by Isaac Hooke
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't mind so much. I needed a husband. You see, most of my family and friends fled when the Islamic State arrived. Only my brother remained. I was very much alone, and a husband made things more bearable. Though I would have preferred one of my own choosing. A better lover would have been nice, too."
Ethan looked at her in the dim light and couldn't resist joking, "When you've been with the best, the rest just can't measure up."
She slapped his shoulder gently. "Silly."
He was about to get up but Alzena, as if sensing his intention, wrapped an arm across his chest, pinning him. He supposed he could stay a little longer.
He listened to her gentle breathing, felt the rise and fall of her bosom against him, the warmth of each exhale, the smell of her hair.
He had to be very careful not to fall asleep, as he was wont to do after passionate lovemaking. He had to return to the government complex before curfew or questions would be asked.
As much as he savored that small moment of unbridled love, that tiny microcosm of passion and joy in a sea of repression and hate, he knew it would not last. It was fleeting, like all moments, good or bad. To visit her again would be far too risky for the both of them. And even if he did return, and she let him in, there would come a time when eventually he must let her go. Better to experience that moment sooner rather than later, before he became too attached.
He looked at her, knowing that he would probably never see her again, and at last shoved her arm aside. "I have to go."
"I know."
She brazenly watched him dress under the candlelight. He smiled sadly. Let her watch.
He donned the last pieces of his outfit, the balaclava and headband, and left the room. She didn't say a word. Didn't even rise from the bed. She was probably feeling the same sense of loss, of what could have been, as him.
He closed the door of her apartment behind him and it shut with a finality that made him pause.
"Goodbye, Alzena," he said softly.
He proceeded downstairs and didn't look back.
22
The days passed slowly. Ethan did his best to shut her out of his mind, with little success. He couldn't shake the memory of her and the night they had spent together no matter how hard he tried. He checked his email account daily, but there were never any messages from her.
He went for walks sometimes after checkpoint duty was over, and he got as close as her neighborhood, but he couldn't bring himself to approach the apartment. He hoped his unit was assigned outside of Raqqa soon. It would make things easier.
Four nights later he discovered a new message awaiting in the draft folder of the account he shared with her. There was no subject.
He didn't open it. Instead, his first reaction was one of anger. He had said his goodbyes. He was trying to move on. And then she had to go and contact him again.
It wasn't entirely her fault, he had to admit. He was the one who kept checking for messages. If he didn't want to hear from her, all he had to do was change the password, or never log in to that account again.
Ethan stared at the unopened message.
Don't read it. Don't read it.
He ticked the checkbox to the left of the message and moved the cursor over the "delete selected" option. His fingered hovered over the mouse button...
If he let that message go unread, he could continue his mission without guilt. He could carry on farming intelligence and eliminating high value targets as he came across them. Business as usual.
But if he opened that message, all that could change.
Don't read the message.
He deleted it and logged off.
He returned to room three-ten and tried to read the Quran on his cellphone but he couldn't concentrate. He kept thinking of the feel of Alzena's body against his. The softness of her kiss. The smell of her hair. It would be so easy to walk to her apartment and spend the next hour with her. So easy.
No. He had moved on.
He had.
Finally Abdullah announced lights out. Ethan put away his smartphone and slept a troubled sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING Ethan scooped up his Dragunov, skipped breakfast and went directly to the computer room. Curiosity was tearing him apart inside.
When a machine freed up, he logged in and moved Alzena's email from the trash to the draft folder. He stared at the unopened message for several indecisive seconds.
He clicked on the blank subject and the message body opened up. He knew something was wrong immediately, because the text wasn't encrypted. It read, in Arabic script:
I did not want to do this, but you forced my hand. Thanks to you, tomorrow I must watch my sister die under the executioner's ax.
I hope you are happy.
May Allah deny you for all eternity!
His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. It was from Alzena's brother, Ethan was certain. No one else could have known about the shared account, nor possessed the audacity to write something like that.
Ethan double-checked the date on the message. The draft was saved yesterday afternoon. That meant Alzena was scheduled for execution today.
Ethan turned toward the militant who used the computer beside him.
"Brother," Ethan said. "Where do the executions take place?"
"Clock Tower Square."
"And at what time, usually?" Ethan pressed.
"In the morning. Around now."
Feeling a sudden stab in the pit of his gut, Ethan got up. "Thank you," he said stiffly.
"Go with Allah." The smile the militant gave him seemed mocking somehow, though of course it wasn't intended it as such.
Ethan grabbed his Dragunov and left the computer room, but hurried back because he'd forgotten the USB stick. When he retrieved it he went straight to the supply room.
"Abu-Emad, good to see you!" the supply officer said. "What can I do for you this morning?"
"I need free reign of the room." Ethan slapped down five hundred pounds.
The Syrian stared at the money for a moment, then he scooped up the banknotes and separated the desks that blocked off the entrance, allowing Ethan to squeeze past.
Apparently body armor had arrived from Mosul the day before; Ethan grabbed a Kevlar vest and donned it beneath his fatigues. He also took a couple of Soviet RGD-5 hand grenades, putting them in his harness. He procured a Makarov, as he had returned the previous pistol the supply officer had lent him for his meeting with the scientist. He attached a magazine preloaded with 9x18mm cartridges, chambered a bullet, engaged the safety, and tucked the Makarov into his belt. He stowed a spare magazine in his harness and filled the remainder of his pockets with Dragunov magazines. He checked if there were any US assault rifles or sniper variants in stock yet, but the supply officer told him the American weapons were always snatched up by the emirs the moment they arrived.
He thanked the man and made his way toward the parking lot. Ethan wore his camo jacket low, concealing the pistol at his belt. There was no way to hide the grenades secured to his harness, but he doubted anyone would say anything.
As he neared the exit, Ethan wondered if his cover was blown. Raafe hadn't mentioned him by name. Was it possible he didn't know who the gmail account belonged to? What did the man know?
Suleman intercepted him on the way out of the compound. "You! Come."
Suddenly feeling trapped, Ethan joined the militant. But Suleman merely led him to the Mitsubishi L200 pickup. Apparently his cover wasn't blown. Not yet, anyway. As usual, Harb babysat the anti-aircraft gun in the truck bed.
The Mitsubishi brought up the rear of the motorcade. As Ethan sat there in the passenger seat on the way to the day's checkpoint, wherever that might be, he strove to invent some excuse to divert the truck. He barely recognized the blur of the passing buildings, locked as he was in his own mind.
Maybe Raafe was lying? Surely her brother wouldn't send Alzena to the executioner's ax. Then again, a zealous Hisbah like him, a m
an who had whipped his own sister, would think nothing of ordering her death—he was drunk on power and his perceived righteousness. And perhaps Raafe truly didn't know who the gmail account belonged to; that message might have been a lure to draw out Ethan.
A lone woman wasn't worth dying for, nor giving up access to intelligence that could potentially save thousands of lives. No one else would replace Ethan—that wasn't hubris talking, but the voice of cold, harsh reason. Very few people could do what he did and do it well. Maybe a handful in the entire world. Sam believed she could eventually repurpose other units to act as her Selous Scouts, but the other case officers, paramilitaries and spec-op types lacked one essential skill or the other. They didn't have the language skills. They didn't look Arabic. They didn't have the mental fortitude.
And yet it was probably his fault Alzena was slated for execution. He was the one who had dragged her into all this. He was the one who had insisted on paying her a personal visit.
He'd disobeyed key rules of tradecraft by going to her apartment that night. Don't visit an asset who is potentially under surveillance. Don't disobey local customs if doing so puts the asset's life further at risk.
Don't get involved with assets.
He owed Alzena her life in repayment for everything she had done, and if he didn't at least try to save her, he'd never forgive himself.
But that was a selfish reason. It wasn't good enough, when weighed against the potential loss of intelligence. Because even if he did manage to somehow save her, what would he use as an alibi? Without one, his cover would be lost and he'd have to go into hiding.
There has to be a way to save her while preserving my cover. There has to be!
Then again, his cover might be lost already. What if Raafe knew everything and was on his way to inform Abdullah at that very moment of Ethan's involvement with Alzena and his role in the scientist's assassination?
What a mess I've put myself in.
Ethan pulled out his smartphone and activated the offline map. The convoy was headed southbound. Clock Tower Square was only a few blocks distant.
Alzena was there. About to be beheaded at any moment.
If I want to save her, I have to act now.
Ethan fingered the Makarov at his belt. If he had to, he could kill Suleman without any misgivings, but what would he do about Harb in the truck bed? Ethan couldn't bring himself to hurt the thirteen year old.
And then an opportunity abruptly presented itself.
The passing buildings slowed, becoming stationary as the traffic ground to a halt.
Suleman shifted impatiently in his seat. "There must be some beheadings scheduled for today." He activated his signal light and looked over his shoulder. "We should have taken the side street." He started to change lanes but slammed on the brakes as a random vehicle pulled up. More traffic arrived and in moments the Mitsubishi was hemmed in on all sides.
"Where are we setting up the checkpoint today?" Ethan asked Suleman.
"In front of the Raqqa Museum."
Ethan regarded the map one last time and then put away his cellphone. He wrapped his hands around the door handle, but didn't open it. Instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, bracing himself. One last moment of calm before the storm.
He hesitated. There was no time for any fancy planning and exfil routes. Everything would be seat-of-the-pants, and very risky. Did he really want to go through with it?
He thought of Alzena kneeling on the headblock, her beautiful face contorted in terror as the blade descended...
Ethan clenched his jaw and opened the door.
"What are you doing?" Suleman said, a hint of anger in his voice.
"I have to use the toilet badly," Ethan said.
"Wait until we reach the checkpoint."
"I can't hold it. See you at the museum!" Ethan slammed the door.
Harb looked at him in surprise from his place on the truck bed.
"What's up?" the thirteen-year-old asked.
"Diarrhea!" Ethan said over his shoulder.
He broke into a run, weaving between the stopped vehicles. His two-way radio chirped to life.
"I will wait for you by the curb," came Suleman's voice. "Hurry up!"
Ethan slid the volume knob way down, clicking the radio off. You can wait all day.
He dashed into an alley and pulled on his balaclava. He lowered the Dragunov from his shoulder and detached the PSO-1 via the quick-release mounting bracket, pocketing it. The 4x scope wouldn't be all that useful in the firefight to come, not at the ranges he intended. Without the PSO-1, the rifle looked similar to an AK-47, though the smaller magazine box and longer barrel would give the weapon away to the discerning eye. Still, with luck the militants would report that the attacker carried an AK, not a sniper rifle. Something less to incriminate him.
He emerged from the alley into another congested street. Ethan recognized the area—Clock Tower Square lay four blocks ahead. The problem was getting there in time through the backed up traffic. The road had been turned into a one-way today, apparently, judging from the southbound vehicles taking up both lanes. He considered jogging it, but when he arrived he would be winded—a bad way to enter a firefight. And it might be too late by then.
He crossed the street and walked up to the driver-side window of a white Kia Rio stuck in the gridlock. He pointed the Dragunov at the occupant.
"Out!"
The thirtyish Syrian immediately opened the door and Ethan yanked him the rest of the way out. Taking his place, Ethan tossed the Dragunov into the empty passenger seat, then turned the wheel to the left and accelerated onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scrambled away. A shawarma kiosk toppled and the huge skewer of goat meat rolled over the hood of the subcompact.
Southbound, Ethan drove at thirty kilometers per hour along the sidewalk, his fingers constantly on the horn. Street vendors and pedestrians continued to scurry out of the way. He smashed through more food stands.
He had chosen the sidewalk bordering the left side of the street because if Clock Tower Square was sealed off, traffic would soon be siphoned to the right onto the only available side street; by keeping to the left, no civilian cars would block his path.
He could see the tower ahead, looming over the buildings and vehicles. The beheaded peasant statues on top ominously overlooked the city.
He reached a roadblock of four black Toyota Hilux Vigos; the vehicles were lined up front to back, blocking traffic in and out of the square. Small gaps remained at either end of the roadblock for the sidewalks, allowing pedestrians to trickle inside. Eight militants stood guard.
Ethan kept the Rio on the sidewalk, aiming for the gap between the leftmost pickup and the adjacent building. His subcompact would fit, but barely.
Four of the militants on duty rushed toward him and waved him down. One approached the driver-side door while the others blocked his path, AK-47s raised.
Ethan halted the vehicle and opened his window. "Let me through."
"Idiot, we almost shot you!" The militant spoke Arabic with a French accent. "We thought you were a suicide bomber! You didn't answer your radio."
"I said let me through!" Ethan revved the engine.
"Go back you fool."
"I have an important message for the executioner!" Ethan inched the Rio forward, threatening to mow down the fighters in front of the vehicle. They kept their weapons pointed at him.
"From who?" the militant said.
"The sheik!" That was what the Islamic State called the mayor of Raqqa.
"The sheik?" the militant said dubiously. "Well, deliver your message if you must, but leave the vehicle. This square is packed with people. You might kill someone."
Just like your executioner is about to do?
Ethan needed the vehicle for what was to come, so he reached through the window and grabbed the fighter by the collar, dragging him close. "If you don't let me through right now, with the vehicle, you and your French friends will be the ones losing their heads he
re tomorrow! I guarantee you."
He shoved the militant away, ducked behind the dashboard, and accelerated. The other mujahadeen blocking his path dove out of the way, but didn't fire. The flanks of his Kia scraped the bumper of the Hilux and the adjacent building. Pedestrians hurried from his path.
In the right rearview mirror he saw the militants regroup to aim their AKs at his subcompact; he crouched lower in the seat. His window was still open, and he heard the French mujahid shouting at them to stand down. The men must have listened because no bullets came. Lucky.
Ahead, the crowd was thick around the base of the clock tower. He didn't spot a single woman among them.
Honking, Ethan slowed to ten kilometers an hour as he plowed his way through. The gathering parted to reveal the lower half of the tower, which was draped in the black standards of the Islamic State.
He saw the chopping block next to the structure immediately. A decapitated torso lay against it, with a lifeless head at its base. A woman, dressed in black. Her head was still shrouded in its niqab.
Ethan was too late.
An overwhelming sense of defeat overcame him. He had driven all that way, prepared to do the worst to save her, and she was already gone. He felt suddenly nauseous.
He slammed on the brakes and put his head down, remembering her touch, and her smile.
Why do the most innocent among us always have to die? Why why why?
He started accelerating again, intending to turn the subcompact around, but more of the crowd cleared ahead of him and he saw that two other headblocks were arranged near the base of the tower. Another woman knelt before the middle chopping block, also wearing a niqab so that her face was concealed. Her head was lowered onto the black stone. The rear portion of her veil and hijab had been lifted to reveal her neck.
Long scimitar in hand, the dark-robed executioner stood over her. He seemed distracted by the Rio's arrival. Past him, at the final headblock, a mujahid restrained a final prisoner. Some random bearded man.