by Al Pessin
Bridget sighed, and her shoulders slumped. Now she felt guilty about her dinner with Carter. But that was silly. It was just dinner. He was just an acquaintance, a colleague of sorts.
Anyway, she was tired, not in the mood for a talk about Will’s injuries and how awful his day was, or even how much he missed her.
Bridget had only been in the crucible of the war zone for a couple of weeks, but she already felt that familiar detachment from the real world—the feeling that this was the only world that was truly real. She’d only called her parents once, falling back into her old pattern. Her father called it the Black Hole Effect.
She got up and went to her trailer. Tomorrow, she’d tell Will she had already been in bed when his message came in.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Al-Jazar either had plans for a big operation or was working out his anger on the male recruits. He had the foreigners learning weapons handling and attack tactics and running rings around the outside of the camp in the midday sun.
Faraz pretended to be in as much pain as his comrades, collapsing after the last lap and breathing heavily.
“It was never like this,” Nic said between gulps of air.
“Something has changed,” Faraz said. “It seems al-Jazar is in a hurry to get us ready to do something.”
“Yeah. I’d like to say I didn’t sign up for this, but I guess I did.”
Faraz pushed himself to his feet and offered Nic a hand. “Well, you seem to have lost a few pounds, at least.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Anyway, I hope al-Jazar knows what he’s doing.”
“Why would you say that? Are you some sort of expert all of a sudden?”
“No. But even in a video game, emotion can overwhelm strategy and tactics.”
“Yeah, well, this ain’t no video game, is it?”
“No, it’s not. Let’s get cleaned up. I’m starving.”
* * *
After dinner, Faraz lingered at one of the picnic tables, trying to figure out how he could escape. For now, there was no way. Maybe al-Jazar’s eagerness would make him reckless. Certainly, the man was arrogant enough to do something stupid. That would be Faraz’s chance. For now, he would have to wait, see how things developed.
Faraz was about to go to his tent when some of the women came out of the kitchen. Having finished their work cooking and serving the men, it was their time to eat.
Cindy broke off from the others and came toward Faraz’s table, with Amira trailing behind. “Mind if we join you, Karim?”
“Not at all,” Faraz said.
Cindy sat directly across from him. Amira took the spot next to her and gave Faraz another demure smile.
“You two have any idea what’s going on?” he asked.
Cindy responded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the extra training, al-Jazar’s mood. It seems like something is about to happen.”
“Believe me, we’ll be the last to know,” Cindy said. “The guys used to complain that they could only work in the camp or be suicide bombers. Now, they complain that they’re training to be fighters.”
“It’s just a bit of a surprise, I guess,” Faraz said.
“Well—”
“Cindy!” came the call from the kitchen door. It was Katya, the German head of the kitchen crew. “I need you in here.”
“She’s a taskmaster, that one,” Cindy whispered. She shrugged and got up with her tray. “See you later.”
Faraz and Amira sat in uncomfortable silence. She was short, maybe five foot three, he estimated. From what he could tell from her untucked, long-sleeved shirt and calf-length dress, she was neither chubby nor thin, with large breasts that no amount of baggy shirt could hide. Her hair was covered, as always. He had thought she was pretty from the day he’d met her, but tonight her cheeks sagged and her brown eyes looked tired.
“Remind me, how long have you been here?”
“Couple of months now.” Amira sounded unhappy.
“You don’t seem all that pleased about it.”
“I came here to be part of the jihad. It’s not a vacation, is it?” Amira’s South London accent gave her words a sense of irritation and ennui, like she was talking about work in a shop or a factory.
“No, it is not,” Faraz said. “But I’m new. I’m still excited to be here. I already went out on an operation. But for the women . . .” He shrugged and tilted his head toward the kitchen.
Amira looked at him with a flash of anger. “Yes, for the women it’s different. We are equal but different. They taught us how to shoot, but only to help defend the camp if we get attacked. Beyond that . . . well, don’t ask me if I’m having fun cooking and cleaning for you.”
“I didn’t ask if you were having fun.”
Amira paused, looking down at what was left of her food. Then she looked up at Faraz. “Well, you asked if I was happy. I’m not here to be happy. I’m here to work for the great cause.”
She didn’t sound sarcastic. But as Faraz studied her face, he could tell he had hit a nerve. “What do you really want to say?”
Amira sighed. “I have no right to complain.”
“We all have the God-given right to complain. Well, that may not be in the Koran, but it’s what we say in my neighborhood in Detroit.”
That got a small smile from Amira, at least. “Even so, truly, I should not complain.”
“And yet, you seem, well, I don’t know you very well, but you seem sad, I guess.”
She didn’t deny it. Faraz let the silence linger until Amira said, “We should not talk about these things.” She returned her attention to her dinner.
Faraz moved his hand closer to hers, but didn’t touch her. “Please, Amira, tell me.”
Amira looked at him, seeming to consider whether she wanted to confide in him, whether she could trust him. There was no reason to trust him, but she clearly had something to say. Amira looked back down at her plate and blurted it out. “I am to marry a fighter.”
Faraz wasn’t sure about her tone. Resignation? Anger? That sadness again. Definitely not the tone of a bride-to-be.
“Wow,” he said. “Who is it?”
“He is a fighter from another camp. I have not met him yet.”
“You haven’t met him?” Faraz’s surprise was genuine.
“That’s the way it’s done.”
“Can you say no?”
Amira looked at him like he must be some kind of idiot. “Of course, I can say no under Allah’s law. But then what? What sort of punishment would they give me? What sort of future would I have? When I came here, I was naive, but I was not as stupid as you are. I knew I would marry a hero, provide a new generation for the jihad. But . . .” She continued staring at him, but stopped talking, as if she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Or perhaps she did know, but wasn’t sure she should.
“But what?”
“But nothing. Maybe you should mind your own business.” Amira lifted her tray and started to slide her legs out from under the picnic table.
“Amira,” Faraz said.
She stopped and looked at him with impatience bordering on disdain.
“I’m sorry if I was out of line. I promise, your secret is safe with me.”
Amira finished the maneuver of disengaging from the picnic table. Faraz watched her skirt swing as she went through the kitchen door.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was dinnertime in Baghdad, too. Bridget was eating at her desk—a container of yogurt and a bag of potato chips. She had little appetite after reading the detailed report on the hotel attack. A dozen American and European aid workers dead, more wounded, their program to teach young Syrians English and math destroyed. She read their bios, looked at their photos—smiling, hopeful. It was irredeemably sad.
Bridget switched her screen to the latest data on the sharp increase in terrorist chatter. The secure phone on her desk rang.
It was Liz Michaels at the Pentagon. “Any thoughts on the
new data?”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Sorry, I just came out of a meeting where everyone in the building called for more intel to explain the chatter.”
“Good. More pressure. I was running low. And no, I don’t have any particular insights. I was hoping the team had some.”
“I can only tell you that the pattern is disturbingly similar to what we saw, in retrospect, in the run-up to November, which is why paranoia is at an all-time high.”
“An all-time high in your lengthy experience.” It was an unnecessary jab that came from Bridget’s own multipronged frustration.
It took Liz an extra second to respond. “Yeah, whatever, ‘in my lengthy experience,’ and seemingly everyone else’s, too.”
“Okay, sorry.” Bridget took a breath. “How’s Hadley taking it?”
“He was under control in this meeting, but I could see he was ready to blow. He doesn’t want anything like November on his watch. He’d have called you himself, but he had to run to a meeting at the White House. I know you and Blowback have only been over there for two weeks, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from Hadley before long.”
“Believe me, his desire for results is no greater than mine.”
After the call, Bridget stared at the data and picked at her dinner. She found herself wishing Carter would come by and take her to the D-FAC. She needed the distraction. But he was away on a mission.
She should have been wishing Will was there. She did, up to a point. But that was impossible. Carter had the advantage of at least being in the same part of the world, and expected back within a few days. Any fantasy about a reunion with Will involved projecting months into the future. Carter also came with none of the long-term commitment she had never been good at.
Bridget put that out of her mind and thought about the third man in her life: Faraz. Just as she had been the key to getting him out of Gitmo a few weeks ago, now he was the key to getting her out of Baghdad.
And where the hell was he? Bridget threw the second half of the bag of chips into her trash can.
* * *
Al-Souri could tell that Nazim had bad news as soon as he came into the office. The man never met his eyes and stood at awkward attention in front of the desk.
“Tell me,” al-Souri said.
“I am sorry to report, Commander . . .”
“Go on,” al-Souri said, impatient now.
“Some of the faction leaders have agreed to meet, but several refuse, including al-Jazar. It seems he is intimidating the others. Already, one who agreed has changed his answer.”
Al-Souri inhaled sharply. “Fools.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Do they think they can defy me?” His voice was angry, but he kept his volume low.
“Sahib, I am sorry, but they still see you as new to this war and, in spite of your accomplishments in Afghanistan, as . . . how shall I say? Untested, perhaps.”
“Untested?”
“Sahib, these are simple men. They must see power demonstrated in front of them. Stories from far away are, for them . . . well, just stories.”
“And November? Is that just a story, too?”
Nazim did not respond, but the answer was clearly yes.
Al-Souri considered that. Years ago, he had not been so different from those men. They had been suffering here for decades, while he had been away. In recent years, they had taken up arms and suffered more, while he was still not with them. Now, he had returned and claimed to be their leader.
Up to a point, he could understand their doubts. But he was al-Souri, mastermind of attacks around the world, brother-in-arms to the great martyr Ibn Jihad. Now, although these men refused to accept it, he was taking their struggle to a new level, linking it to the global jihad, and to the money al-Malik could provide.
Al-Souri could not allow anyone to question his authority. “How many refuse to meet?”
Nazim swallowed hard. “About half, sahib.”
Al-Souri stroked his beard. He looked out his window at the camp, its fence, and the desert hills beyond. Then he looked back at Nazim, still standing at attention. “Sit, please.”
Nazim sat and leaned forward to wait for his commander’s orders.
“Perhaps you are right,” al-Souri said.
“Sahib?”
“They must see the power, as our foreign enemies saw it in November.”
“We cannot defeat them all, Commander.”
“Nor would we want to. We need those men. We must defeat them all by defeating one. In one stroke, we must end the doubt. And we must do it quickly.”
Nazim’s look changed from confusion to admiration.
“You wanted to attack al-Jazar’s camp,” al-Souri said. “I said no. But perhaps you understand these men better than I do, or better than I did before now.”
Nazim smiled at the praise from his mentor.
“Al-Malik will not be happy,” al-Souri continued. “But I cannot do what he wants unless I unify the movement. You will get your wish.”
“Sahib?”
“We will attack al-Jazar.”
“Thank you, sahib.”
“We will have one chance. Our attack must be decisive. We must have a victory, but more importantly, we must make a statement.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Al-Souri sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot do it.”
“You cannot?”
“No. I must go to meet with al-Malik and some men from . . . well, from outside. They want to meet al-Souri face-to-face before they will finance our plans. I will be away for two days, maybe three.” Al-Souri paused, then looked directly at Nazim. “You will lead the attack.”
Nazim smiled broadly now.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Faraz found it hard to focus on the next day’s combat training or on his need to escape. He thought mostly about Amira.
When the men were dismissed, he ran to the showers. He was among the first in the food line, but Amira wasn’t serving. She must be in the kitchen, cleaning up. He parked himself at his usual table and waited.
Amira did not appear.
“C’mon, Karim,” Nic said as the area was emptying out. “Quick soccer game before bed?”
“No, thanks. I’m beat.” Faraz walked with him to the center of camp, then headed toward the tents. He found a spot where he could lean on a building and keep an eye on most of the camp. If Amira came out of the women’s area, he’d see her.
It was half an hour before dark when she appeared. She was walking the path that circled the camp inside the fence. She walked slowly, her shoulders hunched. She stopped and put her hand on the wall, as if for support.
Faraz moved to intercept her. He cut through the tents and behind a storage building, doing his best to make it appear as if he had run into her by chance.
“Hi, Amira.” Now he could see her wet cheeks framed by her hijab.
She looked at him, obviously irritated he had seen her like this.
“I won’t ask how you are,” he said.
Amira sighed. “Good.” She walked past him, and he hurried to catch up.
“C’mon, Amira. Talk to me.”
Amira stopped, and Faraz nearly ran into her. She looked both ways on the path. They were alone.
“I don’t want to talk to you. I want to hit you right now,” she said.
“Why?”
“I want to hit something, and you’re here, annoying me.”
“Well, if it will help.” Faraz stood in front of her, ready to take the blow.
Amira balled her fists, but kept them by her sides. “Look, Karim, I want to be left alone. All right?”
“No. Sorry. Not all right. We’re all in this together.”
Amira glared at him.
“If you don’t want to talk, at least let me walk with you.”
Amira pursed her lips. But making a scene would only have drawn more people. “All right, if you must.”
Faraz moved aside so she co
uld pass. They walked in silence for a short distance and came to the side gate. Two fighters greeted them, AK-47s in hand. Faraz made a show of looking up toward the sky. “It will still be light for a while. Can we walk outside the walls?”
The fighters looked at each other, and one cocked his head. “Be back before dark.”
Faraz led Amira out, then guided her to the left toward a small grove of parched trees.
“That was a good thought,” she said, finally softening. “It’s nice to be outside the camp.”
Faraz took a chance and cast a line into uncertain water. “Yes. We’re no closer to freedom, but it feels like we are.”
Amira looked surprised. “You could be punished for saying such a thing.”
“Well, now we each know something about the other that could lead to punishment.”
“What do you know about me?”
“That you don’t want to marry your fighter.”
They entered the woods, where they could no longer be seen from the camp. “Let’s sit for a while,” Faraz said.
He picked a spot under one of the largest trees so they could both lean up against it, shoulder to shoulder, facing slightly away from each other. The ground was dry, although this was supposed to be the rainy season. The smells of the small wooded area were a welcome respite from the body odor, latrines, and weapons oil smells of the camp.
“So,” Amira said, “you just got here, and you speak of freedom.”
“You forget,” Faraz said. “I went on an operation. They put a vest on me. I saw them mow down unarmed civilians—aid workers. I could see them. They looked like friends from back home. I was like them not long ago. Then al-Jazar humiliated Jamal. You were right in what you said. I didn’t expect a vacation. But it’s all a bit of a shock, to be honest.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that. You seemed like you were ready for jihad from the day you arrived.”
“I was. But I don’t have to tell you that the reality of jihad is pretty different from what I expected sitting back home in Detroit.”
“It’s not much like London, either.”
Faraz thought Amira was making a joke. He smiled and turned toward her, but she was looking at the ground, upset.