A Gentleman's Game

25

Saudi Arabia-Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan 14 September 2000 Local (GMT+3.00) "This is Nia," Abdul Aziz told Sinan. "Nia is shahid."

Sinan tried to hide his displeasure. It had nothing to do with the woman's desire to be shahid; he held the martyrs in the highest regard and remembered them always in his prayers. It had nothing to do with her manner, or her bearing, or even her appearance, veiled and garbed as was appropriate. He could even forgive her presence in the camp without a blood relation to watch over her. She was proper and respectful and Abdul Aziz called her shahid, which perhaps was overzealous, since the woman had not martyred herself yet, but otherwise there was nothing wrong with Nia that Sinan could see, nothing he could articulate to himself.

But Sinan did not like her here, and he didn't like the fact that Abdul Aziz was presenting her to him like this.

Nia bent her head slightly. The sunlight falling through the camouflage netting that ran in great swaths above them played with the eyes, made the bright brighter, the shade murkier. Sinan couldn't tell her age but guessed she had to be younger than twenty. She was small, too, and carried herself small, so the ultimate effect was that of a black-cloaked, vaguely female-shaped ghost, floating just beyond Abdul Aziz's shoulder.

"Salaam alaykum," Sinan said.

"Wa 'alaykum is-salam," Nia answered, and it was almost inaudible behind the veil.

Abdul Aziz said, "Sinan and Matteen were at the Great Mosque, outside, when the murders took place. It was Sinan who realized the evil that had been done, and it was Sinan who raised the alarm."

Nia raised her head slightly. Above the veil and below the cowl of her abaya, Sinan could see her eyes, large and expressive, the soft brown of warm wood. When she realized that he was looking at her in return, she hastily dropped her gaze.

"They should die for what they have done," she whispered.

Sinan thought the sentiment devoid of any venom, as if the girl were only repeating a line as it had been taught to her. It probably had, at that. There were some thirty other recent arrivals since Saturday, mostly men, but a handful of women just like Nia. Palestinians who had been undergoing instruction in the various Hamas-controlled mosques, all of them learning the glory and purpose of becoming shahid.

Sinan didn't know how their travel had been organized so quickly, or who Abdul Aziz had contacted to bring it to pass, and he didn't care. Once upon a time, Matteen had explained to him, this camp had held a splinter of the Harakat ul-Mujihadin, but then Abdul Aziz had asserted his control. Now, instead of training them to fight in their own lands, Abdul Aziz had decided to take the fight into the homes of their enemies.

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.