Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘They said that his liver turned into pâté.’

‘That could only happen in the United States. The country with the fattest people in the world. You know it uses up to 87 per cent of the world’s resources.’

Nazim didn’t say anything. He had been born an American, but a different kind of American. He hadn’t learned to hate his country, even though his lips said otherwise. To him, Kharouf’s hatred of the United States seemed too all-encompassing. He would prefer to imagine the President kneeling and facing Mecca in the Oval Office than see the White House destroyed by fire. One time he had said something of the sort to Kharouf and Kharouf had shown him a CD containing photos of a small girl. They were photos of a crime scene.

‘The Israeli soldiers raped and killed her in Nablus. There isn’t enough hatred in the world for such a thing.’

Remembering the images made Nazim’s blood boil too, but he tried to keep such thoughts out of his head. In contrast to Kharouf, hatred was not the source of his energy. His motivations were selfish and twisted; they were about getting something for himself. His prize.

Days before, when they had gone into the offices of Netcatch, Nazim had barely been conscious of anything. In a certain way he felt bad because the two minutes they had spent wiping out the kafirun [2] had almost been erased from his head. He had tried to remember what had happened, but it was as if they were somebody else’s memories, like the crazy dreams in the chic-flicks his sister liked, in which the main character sees herself from the outside. Nobody has dreams in which they see themselves from the outside.

‘Kharouf.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘Remember what happened last Tuesday?’

‘Are you talking about the operation?’

‘Right.’

Kharouf looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.

‘Every detail.’

Nazim looked away because he felt ashamed of what he was going to say.

‘I… I don’t remember too much, you know?’

‘You should thank Allah, blessed be his name. The first time I killed someone I couldn’t sleep for a week.’

‘You?’

Nazim opened his eyes wide.

Kharouf tousled the young man’s hair playfully.

‘That’s right, Nazim. You’re a jihadist now and we’re equals. Don’t be so surprised that I went through tough times too. It’s sometimes hard to act as God’s sword. But you have been blessed with being able to forget the ugly details. The only thing left for you is pride in what you’ve done.’

The young man felt much better than he had in the last few days. He was quiet for a while, saying a prayer of thanks. He felt the sweat trickling down his back but didn’t dare turn on the car’s engine so that he could put on the air-conditioning. The wait began to feel endless.

‘Are you sure he’s in there? I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Nazim, pointing to the wall that surrounded the estate. ‘Don’t you think we should look elsewhere?’

2Disbelievers, according to the Koran.

Kharouf thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to look. How long did we follow him? A month? He only came here once, and was loaded down with packages. He went out with nothing in his hands. That house is empty. For all we know, it could belong to a friend and he was doing him a favour. But it’s the only link we have, and we have you to thank for finding it.’

This was true. On one of the days that Nazim had to follow Watson on his own, the guy had started acting strangely, switching lanes on the highway, and taking a route back home that was completely different to the one he usually took. Nazim had turned up the volume on the radio and imagined he was a character in Grand Theft Auto , the popular video game in which the main character is a criminal who has to carry out missions such as kidnapping, killing, drug dealing and fleecing prostitutes. There was a part of the game in which you had to follow a car that was trying to get away. It was one of his favourite parts, and what he had learned helped him in following Watson.

‘Do you think he knows about us?’

‘I don’t think he even knows anything about Huqan , but I’m sure our leader has good reason to want him dead. Pass me the bottle. I have to piss.’

Nazim passed him a two-litre bottle. Kharouf unzipped his trousers and urinated inside. They had several empty bottles so that they could relieve themselves discreetly inside the car. It was better putting up with the hassle and throwing the bottles out later than having someone notice them pissing in the street or going into one of the local bars.

‘You know what? To hell with this,’ Kharouf said grimacing. ‘I’ll get rid of this bottle in the alley and then we’ll go look for him in California at his mother’s house. To hell with everything.’

‘Wait, Kharouf.’

Nazim was pointing at the gate of the estate. A delivery man on a motorcycle was ringing the bell. Seconds later someone appeared.

‘He’s there! You see, Nazim, I told you. Congratulations!’

Kharouf was excited. He slapped Nazim on the back. The boy felt happy and nervous at the same time, as if a hot wave and a cold wave were colliding deep inside him.

‘Excellent, kid. We’re finally going to finish what we started.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Saturday, 15 July 2006. 2:34 a.m.

Harel woke up startled by Andrea’s screams. The young reporter was sitting on top of her sleeping bag, grabbing her leg as she cried out.

‘God, it hurts!’

The first thing Harel thought was that Andrea had got cramp while she slept. She jumped up, turned on the infirmary lights and grabbed hold of Andrea’s leg in order to massage it.

It was then that she saw the scorpions.

There were three of them, at least three that had come out of the sleeping bag and were running around crazily with their tails up, ready to sting. They were a sickly yellow colour. Terrified, Dr Harel jumped on to one of the examination tables. She was barefoot and thus easy prey.

‘Doc, help me. Oh God, my leg’s on fire… Doc! Oh, God!’

Andrea’s cries helped the doctor to channel her fear and think. She couldn’t leave her young friend helpless and suffering.

Let me see. What the hell do I remember about these bastards? They’re yellow scorpions. The girl has twenty minutes at most before things turn ugly. If only one of them stung her, that is. If more than one…

A terrible thought crossed the doctor’s mind. If Andrea was allergic to the scorpion’s poison, she was a goner.

‘Andrea, listen to me very carefully.’

Andrea opened her eyes and looked at her. Lying on her bedding, clutching her leg and staring blankly ahead of her, the girl was clearly in agony. Harel made a superhuman effort to overcome her own paralysing fear of scorpions. It was a natural fear that any Israeli, as she was, born in Beersheba at the edge of the desert, would have learned as a young girl. She tried to put her foot on the floor but couldn’t.

‘Andrea. Andrea, on the list of allergies you gave me, were cardiotoxins included?’

Andrea howled again in pain.

‘How do I know? I carry the list because I can’t remember any more than ten names at a time. Fuuuuuuuuuuck! Doc, get down from there, for God’s sake, or Jehovah’s, or whatever. The pain is worse…’

Harel tried again to master her fear, putting a foot on the floor, and in two leaps she reached her own mattress.

I hope they’re not in here. Please God, don’t let them be in my sleeping bag …