As the imam walked away, Abdullah turned to Muhammad. “The man’s a spy.”
Why did the fanatic have to tell him all his bloodthirsty plans? Muhammad shoved off the wall. Fresh yellow paint stained his best bisht and his watch!
Abdullah nodded to himself, utterly unconcerned that this unmarked paint job had just cost Muhammad thousands of riyals. “I will bring Joe to Yemen and feed him false intelligence. Once he transmits the information to the CIA, then I will torture and kill him.”
Joe stared into the barrels of assault rifles.
Clomp, clomp. Abdullah’s footwear clapped against the tile. “I have spoken to Imam Al-Ghamedi.”
“Yes.” Joe’s heart pounded adrenaline through his body. If he leaped forward, he could grab the closest AK-47, but the other nine gunmen would shoot Kay.
“He spoke very highly of you.” Abdullah straightened his bisht. “I will see to your training myself.”
“Wonderful. I can meet you Monday, 8 a.m. Can I have my gun back?” The fingers of Joe’s right hand tingled. He needed that gun.
“Not yet. All new recruits surrender their weapons.” Abdullah turned. “Muhammad, see honor done with your niece. I will take over from here.”
A cry escaped Kay’s lips. A black abaya now covered her white dress, a face cloth obscuring all but her eyes.
“You can’t kill her.” Joe jumped in front of Kay, blocking Muhammad’s reach. “She’s my wife and all. Doesn’t that take away his honor-killing rights or something?” Though he’d worked as a handler to Middle Eastern men for years, he’d never quite figured out the messed up dynamics of how they viewed their women.
“Divorce her.” Abdullah stood tall underneath his ghutrah. “She will not make a good wife for a mujahideen, holy warrior.”
Joe flashed his gaze to the corner where Muhammad stood. “Uh, no I don’t want to.” How exactly did this honor stuff work? The shotgun wedding thing was so much simpler in Christian romance novels. “Can we go, now? Got to get to the honeymoon.”
“Of course. Mujahideens.” Abdullah nodded to his men. “Escort them to my jet.”
“Car’s fine. Perfectly fine.” Sweat dripped down the back of Joe’s neck. “I’ll touch base on Monday.”
“Monday?” Abdullah raised both weathered hands. “I’m taking you to my Yemen base to train you in jihad tonight.”
Fear pulsed through Joe. Had to keep himself calm. Joe breathed out slowly. Think. “Don’t you want intelligence from inside the U.S. embassy?” Sneaking his thumb into his jean pocket, Joe tapped the enter code. Had Brian gotten his message?
“Get in the jet.” Abdullah jerked his thumb to the door.
People didn’t make it out of terrorist camps alive. Surely Brian had received his message by now and sent backup?
“Hand over your phone.” Abdullah stuck out his hand.
A knot formed in Joe’s throat. Reaching into his pocket, Joe clicked erase memory. A full erase would take two hours. He only hoped Abdullah couldn’t decipher the passcode before then.
A man waved an AK-47 in front of Kay’s veiled face. Abdullah grabbed Joe’s phone and stabbed his finger at one of the Al Qaeda men. “Bring the women gloves and a triple veil.”
Other men surrounded Joe and Kay. They shoved them past frightened hotel staff to the carefully irrigated grass on the sloping hillside leading up to the hotel.
On the long stretch of road outside sat a likely illegally parked jet. With the crank of gears, the jet’s door opened. Another man shoved stairs up to the entrance.
The first man pushed a pile of black at Joe. He handed the gloves to Kay.
Kay rolled her eyes and spoke in English. “Oh, look my wrists are just so seductive. I should make wrist porn. It will inspire sixty-year-old men to lose all self-control and rape a woman young enough to be their granddaughter.”
“Just put the gloves on. And you need to wear another robe over your abaya.” Joe handed the shapeless piece of polyester to Kay.
“A what? I’m already sweltering.” The humidity of the Persian Gulf made a vapor overhead. A trickle of sweat ran down between Kay’s exposed eyes.
“Your,” he motioned around her chest region. “I shouldn’t be able to see. . .”
Kay raised one eyebrow, shifting the black niqab. “That I have boobs?”
“Yeah.”
Her abaya sleeves rode up as she moved. “Muhammad had no problem with how I dressed.”
“He’s a liberal.”
She dropped her hands. “Muhammad was going to kill me for kissing a man. That’s liberal?” Taking the insulated black polyester, Kay tugged a glove on her left hand. The black rose up to meet the wrist of her abaya, drowning her in a sea of darkness.
Joe swallowed. How was he ever going to explain joining Al Qaeda to the review board Brian sent him to? Explain it, if they made it out of this alive, that is.
An Al Qaeda operative muttered something in Arabic and pointed to the plane.
Joe motioned Kay up the metal steps first and followed behind her. At their backs, the sky glow illuminated the night. Would they live to see another day dawn?
Men in shemaghs swarmed onto the plane. Various ACU and BDU prints interspersed with thobes, perhaps three dozen men and boys crowding the seats. AK-47s filled the plane. Boys too young to possess a driver’s license had grenades clipped to their combat belts.
Kay scooted next to him on the leather airplane seat.
“That is haram forbidden.” A thobe-robed man glared at him. “She should be with the women.” The man pointed to a black curtain that sectioned off the area directly behind the pilot’s seat.
Kay flipped up her face veil. “I’m flippin’ married to him.”
The woman would get them both killed. Waving off the gunmen, Joe turned to her. “Shut up. Now.”
“You’re so controlling.” She rolled her eyes, even as she lowered her voice.
“You could be married to that dude.” Joe pointed with his chin to the pilot seat as Abdullah slid in front of the controls. “You should be thanking me.”
A little groan puffed out the black around Kay’s mouth. “Sorry. Thanks.”
“You know the Victorian adage, children should be seen and not heard?” He kept his whisper low and the men in the seat directly next to them didn’t seem to speak English. “It’s like that in Al-Qaeda for women, only without the seeing either.”
Kay nodded. “A very abusive Victorian saying used to justify the corporal punishment of an entire generation. Only a psychopath spanks a child.”
Turbaned heads turned. Men in camo vests with guns slung over their backs shot furious gazes at the sight of a woman talking.
What part of shutting up did Kay not understand? Joe looked at her and gave a quick shake of his head.
With a sigh, she slouched into the seat. “I’m wearing bikinis and mini-skirts for a month the moment I step on American soil,” she mumbled beneath her breath.
Gaze on the armed terrorists, Joe sucked in air and let it out as he forced his brain to subdue the adrenaline surging through his body. Returning to America was more on the “if” than “when” side right now.
CHAPTER 21
Sunday, October 9th, 4:55am
Joe’s gaze blurred, the corrugated metal walls fading in and out as his second night with no sleep came to a close.
“How does the CIA track terrorist cells in the U.S.?”
“What does the CIA know about AQAP’s bases in Yemen?”
A naked light bulb lit the shack. A generator growled outside, lighting the spotlight Abdullah held as the man fired question after question at him.
Dirt covered the floor of this place somewhere in the Yemeni mountains. Were they at the starred location on the map Kay had found? He’d forwarded a copy of that map to Ruby.
“Which mujahideens does the CIA have phone taps on?”
Sweat built underneath Joe’s T-shirt. If he gave them nothing, they’d kill him. If he gave them actual
intelligence, they’d kill others. If he gave them false info, they’d kill him. “In Tanzania, there’s a DOD operation to help local leaders—”
“Do I look like I care what happens in Tanzania? I want United States intel.” Abdullah slammed his hand against the rickety table.
“I didn’t work stateside much.” He hadn’t seen Kay since the jet landed. Where was she? Was she okay?
“You are CIA. You know something.” Abdullah slid his metal chair back and leaned both elbows on the rusted armrests. His black-eyed gaze penetrated to the very marrow.
The tramp of feet sounded outside the shack as armed gunmen patrolled the area. The darkness prickled down his spine. How did he answer?
The door grated, steel scraping against dirt. A scraggly-bearded youth ducked his head beneath rusted nails. “One moment, emir.”
Abdullah rotated.
“We need your ruling on the cases being tried today. A mujahideen wishes to wed a woman in the village. The father refuses.”
“Beat the father until he agrees.” Abdullah picked up a flat section of bread and smeared it in tahini sauce. Joe’s stomach growled.
With a nod, the youth typed something on the iPad he held. “A villager has been accused of homosexuality. A neighbor said he saw the man dressed in women’s clothing.”
“Kill him.” Raising a blue-brown clay jar, Abdullah dribbled honey out of its tiny spout. He raised his forefinger. The tip of his tongue showed as he licked off honey.
Again, the youth typed furiously. “A woman went out of her house with her face naked.”
“Burn her with acid.” Abdullah raised a glass of milk.
“Thank you, emir.” The youth turned. His camo vest slapped against his narrow chest as he walked out. With a clank, the door shut.
“Tell me about the Denver culture. You were stationed there for three years.”
And he had most certainly not told Abdullah that fact. What else did the man know about him? Joe forced his hands flat on his torn jeans. “It’s a good-sized city. About two-thirds the size of D.C. This time of year, there’s probably snow on the ground.”
Abdullah spread papers on the table between them. “Here is where we will strike next.” I-70 crossed I-25 on the map Abdullah touched. “There is a sleeper cell ready to launch on October 22nd in Denver, Colorado.”
Joe’s breathing quickened as his gaze glued to the map.
“The sleeper cell operative will hijack a plane out of DIA and crash it into the Mile High Stadium during a Beyonce music exhibition.”
“Ingenious,” Joe said. “The kafirs infidels will never know what hit them.” His chest tightened. He struggled to keep his expression calm. Al Qaeda had underestimated when they’d labeled the death toll at four thousand. That stadium could hold 80,000 people. He had to get this intel back to Brian.
Tilting his chair, Abdullah threw open the back door that led to an inner house. “Sabaya, slave,” Abdullah called.
Footsteps pattered. A girl with fair skin walked into the room, head lowered. She wore a black dress, but no head covering. Tears caked her cheeks.
“Bring him food.” Abdullah waved his hand at the girl who looked like she was still in her teens.
Fear burning in her luminous brown eyes, the girl ducked back into the house.
Was the girl Yazidi? Yemen was a long way from Iraq, but Al Qaeda and ISIS did have ties.
Abdullah yawned. “Eat, then I will show you your house.” He laid down his phone and stood. The blue light glimmered in the dusky shed, the phone’s screen unlocked.
Joe’s gaze fixated on that phone. As Abdullah’s footsteps died away, he reached for the lifeline.
“Abdullah is testing you. He says that you are an infidel.” The girl stood in the entranceway. She looked at him, her eyes as big as the moon, her face guardedly blank.
Joe paused, hand on the table. If he could get even one phone call out, would that be worth the risk?
“The signal does not even work. It will redirect to his computer inside.” The girl set down the tray. It clattered against the metal table.
If the girl had come moments later, he’d have killed Kay and himself by using that phone. Joe flattened his hand on the table. “Thank you.”
The girl shuddered, then brought her chin up. She looked him straight in the eyes. “My name is Rosna Jaziri. If you escape alive, tell my family.”
He nodded. If he got out of here, he certainly would try to free her. If . . . What was the protocol for escaping a terrorist camp? He searched through his mind for all those case histories he’d memorized.
In each of the case histories where a CIA operative had landed in a terrorist camp, the operative had ended up dead.
Sunday, October 9th, 5:12 a.m.
Kay’s throat burned. A faint feeling washed over her. Overhead, a naked light bulb hung from the top of the aluminum house. Condensation dripped from the bulb. Plop. Plop.
A night ago, (or had it been three? Time blurred together in this jail cell), a burly woman had searched her, stripped her of her cell and personal belongings, then shoved her in this hut. An empty clay jar stood by the door that she’d tried to break through a hundred times. Overhead, a four-inch grate let in the first flickers of dawn. Kay shoved herself up from the bare mattress that lay on the dirt floor.
Her knees wobbled. Her stomach twisted inside her, groaning for food. She paced across the room.
She was in a terrorist camp. A terrorist camp! She struggled for breath as her heart pounded at ever more furious speeds. In the last however many hours, no one had brought her food or water. Only a slimy residue remained in the bottom of the clay jar that murky water had filled.
Where was Joe? Was he even alive? Her head spun. She felt cold, then hot, then cold again.
She kicked the wall. The tin made a drumming noise as the black polyester skirt the guard woman had shoved at her stretched around her legs. The metal walls buckled then faded as her vision fogged.
Were parasites from that cloudy water she’d drunk even now feasting on her brain? The shack spun. Kay shoved against the metal with both arms. The three-quarter sleeves of the oversized blouse fell down her arms. Her limbs sagged.
All this night and the day before she’d heard bursts of gunfire. Would she die here? How long did it take to die of thirst?
She fell on the soiled mattress. Her weight dug into the mattress’s rusted coils.
Dear God, higher power, whatever you call yourself, I set my miracle goals too high. If you send someone to this door with a cheeseburger, juicy meat, crisp lettuce, the to-die-for gooeyness of dripping cheese. . .
Her stomach grumbled as the image rose in front of her. Burger joints lined the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Why had she left Cambridge? Dizziness washed over her in wave after wave. The walls rocked in front of her. I’d believe in you for a cheeseburger and a soda, God.
Moments passed. Light streamed through the grate. Each ray of light exploded into flames before her eyes as a migraine pounded through her head. Dust floated in the air.
Chains clanked. The sound of a key grated in the lock. The door creaked. Kay jumped off the dirty floor. For an instant, morning sunlight flooded the room. Her head cleared.
Joe shoved the door shut behind him. He dropped a plastic bag of something on the floor and lowered a propane heater next to it. He’d also brought the key to this house.
“Are you ok? Where were you?” Kay’s legs wobbled.
“Being interrogated and strip-searched.” He slumped on the bare mattress. At his weight, another coil protruded through the fabric.
If he died here, his blood was on her. She never should have come to Saudi Arabia. “Do you have food?”
He stabbed his finger to the plastic bag. “Beans and rice, dried.”
“What about water?” Her voice cracked as the scratchy sensation of thirst chafed against her throat. The edges of her vision blurred. She tried not to think about the parasites even now munching on
her internal organs.
Passing his hand over his face, Joe grunted, then shoved to a seated position. His eyes looked red as if from lack of sleep. “I’ll go find some water for you.” He stood.
“I’m coming with you.” Kay moved to the now unlocked door. After quenching her thirst, she needed to discover an escape route.
“Wearing that?” Joe made a scoffing sound.
She looked down at herself. Her blouse gapped far enough to show the tip of her tattoo and her ripped skirt stopped two inches short of her ankle. She had nothing to use as a robe or head covering. “Can you get me clothes?”
“Didn’t you read about purdah in your Middle Eastern studies?”
“Purdah,” Kay nodded. “The Persian practice of denying harem women contact with the outside world.”
“Well, you’re in it.” Joe jerked the door open and exited to hunt for water, though his shoulders slumped with weariness.
She glanced at the tin shack, the dirt floor and rotting stench so different from Arabian pomegranates and Turkish rugs. Would this shack be her grave?
CHAPTER 22
Wednesday, October 12th, 5:45 p.m.
Kay kicked the propane heater. The sun’s heat grew more intense. Three more days had passed in this hell hole. Though no lock now imprisoned her in this house, her lack of an abaya imprisoned her just as effectively. The beans bubbled in the water, likely thinking about burning into the same mushy mess as the tazeez bread she’d attempted yesterday. Joe hadn’t come back last night. Or this morning.
Three more days these tin walls had imprisoned her, scorching her in the afternoon heat, and freezing her during the desert nights. The only bright moments were when she saw Joe. She’d seen no one else since they arrived. Without him, she’d have no water, no food. She’d die.
They’d probably die here anyway. Her breath came sharp and fast. Joe came in and out at all hours of the day and night, training with the Al Qaeda recruits. She kept her ear tuned for his footfall, that sound the only thing that broke her desolation. All day she labored over whatever staples he managed to bring them, trying different recipes. Then she washed what few clothes they had, to try to fill the empty minutes.
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