Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

It was a sentiment that Sinan embraced, and one he was eager to support.

The presence, then, of this shahid only served to confuse him, and Abdul Aziz's need to introduce Nia to him compounded that.

As if sensing the discomfort, Abdul Aziz grunted. "Wait for me here," he told Sinan, then moved off, escorting Nia back to the women's tent.

Sinan felt the tension leave him as he did. He turned to the small tent he shared with Matteen and four others, sat on his bedroll, laying his rifle beside him. He was tired, a deep fatigue that had sunk to the bone and that had come from the flurry of activity in the wake of the Prince's murder.

They had raised the alarm at once, Sinan and Matteen, shouting in their grief and alarm, until other voices joined theirs, echoing their outrage and disbelief. Sinan had shoved his way through the crowd, desperate to find the barefoot killer, to choke the life from her with his bare hands. With Matteen at his heels, they had raced out of the Great Mosque back onto the street, searching for a glimpse of the kufr woman, just a hint of the animal who had committed this incredible blasphemy. They had run down the maze of streets in the Old City, shouting for help, fueled by their grief. But the search was immediately impaired, none of them willing to accost the women they saw, to rip the veils from their faces, and each woman they approached would look away, and it was universal behavior, modesty rather than guilt, and Sinan's frustration had been so great he had actually screamed aloud with it.

It was Matteen who had seen the blood trail, and they had followed it as best they could, losing it every few dozen feet in the dust before finding another thin line of it and pushing forward again. Near the San'a' Palace Hotel they had lost the trail entirely and begun searching stall to stall, house to house, only to be refused entry at most. A Western woman, they had asked, have you seen her?

Yes, we've seen Western women, they were told. I sold a jambiya to one, a rug to another, a scarf to a third.

Then Sinan had found a group of men, seated on crates and stools, chewing qat in the shade, and one had said, "There was the limping woman…"

"Where?" Sinan had demanded.

The man had smiled, the bulge of qat in his cheek the size of a tennis ball, and indicated the entrance to the hotel across the street.

"When?"

"Not long ago. She had blond hair. Modestly dressed, but her hair was uncovered."

The other men had laughed, nodded, remembering, and Sinan had left Matteen to further the questioning, rushing into the hotel, reinvigorated with the news, anxious in his search. When he saw the dirty smear of blood and dirt outside the bathroom threshold on the first story, he'd taken his Kalashnikov off his shoulder and made it ready in his hands. He had burst through, into the room, already certain what he would do. He wouldn't kill her, no, he would wound her, wound her so that she would live, so he and Matteen could drag her back, so proper justice could be delivered.

But the bathroom had been empty, and he had found the discarded veil and hijab wrapped in their balta, and that was all. He had snatched them up, run back onto the street, nearly colliding with Matteen there.

"She's gone," Matteen had reported. "They say she took a taxi. They know the driver, they gave me his name."

Sinan had shown Matteen the clothes, and together they had searched them right there in the street, much to the amusement of the men who watched them, chewing their qat. They'd found nothing but two pieces of adhesive tape stuck inside the balta's arms. Eventually the two men made their way back to the Great Mosque, rejoining the others, who had summoned the police. A crowd had gathered, was continuing to swell, bubbling with outrage and anger at the murders, and more police were coming in response. Matteen started the SUV and Sinan climbed in, and they had to go in reverse to get clear. As they were turning, Sinan looked back in time to see a young man in the crowd hurl a rock at one of the police, others bending to do the same.

They left as the riot began. • Abdul Aziz ducked under the flap of the tent, gesturing for Sinan to stay seated, joining him on the rug.

"Zulfaqar says you are good with your hands, Sinan. He says you learned the explosives quickly, that you understand how to make a bomb."

"Zulfaqar is generous," Sinan said. "He is a good teacher, and Allah, in His wisdom, makes me a good student."

"The woman. You still don't think she was Israeli."

"American," Sinan said firmly. "Or English."

"No one else thinks as you do. They believe it was the apes who did this."

"She had blond hair."

"There are Israelis with blond hair."

Sinan shrugged. "She was pale."

"You hardly saw her skin."

"I saw her foot. It was pale, Aziz. No Israeli would be that pale."

Abdul Aziz seemed to consider this for a few seconds, then shook his head slightly, making his kuffiyah rustle. "No matter. We will act the same."

"Why did you bring that… that girl to meet me?" Sinan asked.

"Not you to meet Nia, Sinan. Nia to meet you. You will help her become shahid."

Sinan tried to keep the confusion from his face.

"You and Matteen together," Abdul Aziz continued. "Nia will wear the bomb. You and Matteen will make certain she delivers it, and delivers herself to Paradise."

"Delivers it where?"

"Cairo."

This time, the confusion could not be hidden, and Abdul Aziz smiled thinly at Sinan's bewilderment.

"The British Embassy will be the primary target. The American Embassy is only a block away from it. That is the secondary target. You and Matteen will take Nia to Cairo, and you and Matteen will help her on her journey to Paradise."

"When?"

"Soon, Sinan." Abdul Aziz got to his feet. "Soon. We will talk more of this later."

"I look forward to it."

"God is great."

"God is great," Sinan agreed, and watched as Abdul Aziz stepped back onto the field of shadow and light outside the tent. He lay back on his bedroll, looking up at the canvas ceiling, feeling the day's heat wrapping itself around him, its weight and the stillness of the air inside the tent. If he listened hard, he could hear the serious voices from the classroom tent, the teachings, the lectures.

Now he heard Dr. Faud's voice, crackled and distorted through the speakers as one of his sermons played on cassette. Sinan knew the words of it by heart, having played it many times himself. Once the imam's words had roused him, inflamed him, spurred him to action.

Today they sparked flames of a different sort. Maybe it had been the Zionists who had murdered Faud, as so many believed, or maybe it had been the Great Satan, the Americans, or their dogs, the British. It didn't matter.

Nia would be the start, just the start.

Whoever it had been, he'd make them burn.

London-Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops 15 September 1758 GMT Kate stuck her head into Crocker's office and said the three words that never failed to make a good day bad and a bad day even worse. He'd just finished vetting the last reports for the final in-house distribution of the day, and was shoving the little paperwork he had remaining into his document bag, wondering how bad his commute home would be tonight. The Bakerloo Line had returned to full service Sunday night, and with it running again, he'd allowed himself to imagine reaching his family before they'd moved on to dessert.

"We have trouble," Kate said.

He froze in midaction, looking instinctively at the files in his bag. "Trouble" could mean many things in this office. If it came from the Duty Operations Officer over the red phone, it meant something, somewhere, had gone horribly wrong. An operation had been compromised, an agent had died, a spy plane had gone down, a bomb had blown up. Something that required adrenaline.