Marc Cameron - National Security

Dr. Soto dabbed a tear from her eye and sniffed. She set her notepad on the coffee table in front of her. Carrie’s chest heaved as if she’d just finished a grueling foot race. Her hands lay motionless in her lap. The corners of her lips glistened, perked into the hint of a smile.

“What ever happened to Zafir Jawad?” Soto asked.

“I’m not sure,” Carrie said. “I heard he escaped before they could transfer him to a prison in Baghdad. But I also heard he was killed in another firefight with U.S. forces. Who knows? He’s dead to me.”

“That’s my girl.” Soto smiled. “We’ll not ever let that man control you again.”

“Damn straight,” Carrie said. “Never again…”

Huwaidah came to an abrupt stop on the concrete walk under the thatch of a date palm, taking advantage of the sparse shade. Without speaking she dipped her head slightly toward a white, concrete building across a wheat field roughly three hundred meters behind the veterinary hospital of King Faisal University. The building was surrounded by pastures, kept verdant by the oasis of Al-Hofuf. Beyond it lay miles of date orchards and pasture lands full of grazing horses, goats, and camels. A complex of barns, not nearly as large as those of the university, jutted off one end of the building. Arabian horses nibbled hay under wooden awnings in the middle of their paddocks, built to provide them shelter from the desert sun.

Huwaidah had been able to repair her abaya so only the most inquisitive observer would notice it had been torn. Since none of the male students would dare let their eyes linger on her, she was relatively safe for the moment. She made the motions of looking for something in her handbag, averting her eyes from Quinn. Since they were unrelated members of the opposite sex-as well as accomplices in the killing of the Mutawwa’in-it was best they not be seen conversing in public.

“That is the building you seek,” she whispered. “I believe it to be a place of great evil. As you say… an abomination in the sight of Allah.”

Jericho let his eyes play around the campus. Students were beginning to move now between classes. Though King Faisal University prided itself on offering an education to women, the lack of female students walking the red tile paths was sobering. The crowds of men wore the red checked ghutra headdress and the ubiquitous white Saudi gown known as a thobe in the Kingdom. Only a handful of women moved between the somber buildings, always separate from the men, all covered from head to toe in formless black abayas.

Too much salt, not enough pepper, Quinn thought.

Jericho shooed Huwaidah away with the flick of his hand. It was too dangerous for her to loiter nearby. He had no way of knowing if the skinny-minded Tawfiq hadn’t marched straight to the authorities. He would have to hope the threat of a lash or even the boy’s own beheading for his part in the killings might dissuade Tawfiq from talking. It couldn’t be helped.

Alone now, Quinn stood in the shade of the date palm for a long while, making notes in a small Moleskine notebook while he studied the building in front of him, considering his options. Everyone took notes on a college campus, so passersby didn’t give him a second look.

The northernmost set of stables was connected to the main building by a covered walkway of arched stucco, to provide shade between the barn and Farooq’s lab. The horses would, at the very least, give Quinn some plausible excuse for being in the area.

Ten minutes later, he found himself alone as he loafed outside the paddocks. He leaned against the pipe fencing and rested the sole of his dusty shoe on the bottom rail. He didn’t have to pretend to admire a dapple gray mare with an almost feline arch to her graceful neck while he scanned the area for surveillance equipment. He spotted two cameras immediately, one tucked under the eaves of the main barn, the other on a post beside the covered walkway leading to the main building that he was sure held Farooq’s lab. He saw no cameras around the building itself, but felt sure they were there. A place that manufactured biotoxins capable of killing jumbo jets full of people would be bristling with security, even in a country as insulated as the Saudi Kingdom.

In fact, Quinn was counting on it.

When no guards approached him by the paddocks, he decided to explore the barns. In the shade and relative comfort of the alleyway, Quinn found a red Farmall tractor. It was old, flaking with rust, and had been repainted with several cans of spray paint. A quick check behind the tractor revealed a storage closet with another small acetylene cutting torch and several sacks of grass seed. Bags of fertilizer-their main ingredient ammonium nitrate-were stacked head high against the back wall. Quinn grinned at that, thinking of the iodine crystals in the pocket of his dishdasha. Al-Hofuf was situated on the Al-Ahsa oasis, the largest in the world. Though the King Faisal campus itself was dry and dusty, lush fields sprawled for acres to the north and east. The sweet scent of timothy hay and ripening wheat hung heavy on the superheated air.

Jericho had his head in the doorway of the storage room when the first guard approached him from behind.

“I do not know you,” the man challenged, ordering Quinn to back out of the room. He was young, no older than thirty, and wore a wrinkled white shirt and khaki pants instead of the traditional thobe. “What is your business here?”

“I have come to purchase a horse for my farm near Kuwait City,” Quinn said, the Arabic rolling off his tongue like a native. He reached into the pocket of his dishdasha. “I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Othman.”

“Stop!” The guard raised a stubby revolver that looked as if it hadn’t been fired or cleaned for some years. Still, Quinn saw no reason to test it-for the moment.

“Please forgive me if I have done something wrong.” He let his eyes play up and down the shadowed barn, acting frightened to put the young guard at ease. He was certain the man wasn’t alone. See one; think two — the mantra had kept him alive more than once over the years.

Moments later another guard stepped from the shadows of a nearby stall, proving Quinn’s suspicions correct. This was the senior of the two, pushing fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a bulbous, sneering nose and deep-set eyes that challenged and accused everything before them. He wore the same uniform of his partner but appeared to have little of his patience.

“Your name?” he shouted in a tight-throated squawk. Flecks of spit popped from chapped lips at each word. This man had a pistol of his own, a black semiauto Jericho recognized as a Beretta nine millimeter. It looked to be in much more functional condition than the revolver. “Tell me your name!”

If he was to be shot, this would be the one to shoot him. Quinn had no doubt about that. But his demeanor was jumpy, weak. An overly loud voice said he was unsure of himself. That made him at once dangerous and vulnerable. In any battle situation, Quinn subconsciously sorted adversaries in order of possible lethality and weakness-a kind of target progression. The yelling spitter had just earned the number-one spot.

“I am from Kuwait City,” Quinn stammered in halting Arabic, hoping it made him sound more frightened than foreign. “My name is Al Dashti. I have a letter from Mr. Othman to look at your horses-”

“I know of no Othman,” the spitter said.

The younger guard looked at his partner. “Ramzi Othman,” he said. “He sees to the stables for the university.”

Quinn nodded. “As I said.” He pointed to his pocket. “I have a letter.”

“Shut up. You are not in the university stables. You are on private property. We have nothing to do with any Othman or the school. We have no horses to sell to anyone from Kuwait and have no need of any letter.”