Jihad

CHAPTER 145

Dabir stared at his face in the mirror. His cheeks looked very pale, paler than he had noticed this morning at the hotel.

The people at the gate bothered him, asking questions as they double-checked tickets. And one of the passengers — a tall man, well built, with a ruddy complexion — had eyed him surreptitiously as he joined the line. Were they FBI agents? CIA? Did they suspect something?

There was nothing tangible to indicate something was amiss, just his apprehensions. But Dabir had survived many years thanks to his instincts, and he would rather rearrange his plans than run the risk of being caught.

He stared again at the mirror, then slowly ran his forefinger over his left cheekbone.

Just tired, he thought. It would pass.

There was no reason to fear. He had killed the traitor. If he did not board now, it would be difficult to obtain another ticket. Besides, since he’d already checked in, his absence might raise alarms.

Dabir stared into the face of his reflection, noticing the blood at the comer of his left eye for the first time.

He held his hands out to pray.

“Take away my fear,” he said softly. Then he started for the door.