National Security

CHAPTER 24

“The fat man, Malik gave me very little before he… left.” Zafir pressed the cell phone to his ear with his good hand. “I fear our meeting upset him more than he was able to bear. The boy, on the other hand, proved to be a treasure of knowledge,”

The Bedouin sat on a sun-bleached wooden chair in the scant shade of a café awning. He sipped chai from a chipped ceramic mug as he spoke. Dressed in dark aviator shades, loose cotton shirt, and black slacks, he looked like any one of the hundred other Iraqi men milling around the streets in the war-torn country. All of these men had seen violence — but few relished it as much as Zafir.

“I knew you would be… how shall we put it?… persuasive…” Zafir could hear the sheikh’s smile in his words.

“I am humbled by your confidence.”

“The board is set and the pieces are ready to move into place,” Farooq said. “I am anxious to open our game… unless, of course, you have information that dictates I should do otherwise.”

Zafir fell silent as a platoon of American soldiers — they called themselves Peacekeepers — walked in formation down the dusty street, less than two meters in front of him. They eyed him warily because of his cell phone. Insurgents used cell phones to set off IEDs and holding one in front of an American was a good way to get shot. His throat tightened and he lay the phone down on the bench beside him without a word to Farooq. He took a long, slow breath and forced a smile, waving happily to the passing squad. On the outside he was a picture of calm, a docile lamb wanting nothing more than to comply with the American liberators. Inside, his stomach roiled, aching to cut the throat of the fair-haired boy who brought up the rear. The sheikh’s plan calmed him. The boy and thousands of his kind would die soon enough. In time, even the women of the west — the ones who survived — would find themselves behind the burqa. It was the unquestionable will of Allah.

Only when the American patrol had disappeared around the corner a half a block away did he retrieve the phone. The sheikh was accustomed to such delays and the two resumed where they’d left off.

“Allah willing,” Zafir said, “I am prepared to begin my part.” He knew better than to speak openly on a cell phone. The Americans even listened to each other. Though the chance of them picking up his conversations was slim, it was not impossible.

“You’ve thought it through?” The sheikh was calm, his voice deadpan.

“I have.”

“Then of course you have my blessing,” Farooq said, with an air of finality that surprised even Zafir. There was no going back. Zafir caught a hint of newfound respect in his master’s words — and it caused his chest to swell with pride.

“There is a small problem,” Zafir said. “The boy I spoke with today has been in contact with those who wish to stop your game.”

“From the West?”

Zafir gave an affirmative grunt. “There is one player in particular who bears watching. He may try and visit you. Perhaps I should return—”

“You know that would not be wise.” Farooq chuckled. “We are on a strict timetable now. You have already made your testament. You have everything you need to begin your journey — including more of my trust than I reserve for any other living soul. My friend, I fear the next time we meet will be in the bosom of Allah.”

“Allah willing,” the Bedouin said. “But for now, let me tell you all I know of a man named Jericho…”

After he finished the phone call, Zafir sighed. His master now acted as a friend. It was more than he had dreamed could ever take place. But even as he spoke of fulfilling his destiny in the United States, his satisfaction wilted, dragged down by nagging thoughts of the American whore. She would pay for what she had done. Zafir consoled himself with the fact that he would be the one to exact that payment very, very soon.