Six Seconds

26

Karachi, Pakistan

Lights of the megalopolis glittered against the Arabian Sea as Samara’s jet from Yemen landed at Jinnah Inter national Airport.

A forger from Istanbul had been well-paid by Samara’s sponsors to produce the required travel documents. The caliber of his work allowed her to pass easily through im migration as a British nurse with a global relief agency.

The next morning, before dawn, two men from the agency arrived at Samara’s hotel-room door. They were Egyptian chemistry engineers who’d studied in Ger many. They loaded her bags into their four-by-four, saying little as they began their long drive without re vealing the destination to her.

After leaving Karachi’s sprawl, Samara noted the cities they passed-Uthal, Bela, and Khuzdar.

As the road descended into the plains to Surab, Samara scanned the vistas that stretched for miles, as if searching for herself. The vastness underscored her sense of emptiness. She confirmed her vow to accept whatever they set before her.

Samara knew from maps she’d studied on the flight that their northern route paralleled the porous border with Afghanistan to the west. Its rugged terrain was threaded with hidden roads used by smugglers, drug dealers and refugees.

By sundown they had arrived at a camp of outbuild ings hidden in the hills close to the Urak Valley over looking Quetta.

The city twinkled at her feet.

She was taken to her private quarters in a small clay house, to a room no bigger than a cell consisting of a sleeping mat, gas lamp and footlocker. Exhausted, Samara slept for a few hours before she was called to predawn prayers.

Apart from armed guards and instructors, a dozen people were in her group, including three other women. One from Oman, one from Syria, another from the Philippines. While Samara’s face bore her loss, the faces of the women burned with righteous devotion. However, it would not be long before Samara’s face was indistinguishable from the others.

After prayers, they were led in training exercises. “For your protection as relief workers in dangerous zones.” An instructor smiled.

They learned self-defense, how to kill an attacker using a knife or a pencil. A loaded automatic rifle was placed in her hands. She was taught to shoot by firing at a dummy. The gun was surprisingly light but the recoil nearly knocked her down.

Later on, during classroom sessions in a small mess hall, theoretical operations and procedures were dis cussed, such as how to ID a U.S. Air Marshal. Weeks passed with the same routine.

Then a rumor floated through the camp.

Someone important had arrived.

That evening, Samara was taken to a secret site, deeper and higher in the hills, where they were escorted by heavily armed guards to a small encampment.

She was introduced to a handful of older men, sitting at a campfire drinking tea. As the flames lit their faces and embers swirled into the sky, they talked quietly for several moments until one stood and embraced Samara.

“Welcome, sister.” His garments smelled of jas mine. Then he held her in his sad, tired eyes. “We know of your suffering. We know of the violations. You honor your family by fulfilling your destiny. Come, share our tea and we’ll tell you something of your purpose.”

He explained how through religious groups and international relief agencies, Samara had been recom mended for a nursing job in a remote American com munity that faced chronic shortages of medical staff. Soon, she would be dispatched to the U.S. to be inter viewed for working and living there.

The man encouraged Samara to blend in with Ameri cans, find an American boyfriend, he shrugged, even marry, while she awaited instructions for her mission.

“Where am I going?”

“Montana.”

“Why there?”

The man looked to a colleague who held several files. One contained a printout from the Web site of Father Stone’s newsletter. The one that had given Wash

Six Seconds 169 ington concern because it had prematurely announced the pope’s upcoming visit to Lone Tree County.

“It is with great joy that we can confirm the Holy Father will visit Cold Butte.”

But the man didn’t offer Samara many details about what she was destined for in Montana.

“It will become obvious to you when you arrive.”

It would take several weeks, months in fact, before all was finalized. Until then, Samara would work with a relief group in Iraq, building credibility for her job in the United States.

“So, we will work and we will wait,” he told her. “Your American operation, like many others we have designed, is being reviewed. The instrument you require will be delivered to you in the U.S. at the ap pointed time. Others will be there to help you. Still others will watch over and protect the operation, unseen at every stage unless it is compromised and must be aborted.

“Your mission, above all else, will change history. It will mark the end to centuries of oppression and hu miliation inflicted by the nonbelievers.”

His eyes bore into hers.

“For you, this sacrifice will guarantee you and your family eternal happiness in paradise. Sister, now, with all that has been thrust upon you, do you accept that it has been preordained?”

Samara fought her tears and nodded.

Again, he embraced her.

In darkness, guided by flashlights, she was taken through the hills, back to the camp and her room.

Lying on her mat, by the pale light of her lantern, Samara stared at photographs of Ahmed, Muhammad, her mother and father.

Tears rolled down her face.

Soon they would be together again.