Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

After a moment, Chace said, "If it comes, it'll be D-Ops who tasks it, not us. We just complete the mission, we don't lobby for the action."

"Won't be you, anyway, Chris," Poole said, snagging one of the darts and then quickly scooting his chair back as the missile fell, point down, to the floor. "If they call for a hit, it'll go to Minder One, with me as backup."

"Because I'm the baby?"

Poole grinned at Lankford over his shoulder. "That's right."

"It's academic," Chace interposed. "It'll be weeks before anything is authorized, and that's if anything is authorized. They'll want to be damn sure we're going after the right people before initiating any op."

Lankford's frown deepened. "Then what the hell are we doing here?"

"Nothing productive. If you boys want to shove off, I've no problem with it."

Poole grunted and tilted his chair forward, getting to his feet almost immediately. "You'll tell the Watch?"

Chace nodded.

Poole moved past, fetching his coat from the stand.

"The Boss won't think we're ditching?" Lankford asked.

Chace shook her head. If Crocker had a problem with her turning Poole and Lankford loose, he'd bring it to her, not to them. And Chace doubted that he would have a problem. The fact was, until there was more data, until there was a mission in the offing, the three of them were just killing time. And time didn't seem inclined to die without a struggle, not while all London was still holding its breath.

Lankford hesitated, looked from her to Poole, watching the big man pull on his coat before rising to follow suit.

"For what it's worth," he told Chace, "if he asks, tell him I'll do the job."

"Of course you will, Chris," Chace told him. "That's why you're here." Preoperational Background Leacock, William D. Some nights, before plummeting into his exhausted sleep, Sinan bin al-Baari would stare at the shadowed ceiling of the tent and think about names.

At twenty-two years old, he had already gone through two, not counting the odd handful that had served as covers or other deceptions, or the dozens that had been thrown unkindly in his direction throughout his youth. He had been christened William Leacock, but that name was long dead to him, and when his thoughts did stray to it-something that happened less and less frequently these days-it seemed to him the name of a boy he had known only briefly and had not much liked.

Then he had found Allah and taken the name Shuneal bin Muhammad, as was appropriate to one who had found the True Faith. It was the name he'd used upon reaching Egypt, during the months he'd spent studying in Cairo. It was the student's name, and though he would never be mistaken for an Arab, by that name he was always known as a Muslim. It was that student who had entered his first madrassa, had read ibn Abdul Wahhab's Book of Tawhid. It was that student who had begun collecting the cassette tapes sold outside of mosques throughout Cairo, sermons by the great Wahhabi clerics of Saudi Arabia. In his room, shared with Aamil and six other students, they had listened to the tapes for hours. To the sermons of the late Abdul Aziz bin Baz, to the passion of Sheikh Wajdi Hamzeh al-Ghazawi, to the fury of Sheikh Safar al-Hawali, and, most of all, to the faith of Dr. Faud al-Shimmari.

It was Shuneal bin Muhammad who had first heard jihad described as the Sixth Pillar of Islam. It was Shuneal bin Muhammad who had nodded his head in agreement at al-Ghazawi's words when his recorded voice said, "Jihad is the peak of Islam."

It was Shuneal bin Muhammad who, with Aamil and two others, had begun lurking in the mosques and cafes of Cairo in the vain hope of making contact with some member of the Jamaat al-Islamiyya. But although Shuneal bin Muhammad was a Muslim, even perhaps a Wahhabist, he was not, and would never be, an Egyptian. After three months of fruitless attempts at contact, it had been a lean and quiet man named el-Sayd who had explained it to him in the back of a Cairo cafe, off Sharia Muski, in the Islamic Quarter.

"We fight to free our country," el-Sayd had said quietly. "We fight to overthrow this government of mushrikun, to make Egypt a true Islamic state. That is not your fight, Shuneal, and you have no place in it."

"I want to be a jihadi," Shuneal had answered in his best Arabic, the tongue finally beginning to sound natural on his lips. "I am a Muslim, and I must follow all the teachings, and you would deny me the Sixth Pillar of our faith. If you will not take me, where do I go?"

El-Sayd had started to answer, then bitten it back, instead finishing his coffee. Shuneal bin Muhammad had waited, unmoving in his seat, staring. Aamil, seated beside him, seemed to barely breathe.

"Continue your studies," el-Sayd had said finally. "Be true in your faith. Allah, all praise to Him, will provide a way."

And with that, Shuneal and Aamil were escorted out of the cafe, to return to the madrassa with their disappointment.

Less than a week later, the imam of the school spoke to Shuneal and Aamil after isha', the evening prayer.

"You are favored," he told them both. "Prince Salih bin Muhammad bin Sultan, may Allah watch and keep him, has offered to bring certain of our students to Madinah, that they may make the Hajj. You have both been chosen." • Sponsorship for the Hajj wasn't unusual, but Shuneal felt fortunate nonetheless. To properly perform the Fifth Pillar-to make the pilgrimage to Makkah-was to guarantee one's entry into Paradise, the desire of every Muslim. That Shuneal and Aamil had found a benefactor was remarkable; that such good fortune fell upon them at such a young age was extraordinary. There were millions who, in their lives, would never have the opportunity to see Makkah, to walk in the Prophet's shadow, prevented by either poverty or other provenance.

Near the end of January, Shuneal and Aamil flew from Cairo to Madinah in a private jet, supplied by Prince Salih bin Muhammad bin Sultan. Eighteen others traveled with them, young madrassa students like themselves, gathered from other schools in Egypt, Tunisia, and Sudan.

The jet was like nothing Shuneal had ever experienced, and it spoke loudly of the Prince's generosity and wealth, from the walnut-inlaid fixtures to the thick red carpeting on the floor and the marble-topped counters in the bathroom. They sat on comfortable couches and in overstuffed chairs, and Aamil drove the blood from his hands as he clutched the armrests of his seat when the plane climbed into the air, and Shuneal realized he had never flown before.

At the airport, they were met by a guide from the Prince himself. He escorted them to an air-conditioned coach, then drove them to a private home in Madinah. There they were given rooms to share and a meal to eat, then taken to Masjid al-Nabee, the Mosque of the Holy Prophet, for prayers and the recitation of ziyrat. Kneeling toward Makkah, so close to the Holy City, Shuneal found it impossible to clear his head, to focus on his worship. Here, where it was said that one prayer was worth more than a thousand prayers offered anywhere else, except in Makkah, he felt insincere, and the more he fought his mind to concentrate and focus, the more obsessed with his thoughts he became.

After the mosque, they returned to their lodgings, to settle in for the night. There were rumors that Prince Salih would be coming to greet them, to receive their thanks, and Shuneal imagined the encounter, practicing the different things he might say. He wanted to make a good impression, to show that he was humble and sincere, that he was grateful for this opportunity to mark his place in Paradise.

But it was not the Prince who came to visit them that night at all, but a man named Abdul Aziz. He arrived late, nearly one in the morning, and of the sixteen students in the house, all were asleep and had to be awakened. They were brought into the dining room of the home, told to sit on the floor and to listen.