by Isaac Hooke
He limped onward, continuing his half run, half limp gait. He crossed the busy street, nearly getting struck by a car, and then ducked into the planned alleyway. As he neared the other side he removed his balaclava and headband and stuffed them into a pocket. Then he turned on his radio and slowed to a walk, doing his best to hide the limp when he emerged. The ankle was growing numb, fortunately, lessening the pain. It would probably be swollen later.
Ethan had done it. Still, the hit felt sloppy. He'd left behind a rope. He'd injured his leg. What else could go wrong?
A call came over his two-way radio. "Abu-Emad, where are you?" It was Abdullah.
Ethan pressed the send button and spoke into the device, which hung from his chest harness. "On my way back from the bakery. Why?"
"Hurry up!"
Ethan switched to a higher channel and listened in on the general chatter. The mujahadeen were searching for the assassin. They had no description of the perpetrator so far, other than that he might be a member of Jabhat al Nusra. They'd discovered the note, then. And probably the rope.
Ethan retrieved the pile of flatbread from Mufid, who had been waiting at the designated street corner as instructed.
"Thank you." Ethan turned away.
"Wait!" Mufid said to his back. "Am I done now, or do I have to keep coming back here with bread every day?"
"You're done!" Ethan increased his pace, biting down a flare-up of ankle pain.
"What about my money?"
"Later!" Ethan hissed.
When he reached the checkpoint a few minutes later, a convoy of seven pickups raced past, truck beds packed with mujahadeen. They were headed in the direction of the apartment.
Abdullah got off his two-way radio. "We're supposed to be on the lookout for a masked fighter," he said as Ethan distributed the bread. "A member of Al Nusra has assassinated a civilian, and may be impersonating one of our brothers. Did you see anyone?"
Ethan shook his head.
"But the crime took place at the apartment building across the street from the bakery," Abdullah persisted.
"It must have happened after I left," Ethan said.
Abdullah's eyes bored into his and for a moment Ethan thought the emir was going to arrest him. He felt each heartbeat distinctly in his throat.
Zarar broke the tension by comically tearing into a piece of bread and exaggerating the difficulty of breaking it. "What the hell did you do to this bread?" The big Afghan took a bite. "Tastes as hard as an old woman's cunt."
"Why am I not surprised you know what that tastes like?" Ethan said, doing his best to hide his nervousness.
Zarar grinned toothily; portions of chewed bread covered his enamel so that it looked like half his mouth was rotten.
Abdullah regarded Ethan a moment longer, then stepped aside to speak quietly into his two-way radio.
The others finished their bread and returned to work. Suleman lingered, giving Ethan a suspicious look before he took his place on the checkpoint.
Ethan tried hard to conceal the limp for the rest of that day. He kept expecting Abdullah to arrest him, but the emir never did.
Suleman was driving Ethan back to the compound in the Mitsubishi L200 pickup when the militant said, "What happened to your leg?"
Ethan casually thrummed his fingers on the passenger door rest. "What do you mean?"
"I saw you hiding a limp back there."
"Oh." Ethan cleared his throat, which suddenly felt dry. "I tripped on the way to the bakery. It's nothing serious."
"You weren't involved in the shooting today?"
Ethan pressed his lips together. "Of course not."
"You were gone a suspicious amount of time the last time we were in this neighborhood."
"Was I?"
Suleman muttered something underbreath. Then: "Do you swear by Allah against the forfeiture of your immortal soul and its burning in hellfire forevermore that you did not kill the civilian?"
"I swear by Allah and the Quran that I did not," Ethan said without batting an eye.
Suleman nodded. "That's good enough for me." He glanced at Ethan and affected a smile that did not touch his eyes. "I apologize for doubting you, brother."
Ethan shot him a soulless smile in kind, but Suleman had already returned his attention to the road.
A FEW DAYS LATER, when it was apparent Ethan had gotten away scot-free with the hit, he left Sam an encrypted note. Target terminated.
He also placed a message in the gmail account he shared with Alzena. Are you safe?
He was relieved when he decrypted Alzena's single-word reply the next day. Yes.
He stared at that word for several moments. Then he deleted the draft and navigated to the change password screen. He entered a new password and his finger hovered over the enter key. Once he submitted that change, Alzena would never be able to communicate with him again.
Don't get involved with assets. Leave her alone.
Ethan should have stayed away. He should have changed the password. But he felt compelled to repay her for what she had done. And he wanted to do that personally, rather than by courier, because deep down he yearned to see her again, if only one more time.
He canceled the password change and left the following encrypted message instead:
I have fifty thousand pounds for you. I will drop it off this Sunday evening at nine.
Fifty thousand Syrian pounds was the equivalent of two hundred fifty US dollars. Ethan would have given more, but his stash was running low. He probably should have written her an IOU, but he didn't want to encourage her to leave Raqqa to cash it in—despite the repressive regime, it was far safer for her to remain in the city, at least for the moment.
He wasn't sure she'd allow it, but the next day when he checked the account, he found a message from her agreeing to the rendezvous.
By the time Sunday night rolled around, Ethan had cold feet. There were several reasons not to proceed with the rendezvous. She may have told the Khansa'a everything, either willingly or under duress, and visiting her could be a trap. Or perhaps she had told them nothing, but her apartment was under surveillance anyway.
Then there were the personal reasons not to go. Mainly, he liked her far too much. Or rather, desired her. He didn't expect anything to happen when he met her, of course. Nor did he really want anything to. He would go to her door, give her the money, thank her, and leave. When she sent him on his way, he would never see her again.
He set out at eight-thirty. His ankle had returned to normal over the past few days, so he was able to proceed at a good pace. He carried his Dragunov over one shoulder, and wore his balaclava with the Shahada headband. He ran a surveillance detection route on the way to the apartment and when he arrived he circled her block twice. None of the cars parked on the road were occupied. No one was lingering on the sidewalk. Someone may have been watching from one of the apartment windows or balconies across the street, but he'd never know because of the heavy canopies.
He decided to risk it.
Ethan proceeded to the apartment entrance. The door was slightly ajar, thanks to a doorstop someone had placed. Power was still on to most of the city that night, so he tried the intercom button corresponding to 2C anyway. No answer came. Troubling.
He entered, closing the door silently behind him. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, all his senses were alert for the potential trap that might be sprung against him.
He skipped the second and third floor hallways, proceeding to the top of the stairwell. With his bump keys, he unlocked the rooftop door and left it open behind him as he cased the terrace. The north edge dropped to a shared courtyard, but there was no way to get down without a rope. To the left lay a neighboring rooftop, about a meter and a half away. A doable jump, but still risky. Well, if he was to properly secure his exfil route...
He took a running leap and landed on the adjacent building. He felt a small stab of pain in his ankle, but thankfully the limb held. He explored the rooftop and found a
fire escape in back. That would do. He studied the courtyard below, and when he had picked out a possible exfil, he crossed back to the other building.
A few moments later he rapped warily on Alzena's door.
It opened a crack. The security chain drooped just inside, still latched, preventing the door from opening any wider. Ethan almost didn't see the figure beyond at first, because she wore a niqab, face shrouded in darkness.
"Alzena?" he said.
"Give me the money and go," she said softly.
He was relieved to hear her voice. Not a trap, then. At least not one she had set up. He was disappointed Alzena was wearing the full veil, however.
Keeping his voice down, Ethan asked, "Why didn't you answer when I buzzed?"
"I left the door open for you."
Ethan should have given her the money then and walked out of that building, like she asked. But instead he found himself saying, "Let me in."
She shook her head. "It is not decent. It is haram."
"But that's never stopped you before, has it?" Ethan said.
"What are you talking about?" She sounded astonished.
"You were leaving me messages almost every day, there. Going down to the Internet cafe alone."
Her tone became cold. "That's different."
"Is it?" Ethan said. "Haram is haram."
"Maybe I hired one of those chaperon services like you suggested."
Ethan smiled widely. "But that is haram, too." He glanced at the other doors flanking the hallway behind him. "Come on, let me in before someone sees you talking to a strange man."
She didn't comply.
He hesitated, then removed his balaclava so that she could see his face. "Alzena. Please. There are things I want to tell you, things I can't speak of out here."
Reluctantly she closed the door. He heard the click as the security chain unlatched, then she let him in, shutting the door behind him.
He stood there on the Turkish carpet. Candles lit the foyer and the living room beside it. "What's with the candles?" he said. "The power's on, you know."
"I can't afford the bill." She sounded bitter. "What is it you wish to say to me?"
He calmly walked into the family room and relaxed in the green polyester accent chair. He slid the Dragunov from his shoulder and rested it on the floor beside him.
The black ghost that was Alzena followed him into the room. She remained standing next to the counter, where three thick candles burned.
He regarded her dubiously.
"Isn't that a fire hazard?" Ethan nodded toward her veil. "Wouldn't take much to ignite the niqab. All you have to do is lean forward to grab a book or something and before you know it you're covered in flames."
"The material is fire retardant," she said flatly.
Ethan shrugged. "Doesn't mean it won't burn."
She didn't answer.
"Here." He retrieved an envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto the glass coffee table. Several crisp bills spilled out.
Alzena made no move to take the money. "You killed him, didn't you?" she said.
21
It was Ethan's turn to stay quiet, though that was exactly what he wanted to talk to her about. The question was, how to do it without implicating himself?
"I trusted you, but you betrayed that trust," she continued. "I arranged for you to meet my neighbor's husband, and you murdered him."
Still Ethan didn't answer. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't see her face. The disappointment in her voice was painful enough.
"Do you know why I originally agreed to help you?" she asked.
"Because you had no choice?" Ethan said, feeling a rise of anger. "Because it was either help me or be reported to the morality police?"
"I could have taken the whipping," Alzena said from behind her veil. "I could have. But I chose to help you."
"Fine. Why did you help me?"
Her voice softened. "Because I recognized you. I saw you save a man in front of the bakery the week before. Do you remember? I was watching from beyond the blinds of my apartment, as I often do, confined to this prison that is my own home. I saw you use a chokehold to knock the cussing man unconscious before the Hisbah could hear what he was saying." She took an almost imperceptible step forward. "That's why I helped you. I knew you were different. Or I thought you were, anyway." A sadness entered her voice. "I truly thought that you weren't like the others. That you were here to help my city. But I was wrong. You're just a killer like the rest of them."
Ethan regarded her black form in silence. I could have taken the whipping. Those words reminded him of something. "Your brother beat you before we met at Al Rashid."
She lowered her head but did not reply.
"He did, didn't he?" Ethan pressed. "I saw how you sat in the restaurant, constantly trying to avoid the back of your seat. I saw how stiffly you walked."
"Yes," she said bitterly. "He whipped me when I told him, at your suggestion, that I opened my apartment door without a veil."
"A man who beats his own sister." Ethan shook his head. "Incredible."
"He is Hisbah. He can do what he wants. Like the mujahadeen."
Ethan considered his next words carefully. "I am here to help your city. But perhaps not in the way you might think."
"You're with the Caliphate," Alzena said flatly.
"Am I? Are you so certain?"
She paused. "You know, before the foreign fighters came, my city was one of the most liberal in all of the Middle East. We were moderate Muslims, lovers of freedom. We smoked cigarettes and shisha, and drank alcohol. The women roamed the streets freely, unchaperoned and unveiled. We stayed out as late as we wanted. We had power and water all day, everyday. And now... this."
"I'm here to help you," Ethan repeated. "The scientist? He was a very bad man. The world is a better place without him, believe me."
"So you did kill him," Alzena said.
Ethan still refused to incriminate himself. He didn't know how far he could trust her. She might even be wearing a wire beneath those heavy robes, though that was doubtful.
"Why did you come tonight?" Alzena said.
"To give you the money."
She raised her veil.
Ethan's breath caught. He couldn't take his eyes away from her face. Those high, chiseled cheekbones; that thin jawline, perfectly crafted nose, flawless skin. She could have been a fashion model in any other country, under better circumstances. But there, in that repressed land of no opportunity, she couldn't even show her face to strangers.
Alzena smiled, but it was a sad one. "Why did you come?" she repeated.
"I—" He couldn't break his gaze from those intoxicating features no matter how hard he tried; he found himself lost in the brilliant sapphires of her eyes.
She took off her hijab then, and let her long, flowing black hair tumble free.
"What are you doing?" Ethan finally managed, his voice rasping.
"I told you," she said huskily. "We were once the most liberal of all Muslims in the Middle East."
Don't get involved with assets, the voice of reason warned him, but it couldn't quench the unbridled fire of lust that burned inside him.
Ethan got up and closed the distance between himself and Alzena. He mashed his lips against hers. She returned the kiss just as feverishly.
He experienced a sharp pain in his mouth and pulled back in shock. He felt a wetness and touched the throbbing area; when he withdrew his fingers he found blood.
Alzena bit her lower lip playfully.
"You bitch." Ethan threw her onto the couch.
She flinched, then spun herself around so that her back was to him. "Take me," she commanded over her shoulder.
Ethan stripped off her abaya. Long, ugly welts marred the perfection of her back. He felt a moment of rage and swore he'd kill her brother if ever he crossed paths with the Hisbah again.
He tore off her panties, slid down his cargo pants, and took her from behind. Incidentally, she was
n't wearing a wire.
After he climaxed, he carried her to the bedroom, cupping her by the buttocks while she wrapped her arms and legs around his torso. His cargo pants and underwear dragged from one foot, and he nearly tripped in the darkness.
When he reached the room, he threw her onto the bed and she gasped, maybe from the pain caused by her welts, maybe in anticipation. Ethan was beyond rational thought and simply didn't care either way—he doffed the remainder of his clothing and took her again. She moaned in pleasure, raking his back with her nails, drawing blood.
Afterward they cuddled in her bed. She lay on her side, her breasts pressing into his ribcage, threatening to arouse him all over again.
She had lit a candle on the nightstand, allowing him to see her face in the dimness. Such beauty. Wasted in that country.
"How's your back?" he said.
"How's yours?" she said mischievously.
He groaned softly. The throbbing pain from her nails had almost subsided, but the scratches would probably take at least a week to heal.
"I haven't been with a man since my husband died." She regarded him uncertainly a moment. "I hope you don't get the wrong idea. I slept with you mostly to defy my brother."
"So I'm just a revenge fuck." Ethan said.
She looked at him angrily. "Don't talk like that to me."
Ethan laughed softly. "We did some pretty X-rated stuff back there, and now you're saying I can't swear?"
She glared at him one more time but it was only pretend, because soon she was snuggling against his side again.
"You surprised me," Ethan said. "Your passion. Everything about you. I never thought..."
"Just because I'm Muslim doesn't mean I am not a woman," she said, sounding slightly offended. "Maybe you didn't notice, but those who seek to impose sharia are all men."
"Oh I noticed," Ethan said.
"And you are for sharia?" she asked.
"Utterly against."
"Good."
The two rested for a time.
Alzena abruptly broke the silence. "I was forced to marry him, you know. The mujahid." She swallowed with obvious discomfort at the memory. "A member of the Khansa'a Brigade visited my apartment. She offered a large mahr"—that was a payment made by the groom or his family—"and despite my objections, my brother accepted. He took the mahr. He also seized the money I was sent from the Caliphate—as the wife of a mujahid I was on their payroll. But I received only what my brother and my husband deigned to give me."