National Security

CHAPTER 14

Sheikh Husseini al Farooq gazed serenely through the one-way glass. Small, feminine fingers toyed with the ruby ring on his right pinkie. His long white robe just brushed the marble floor.

“How long?” Zafir, who stood to the sheikh’s immediate right, asked. He kept his head slightly bowed but could still make out the reflection of his master’s waspish face in the tinted glass.

“Mm?” Farooq looked up, startled from a thought.

“How long until they die?”

“Soon,” Farooq said. “If not from the disease, then from dehydration.”

On the other side of the thick partition, a scene from an American horror movie stared back at them. Even Zafir, who’d spilled his share of blood and misery, was repulsed by the sight. Farooq appeared to marvel at it. Five of his test subjects lay in a row of mean cots. The sheets, once white, were filthy, stained in unclotted blood and human filth. The room was now so contaminated, no one, not even Dr. Suleiman, the veterinary scientist Farooq had paid to conduct the experiments, would enter to feed or tend the dying souls.

Zafir mused at the dying people, consoling himself as to what they represented. Three were men — two American hostages and a Shiite pig who deserved the flesh-eating death that now ravaged their bodies. The fourth was a woman, a prostitute from Riyadh. Even the sight of her bleeding from the nose and dull, sightless eyes failed to arouse any sense of pity. The woman’s daughter, a child of seven lay in the bed next to her. Younger than the rest, she’d been stronger, her slight body more adept at fighting the virus. But in the end, it had claimed even her.

There was a microphone inside the lab so Farooq could listen to the moans of the patients. He had it turned off for now, but Zafir could tell by the way the little girl’s shoulders heaved that she was crying. So much the better — a child of corruption deserved no happiness in this world or the world to come.

“What of Malik?” Farooq said, still gazing into the glass. An ever-present grin perked the corners of his mouth.

Zafir nodded in thought. It was his habit to pause for a few moments before answering the sheikh. The fat Iraqi had been talking far too much, this was true. With the recent success of the experiments, they would have no more need of his prisoners… It all seemed simple enough.

“You rewarded Malik well, but you cannot buy the allegiance of such a man. You may only rent it. He has reached the end of his usefulness,” Zafir said.

“We think alike, my brother.” Farooq’s voice buzzed slightly against the glass.

“Shall I bring him here?” Zafir asked. “For the experiments?”

Farooq smirked, shaking his head. “No, I think not. The flood that would come from that fat body would be uncontainable. Kill him and be done with it.”

“I’ll see to it right away,” Zafir said. “Personally.”

Farooq suddenly turned to face him, cocking his head. “Have I not treated you well?”

Zafir knew where this was going. “Much better than this humble Bedouin deserves,” he whispered.

“Then why do you wish to leave us?”

Zafir had prepared himself for this question. He grit his teeth, paused another moment, then answered slowly. “I do not want to leave. But, Allah willing, I wish to play a larger part.”

“If you do this,” Farooq whispered, “your death is a certainty. It is a divine thing to be a martyr in our holy struggle, my friend, but you are needed here.” He wagged a slender finger. “I am informed you have news of the woman in Texas.”

Zafir sighed, deep within himself. There was little Farooq did not know.

The sheikh pressed the issue. “Is it because of the American you wish to play such a role in the game?”

Zafir shook his head, slowly. “No.” It was the first time he’d lied to his master. The very thought of what the woman had done boiled in his stomach.

Of course it was because of her.

Farooq’s thin lips parted, but he waved the idea away as if it was a bothersome fly and started again. “I have no quarrel with you going to America — and I certainly find no fault in seeking your pound of flesh from the infidel woman. But, when you are finished, return to me, where you are needed… I see no point in your playing the role of the pawn when you could stand here, beside me.”

Zafir bowed his head. “I will do as you wish… as I have for these many years. But you now know my heart. I am weary of watching others punish the Americans for their insolence. Allah willing, I might be of a greater service in my master’s game.”

The sheikh nodded slowly, pondering. He put an index finger to the glass, pointing to the Riyadh prostitute. She was no more than twenty-five but looked twice that. “See how the woman bears her agony in silence. She is the bravest of them all.”

“Perhaps she has lost her mind,” Zafir said. “If she could see how her child suffers she would not be so brave.”

“Perhaps,” Farooq said. “Yes, perhaps that is it.” He looked up. “Let us consider your request after Salat ul Isha. I will think better after prayers.”

“I leave for Iraq tonight then.” Zafir withdrew a half step, waiting as always for the sheikh to dismiss him.

“I understand our Iraqi friend is close to a certain university student in Fallujah,” Farooq said, smoothing his thin goatee with boney fingertips. “We are, as they say in chess, at the endgame, Allah willing. The Americans must not learn too much until the time is right. Pay the boy a visit as well. Find out what he knows.”

“As you wish,” Zafir said. He looked forward to the task. The methods he used to obtain information would be a pleasant diversion from thoughts of the infidel whore — until he could go to Texas and settle things with her as they should have been settled long ago.