Marc Cameron - National Security

Quinn grabbed the block and tackle, yanking it down to twist the hemp rope around the dazed man’s neck. “Murder… is a… capitol crime,” the Mutawwa gurgled, eyes bulging red.

Quinn kicked him over the edge.

“So is rape,” he said.

From the corner of his eye, Quinn caught the fluttering movement of a young student in a white Saudi thobe and red checked ghutra. Blood oozed from a split lip. The boy gathered himself up to flee.

Quinn put up a hand. “You will remain here.” His voice, still in clipped Arabic, was little more than a coarse whisper. The force of it pushed the boy back to the floor in a slouching, defeated pile.

Quinn knelt to help the embarrassed girl fix her torn abaya. “What is your name, child?”

“Huwaidah,” the girl whimpered. “He is Tawfiq.” She glared at her companion, who’d done so little to try and stop the men from the brutality they’d been about to commit.

Tawfiq, a skinny Saudi youth with a pronounced goiter, stared dumbfounded at the dangling body of the dead Mutawwa. He repositioned his mussed head scarf with shaky hands. “You… killed them,” he stammered. “You killed them both…”

Huwaidah clicked her teeth, her eyes flicking from terror to rage in the bat of a lash. Her name meant gentle, but there was no gentleness in her at the moment. Quinn remembered why soldiers from every army that had tried to conquer the Arab world were so frightened of being captured by the women.

“I am glad he killed them,” she spat. “They deserved to die.”

“But they were government officials…” Tawfiq swallowed hard, his goiter sliding up and down like a trapped Ping-Pong ball. His voice was a flaccid whisper, devoid of breath. “What will happen to us now?”

Quinn grabbed the wall and leaned over the edge, scanning up and down the shadowed alley. Horses snorted below, sniffing at the blossoming pool of blood from the dead Mutawwa splayed across the tile floor, then gazing up with white eyes at the one dangling over their heads. There was no one in sight. He knew that could change at any moment.

“Tawfiq is right,” he said. “We should leave at once. As long as we’re not discovered here-and you both remain quiet about what has occurred-things will be fine. There will be an investigation…” Quinn paused to let the youngsters realize the gravity of his words. “But no one need lose their head.”

Quinn followed the pair down the ladder. On the ground, he paused long enough to grab a canister of iodine crystals out of a horseshoeing supply box and stuff it into the pocket of his dishdasha. Horseshoers used the caustic stuff to treat infections of the hoof. Quinn was familiar with a few other, more explosive, uses that were bound to come in handy.

Once inside the shade of the neighboring barn, Quinn stepped closer to the young couple. “Now,” he said. “You must go your separate ways.” He gave a stern look to the girl. He was, after all, playing the part of an Arab male. “And cease to find yourself alone with men who are not related to you. It is an abomination.”

The pair nodded, heads bowed toward their feet.

“How may we repay your kindness?” Huwaidah muttered, her dark lashes fluttering like a wounded bird as the magnitude of what she’d just escaped crashed down around her.

Quinn smiled softly. It was a question he’d hoped she would ask.

“I am looking for a certain place… a place that I believe is also an abomination before Allah.” He paused to let her look him in the eyes. “A laboratory where very bad things take place.”

Tawfiq’s gaze shifted toward the girl. He shook his head, teeth grinding loud enough that Jericho could hear the crunch.

Huwaidah sighed deeply, blinking, coming to a decision. “Yes,” she whispered. “I have heard of such a place. The other girls tell awful stories. I thought they were to scare us and keep us from sneaking out at night.”

“Huwaidah,” Tawfiq snapped. “Mind your tongue. You will be killed.”

She ignored him, looking at Quinn with wide, green eyes-honest, resolute eyes that said she could amount to anything if she was not so beaten down. She covered her face with the torn abaya but squared her shoulders, looking toward the far end of the open barn, toward the bright patch of sunlight and blazing pink stone.

“I want to show you the place you are looking for,” she said. “You have saved my life, so it is now yours. I do not care if they kill me.”

Quinn fought the urge to put his hand on the poor girl’s shoulder. Instead, he sighed gravely. “I will not let that happen today.”

Fallujah

“The fat man, Malik gave me very little before he… left.” Zafir pressed the cell phone to his ear with his good hand. “I fear our meeting upset him more than he was able to bear. The boy, on the other hand, proved to be a treasure of knowledge,”

The Bedouin sat on a sun-bleached wooden chair in the scant shade of a cafe awning. He sipped chai from a chipped ceramic mug as he spoke. Dressed in dark aviator shades, loose cotton shirt, and black slacks, he looked like any one of the hundred other Iraqi men milling around the streets in the war-torn country. All of these men had seen violence-but few relished it as much as Zafir.

“I knew you would be… how shall we put it?… persuasive…” Zafir could hear the sheikh’s smile in his words.

“I am humbled by your confidence.”

“The board is set and the pieces are ready to move into place,” Farooq said. “I am anxious to open our game… unless, of course, you have information that dictates I should do otherwise.”

Zafir fell silent as a platoon of American soldiers-they called themselves Peacekeepers-walked in formation down the dusty street, less than two meters in front of him. They eyed him warily because of his cell phone. Insurgents used cell phones to set off IEDs and holding one in front of an American was a good way to get shot. His throat tightened and he lay the phone down on the bench beside him without a word to Farooq. He took a long, slow breath and forced a smile, waving happily to the passing squad. On the outside he was a picture of calm, a docile lamb wanting nothing more than to comply with the American liberators. Inside, his stomach roiled, aching to cut the throat of the fair-haired boy who brought up the rear. The sheikh’s plan calmed him. The boy and thousands of his kind would die soon enough. In time, even the women of the west-the ones who survived-would find themselves behind the burqa. It was the unquestionable will of Allah.

Only when the American patrol had disappeared around the corner a half a block away did he retrieve the phone. The sheikh was accustomed to such delays and the two resumed where they’d left off.

“Allah willing,” Zafir said, “I am prepared to begin my part.” He knew better than to speak openly on a cell phone. The Americans even listened to each other. Though the chance of them picking up his conversations was slim, it was not impossible.

“You’ve thought it through?” The sheikh was calm, his voice deadpan.

“I have.”

“Then of course you have my blessing,” Farooq said, with an air of finality that surprised even Zafir. There was no going back. Zafir caught a hint of newfound respect in his master’s words-and it caused his chest to swell with pride.

“There is a small problem,” Zafir said. “The boy I spoke with today has been in contact with those who wish to stop your game.”

“From the West?”

Zafir gave an affirmative grunt. “There is one player in particular who bears watching. He may try and visit you. Perhaps I should return-”

“You know that would not be wise.” Farooq chuckled. “We are on a strict timetable now. You have already made your testament. You have everything you need to begin your journey-including more of my trust than I reserve for any other living soul. My friend, I fear the next time we meet will be in the bosom of Allah.”