is far from a Commission matter,” a female voice pleaded. “I assure you, we have done nothing wrong.”

The naive urgency in her words made Quinn scan the barn for a weapon. This was no lover’s spat. The strain in her terrified voice was heartbreaking.

“Child of Satan!” a male voice spat. “You will answer for your sins.”

“We have committed no sin but to talk with one another…” It was another male voice now, soft and quivering with fear.

Quinn heard the muffled whoof of air leaving someone’s lungs followed by a low moan.

“You will rot in prison for your impudence, boy,” a gruff voice said. “But first, you will feel the lash. Khulwa is a serious matter.”

Khulwa was socializing with an unrelated person of the opposite sex-going for a walk, or even having coffee. A university professor in Mecca had been sentenced to one hundred eighty lashes and eight months in jail for being caught at a coffee shop with an unrelated female. It was not unheard of for women to be raped at the hands of overzealous men-punishing their lack of virtue. Such a thing defied understanding, but somewhere in the dark recesses of certain male brains, rape could teach a woman a lesson in chastity.

Up in the loft, cloth ripped. There was a muffled scream followed by a hateful chuckle.

“On your knees,” a rough voice spat.

“Tawfiq,” the girl sobbed. “Please, help me…”

More laughter. “Tawfiq knows his place.”

“I beg of you, sir…”

Quinn sprang up the ladder in three quick bounds. Months of working outside the wire in Iraq made moving in the loose, dresslike dishdasha second nature. He hiked it up with one hand as he climbed, like a woman wearing a skirt, chuckling in spite of the situation-if Thibodaux could only see him now.

At the top of the ladder, Quinn almost ran headlong into a dutiful member of the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. The brooding Mutawwa towered over a young Saudi woman-barely in her twenties-who knelt, quaking before him on a pile of loose hay. Her black abaya was torn away revealing a white T-shirt and jeans. Without the heavy black robe, she could have passed for one of thousands of American college students. The man’s fist wrapped her long, ebony hair in a thick twist. A delicate chin quivered above her slender olive neck.

The beefy Commission man shot a surprised look over his shoulder, wrenching back the frightened woman’s head to bring home the point that he was still firmly in charge. He sneered at the new intruder, his teeth a white gash in a black beard. This Mutawwa was much taller than the two Quinn has seen at the hotel with flecks of gray in heavy whiskers.

“Peace be unto you,” Quinn said in Arabic as he hit the startled man in the face with the flat of his hand. The Arab released his grip on the girl’s hair and teetered in place like a great bearded tree before a strong wind. Without another word, Quinn heaved him headfirst over the short wooden railing to the tile floor sixteen feet below. The task was easy enough since the Mutawwa’s underwear was down around his ankles, providing the perfect hobble when Quinn rushed him. His pious skull cracked like a ripe melon when he hit the concrete.

One down, Jericho’s attention snapped to his second opponent. This one was shorter than the first, but with the broad shape of a fireplug. It was impossible to tell his true build under the full white robe, but a thick neck gave the man the look of a wrestler. He was younger than his dead partner, his black beard more sparse and wispy.

The squat Mutawwa pulled himself into a crouch, invoking a whispered prayer to Allah. “Who are you to interfere with Commission business?”

Quinn gave a humble shrug. “ InshAllah — Allah willing-I am the man who will end your struggles in this world today.”

The Mutawwa snatched up a pitchfork, fending Quinn off with the glistening points. In the stalls below, Arabian horses-a nervous lot in the first place-pranced and snorted at the commotion above them.

A block and tackle used to lift the heavy bales of hay swung on a thick rope from a pulley at the edge of the loft. In a fluid movement, Quinn sidestepped a futile jab with the pitchfork and rolled inside the other man’s reach, making it impossible for him to bring the deadly points to bear. He struck the Mutawwa hard, bringing the heel of his hand upward with all the force of his hips. Bone crunched and cartilage tore as the man’s nose all but disintegrated. Clutching the collar of his cotton robe like it was a judo gi, Quinn shouldered the handle of the pitchfork out of the way and gave him two brutally effective knees to the groin.

The Mutawwa sank toward the ground with a low moan. A smear of fresh blood covered his slack face.