Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

He moved away from the wall of photographs, toward one of the couches. Matteen was still engrossed in the match he was watching, and the Saudi who wasn't playing pool was flipping through a magazine. He was one of the veterans, named Jabr, and had been in the camp when Sinan had arrived. Jabr had taken delight in mocking Sinan and Aamil, hazing them as rookies.

At least until Sinan had returned alone.

Jabr stopped on a photo spread of a pale blonde, holding her thighs apart, head back, breasts artificially full and defiant. Beneath her belly, inked into the skin above her shaved opening, was a red and black tattoo of a valentine's heart.

"Sinan, you ever had one like this?" Jabr asked, raising the magazine. "Back home, you must have fucked one like this, yes?"

Sinan glared at him, shook his head. The magazine was contraband in Saudi Arabia, it shouldn't have even been there. If any of them had been found with such a thing in their possession at the camp, they'd have been beaten, if not killed. In Riyadh, it would lead to prison, or worse.

But here in the Prince's house, it was easy and available, and the hypocrisy made Sinan want to spit.

"Never?" Jabr grinned at him, not believing the answer. "Not even once?"

Sinan shook his head a second time. The room was air-conditioned, the whole house was, heavily so, but he felt himself growing warm, heat crawling along his spine.

He tore the magazine from the man's hands, threw it down on the carpet. Jabr cursed, starting to his feet, fists turning to balls. Sinan swung his Kalashnikov on its strap, bringing the weapon up and into line, trapping the butt against his hip with his forearm, and Jabr stopped cold, looking up the barrel.

The pool game had stopped.

"Sinan, lower that weapon," Abdul Aziz ordered from the bottom of the stairs.

Everyone except Sinan and Jabr turned to look. Jabr didn't because he was still fixed on the gun leveled at him; Sinan didn't because, at first, he hadn't heard the order. Then the words penetrated, and he let his finger return to the trigger guard, and he stepped back from Jabr on the couch, lowering the weapon.

The man in the photographs on the wall was standing beside Aziz, looking at Sinan with delight. "If he needs to shoot him, could he do it outside?"

"He doesn't need to," Aziz said. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It was a misunderstanding, wasn't it, Jabr?"

Jabr, still looking at Sinan, nodded.

"Sinan?"

"Yes."

"So you see, Your Highness," Aziz said. "A misunderstanding, nothing more."

The Prince frowned. "I'm not certain they're the best men for me, for this, if there are misunderstandings of this kind, my friend. You understand my concern."

Abdul Aziz moved into the room, motioning Sinan toward him. Sinan let his rifle rest against his chest once more, on its strap, moving closer as ordered. Aziz put a hand on his shoulder, turned him to face the Prince.

"These are jihadis, Your Highness. They live for one thing alone, to serve Allah, lord of the universe and prayer. They are the sword in Allah's hand, the tip at the end of His arrow. You cannot ask for better."

The Prince adjusted his sunglasses, pursed his lower lip, examining Sinan. His kuffiyah was white, Sinan noted, but the igaal had threads of gold woven into the black wool.

"Tell me your name," the Prince said.

"Sinan bin al-Baari."

"Your Arabic is very good."

"There is no other way to read Qu'ran."

The Prince smiled. "Have you tasted blood, Sinan bin al-Baari? Have you been tested in battle?"

Sinan glanced to Aziz and saw nothing in his expression to indicate that he shouldn't answer. "Not as much as others. More than some."

The Prince's smile broadened. "I like him," he told Abdul Aziz.

"I thought you might, Your Highness."

The Prince used his right hand to indicate Matteen. "You, where are you from?"

Matteen got to his feet before answering. "Gazni, Your Highness."

"Abdul Aziz says you fought alongside my friend at Tora-Bora."

"That was my honor."

"Tell me, did you kill any Americans?"

"Three, Your Highness."

The answer seemed to please the Prince, and he bobbed his head in appreciation, then turned back toward the stairs, again using his right hand, this time to motion at Abdul Aziz. "My friend, come with me."

Abdul Aziz moved back to the foot of the stairs, bent his head to the Prince, listening as the other man spoke. Then Abdul Aziz nodded, turned to face them.

"Jabr, the rest of you, Hazim will lead you back to the truck. Wait for me there."

The three Saudis did as ordered, each bowing to the Prince as they passed him, then making their way up the stairs, following the boy. Abdul Aziz waited until they were gone and the echo of the closing doors above had faded before speaking again.

"His Royal Highness has been of great help to us in the past," Aziz told Sinan and Matteen. "He is our fiercest ally, and we thank Allah daily for his help, and pray daily for his continued health and well-being.

"Now, he asks a favor of us, and we have agreed."

"You two men, you will stay with me for a time, guests in my home," the Prince told Sinan and Matteen. "I have bodyguards, of course, but I will be traveling soon, I hope, and would welcome the company of experienced soldiers like yourselves."

"It shouldn't be more than a month," Abdul Aziz told them.

Sinan tried to keep what he was feeling off his face, certain that he was failing. The thought of remaining in the house, in this place, was a punishment, not a reward. The Prince was an empty shell, he was certain, more interested in appearing to be jihadi than in being one. The photographs on the wall in the same room with pornography and the trappings of Western decadence proved it, if the Prince's manner alone didn't.

Abdul Aziz was watching him, waiting for an answer. His expression left no doubt as to the answer he wanted to hear.

"Of course, Your Highness," Sinan said. "It would be our great honor."

Hampshire-Gosport, Fort Monkton 18 August 0611 GMT Morning fog from the Channel still clung to the grass as Chace made her way out to the shooting range, dressed in baggy sweats and trainers, trying to shake the last sleep from her head. She'd slept poorly and not for long, opting to take the Thunderbolt from London on the off-chance that Crocker would recall her and she'd need to get back in a hurry. She'd left after work, returning home just long enough to gather her mail, change into riding leathers, and stuff a bag with essentials. It had taken her fifty-seven minutes exactly to clear London traffic, still in catastrophic disarray from the lack of tube service. By the time she'd hit the M3, she'd been more than ready to roll the throttle back and just get the hell on with it.

Which was precisely the moment the Thunderbolt chose to break down.

She managed to get the bike and herself towed to a garage in Winchester, but by the time they arrived, the mechanic had left, and no amount of persuasion, cajoling, or pleading had been enough to rouse him from his home. It was all the more infuriating to Chace because she was positive, absolutely positive, that whatever was ailing the Thunderbolt was minor at best, and certainly a quick fix for anyone who knew the first thing about Thunderbolts specifically or even motorcycles in general.

Forced to abandon the bike, she'd switched to rail, catching a train that took her into Portsmouth and then left her on the platform at half past midnight. She'd utterly failed to find a cab, and after debating her options, she'd used her mobile in an attempt to reach Tom Wallace, hoping that he would drop whatever he was doing-say, sleeping-to come and fetch her the rest of the way. But Tom hadn't answered his phone. Even when she let it ring two dozen times.