Marc Cameron - National Security

Hamzah Abdul Haq ran-not for his life, but, Allah willing, to choose a less agonizing manner in which to die.

The hulking Algerian bolted down the long, arched hallway, heart pounding, lungs rasping for breath. Cheap, rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the cracked tile as he dodged startled pockets of tourists. A stinking vagrant-the airport was full of filthy people-sprawled across the floor directly in his path, but fear made Hamzah agile as well as fast and he darted around the derelict without losing any of his precious lead.

If the men chasing the Algerian had known what he had tucked in his huge fist they would have ignored the crowd and shot him on the spot.

Since 9/11 when people saw Hamzah with his sullen eyes and wild, black goatee they naturally assumed he was a terrorist-a man on a sacred quest to destroy everything Western democracy represented. The American mall bombings had set nerves on edge. Commercial planes were only now beginning to be allowed back into U.S. airspace. Terrorists, they reasoned, lurked behind every shrub.

In Hamzah’s particular case, these suspicions were correct.

Standing six feet four inches with the broad shoulders of a professional wrestler, the Algerian cut an imposing figure. The French girls with whom he spent his time called him armoire a glace — the mirrored wardrobe. His great bulk proved useful for bending others to his will or hurting them if the opportunity arose. At the moment, he would have traded size for more speed. This was his last run, but, Allah willing, it was the most important of his life.

Two officers of the French Police Nationale dogged his heals. Dark jumpsuits and shoulder patches identified them as Black Panthers-members of Recherche Assistance Intervention Dissuasion or RAID. As members of an elite antiterrorism unit they had their choice of weapons. These carried Glock semiautomatic pistols and the stubby, but deadly H amp;K MP5 submachine gun. RAID operators were said to shoot more than three hundred rounds each day and were all expert marksmen. The crowded terminal and their misguided desire to keep him alive for questioning were indeed the only things saving him from a bullet in the back of the head.

In desperation, Hamzah cut in front of a yellow kiosk selling computerized foreign language courses. Unawares, a petite woman with blond braids pushed a baby stroller directly across his path. Her ribs crunched as he drove the point of his shoulder into her chest. The impact sent her crashing against a billboard with a sickening whoof. Hamzah yanked at the stroller as he bolted past, spilling a tangle of infant and blankets across the floor.

He held a feeble hope the officers would stop and check on the baby’s safety, but a glance tossed over his shoulder confirmed what he already knew. RAID men were too professional for such a trick. They sailed over the dazed woman and her screaming child like Olympic hurdlers with automatic weapons.

A stately, graying gentleman dressed in the tweed sport coat of a university professor stepped from a bank of phones in an attempt to block the fleeing Algerian. He got a flat hand to the face for his trouble. His glasses shattered and he dropped to his knees.

Hamzah’s heart sank as boots closed in behind him. Was it Allah’s will that he should fail when he was now so close? Something had gone terribly wrong for RAID to be on him so fast. Someone must have informed.

Panting for breath, the Algerian rounded a bend at the great hall, near the main ticketing plaza. He felt a rush of wind as a RAID man swept at his neck.

Then, he saw his target, right where Rashid said he would be. Five more seconds, Allah willing, and nothing else would matter.

Ian Grant readjusted his tattered yellow backpack and took a look at his ticket. At nineteen he was already a seasoned world traveler, visiting places his friends back in Iowa had only seen in National Geographic. Charles de Gaulle Airport had fast become his least favorite spot on earth. Notoriously difficult to negotiate, even in September it was as muggy as a West African jungle and stunk like an overflowing toilet. Now it was packed with stranded travelers trying to get back to the States after a three-day flight embargo because of some stupid terrorists bombing a mall. He missed Africa already.

The flight from Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire, the night before had been grueling. Before the cramped plane had lumbered down the tarmac, two haughty flight attendants had hustled down the center aisle, liberally applying the contents of two aerosol insecticide bombs into the already dank air over the passengers’ heads. The smug women wore masks, but assured everyone else that the stuff was perfectly safe. Ian could plainly see a skull and crossbones on the orange cans. Twenty-four hours later, his T-shirt still reeked. It was a reminder of the many idiosyncrasies of the Dark Continent.

A year of sleeping on a reed mat and eating meals small enough to hold in the palm of his hand made civilization overwhelming. Small luxuries at the cheap hostel in Roissy the night before had been startling-light with the flick of a switch, a hot shower, and more food in one sitting than he’d been used to eating in a week. It gave him a melancholy pang at how he’d taken his entire life for granted.

Clarissa had warned him about that the night before he left. She was twenty-five and freckled. A Protestant missionary, she was severely British and said whatever popped into her head.

Ian would never understand why a girl like Clarissa had taken up with someone like him. Six years her junior, he was all knees and elbows, with a perpetual bedhead of muddy brown hair. He was blind as an African fruit bat without his glasses, and his front teeth were on the big side.

With thoughts of Clarissa’s herbal shampoo swirling in his head like a hot African wind, he didn’t see the huge Arab until it was too late.

The tiny device in Hamzah’s fist was called a cat’s whisker. Roughly two inches long, it was nothing more than a hollow cellulose needle, sealed at both ends and housed inside a slightly larger cardboard tube with a plunger at the base. Once inserted into the body via the plunger, the inner needle would dissolve rapidly, releasing its contents into the bloodstream. It held little more liquid than a single drop of dew.

In this case, a drop was more than enough.

Ian’s iced coffee spewed like a geyser as the massive Algerian ploughed into him from out of nowhere. Both men went down hard, the Algerian on top, driving the air from Ian’s lungs.

The giant regained his feet in an instant, running again. Ian watched the soles of two black boots as a uniformed policeman leaped over him, only to slip in a puddle of spilled coffee. Another officer yanked his partner to his feet and the two tore down the hall cursing in French.

Ian shook his head as the trio disappeared around a corner beyond ticketing. He felt as if he’d been run over by a train. When he lifted the front of his coffee-soaked T-shirt he found the beginnings of an ugly bruise on his right side. He touched the spot with the tip of his finger. It was raw, like a bad carpet burn. The big guy must have led with his fist.

Ian grabbed a fistful of paper napkins from a nearby cafe stand and dabbed his shirt while he ordered another iced coffee. A veteran of West Africa, he’d endured far worse than a little bruise.

0126 hours Iraq

The sounds of an American M4 assault rifle were distinctive-a friendly series of flat, supersonic whacks splitting the air-and hopefully the hearts and minds of more than a few Iraqi insurgents.

Sizzling arcs from falling Star Cluster flares illuminated the night sky to Jericho’s left, past the motorcycle he’d stashed under a scraggly tamarisk tree. Male voices barked commands in English and guttural Iraqi Arabic. Moments before, a U.S. Army Cavalry “Peacekeeping Unit” had blazed through the streets in hot pursuit of two rusty Toyota Land Cruisers and an Opal sedan that supposedly carried several high-ranking insurgent leaders. The sounds of shouts and shooting moved four blocks away, then five, then six as American soldiers, many no older than twenty-one, ducked and dodged through dark, narrow streets and bombed-out buildings in this the City of Mosques.