Hoda and Jake

by Richard Booth

  “We can’t stay here,” Jake said.

  “I know.”

  “Marwa?”

  “Yes.” Softly.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.

  “Sorry about the commotion.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” It was the most words she had spoken since they met.

  “Really?”

  “I’m Syrian,” Marwa said.

  Jake and Hoda exchanged the briefest of glances. He started the car and backed out, heading for North Main Street and Route 95. It was the most obvious way, but also the fastest, and speed was of the essence.

  “Those clothes are ruined,” Hoda said.

  “So’s my day,” Jake replied. “Marwa?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m very sorry I had to touch you back there. Couldn’t be helped. You understand?”

  “Yes. It’s all right.”

  “No scrapes or bruises?”

  “No.” She was putting in the ear buds to her iPod. Hoda and Jake could speak frankly.

  “You think they’ll come after us?” Hoda asked.

  “Somebody will, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t surprise me to have a meeting of the minds with Rhode Island’s finest before long.” They were on Route 95 now, cresting a hill in North Stonington. The Rhode Island border was only a couple of miles away.

  “Any ideas?” Jake asked.

  “I think it would be better to get off ninety-five,” Hoda said. “Try Old Route 3?”

  “Not bad,” Jake admitted. Secretly, he hoped they made it that far. When the staties wanted somebody, they generally got their man. Or man and women. And gunplay made them ever-so-edgy.

  “It’s this exit,” Hoda said after awhile. Jake knew it, but didn’t say so. Soon they were on the winding road that took traffic from downstate Rhode Island—South County—to the throbbing metropolis of Providence before the interstate. Jake had once had an MGB sports car, and driven it many times. It was lovely in that context. Before long, they approached a motel, and Jake pulled into it.

  “We need a break,” he said. “I need to clean up, the car’s got to be sanitized, and we need to call Robinson. Besides, I still think RISP are looking for us. You check us in. Get a room at the back.”

  Hoda got out, saying nothing but feeling a little strange leaving a man in the car with Marwa. That was her Egyptian genes, she knew, but at least Marwa was in the back seat. Hoda was back in moments, and Jake pulled around behind the motel, parking under a huge tree. That would screen them from the air.

  “Bring the aid kit,” Jake said, and could have kicked himself. Hoda said nothing, but didn’t like being ordered about, he knew, especially on so obvious a thing. Hoda ushered Marwa out, and they went to the room door. Marwa kept watch while Jake opened it; a routine precaution though the likelihood of trouble was vanishing small. Sure enough, there was none. It was cheap, but it would serve.

  “Let’s get a better look at you,” Hoda ordered. “Take off that shirt and lie down.”

  “The bleeding’s stopped,” she reported, taking off the gauze. She’d checked first to ensure there was a second supply for a new dressing. That was good—stopping at a pharmacy might have tipped the police.

  “It’s only a couple of inches in. You were lucky, Jake.”

  His name on those lips made him smile. For half a second, taking leave of his senses, Jake almost joked, “Nice bedside manner.” But his brain rescued his machismo. One didn’t say that to a Muslima—especially a Muslima one was starting to like considerably. And respect. That opened up a more productive line of conversation.

  “That was some shooting,” Jake said. “I have to hand it to you, Hoda.” He pronounced her name correctly, he knew, approximately “Hudda.”

  “My father taught me guns. Egyptians know guns. At least, some do. Hold still.” Jake winced. “There, you’ve been a good patient. Let’s get this bound up again. We’ll either have to stop at a pharmacy or a hospital. This is the last dressing I have, and if it bleeds again you’re out of luck.”

  “What’s a doctor like your father doing with guns?”

  “They’re a way of life in the Middle East.”

  “And death.”

  “He’s seen that, too,” Hoda said. She was serious.

  “You’re lucky you were born here.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. My father worked hard to get us over here.”

  “Is he a specialist?”

  “Anesthesia.”

  “Where’s he work?”

  “In Boston. They live in Norwood.”

  “The Automile.”

  Realizing she was making far too much conversation—not for the first time—Hoda said nothing. Marwa was on the other bed, still oblivious with her iPod. Hoda policed up the dressings, putting them in a plastic trash bag and tying it, then going to the bathroom and expertly washing her hands again: she’d scrubbed before doing the dressing. She’d taken her blazer off, was in slacks and blouse. Jake couldn’t help but assess her. She passed, colors flying and then some. Calm yourself, boy, he thought. Think halal: Muslim for goodness.

  Had he but known, Jake would have found solace in Hoda’s thoughts. Shirtless, Jake was a specimen. A handsome man, he kept in shape for his job, and he was not vain about it. Just a fact, working out daily. Except on jobs. He was a fair hand at unarmed combat, which would not have surprised Hoda; in fact, she had some skill in that, too. Every Ranger School graduate did. But she found it hard not to blush realizing what she was thinking about Jake Holman. This situation was about as far from anything between an unattached man and woman as Islam could imagine. Hoda almost smiled at her father’s reaction, if he knew.

  “How about I go and get your duffel?” Hoda asked. “You can’t very well walk outside looking like that.”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  She was back in a moment, and an Izod golf shirt covered a multitude of sins. Not to mention, Hoda noticed, setting off Jake’s own assets. Mentally, she shrieked: was she insane? She felt heat in her cheeks, like a teenager. It had been years since she’d felt that. Since college.

  Jake sat on the bed, looking for something. It didn’t take long for him to find an item with the motel’s address on it. He picked up the room phone. “Outside call, please,” he said, and gave the switchboard the number from memory. For five minutes, he talked to Robinson, giving cryptic updates. Just enough for the Langley man to understand. He rang off.

  “He’s going to make some calls,” Holman said. “With any luck, we won’t be bothered by the locals for at least the time it takes to reach Boston.”

  Hoda retreated again to halal propriety, said nothing. Jake noticed, but wasn’t sure why. She was back-and-forth, into her shell and out. “We should be going,” he said. Once again, his common sense rescued him: one could only guess what the desk clerk thought had transpired in that room since a man, woman and teen girl—in hijab, no less—had checked in, staying only 45 minutes. Just long enough for serious moral malfeasance. Haram, halal’s opposite. But he didn’t say so. He’d seen the security camera on the corner of the building back. Surely, the closed-circuit image displayed in the office.

  “Do you need to pray?” Jake asked softly.

  “We prayed fajr before the bomb,” Hoda said.

  “Your next one is noon?”

  “A little after it. But we’re traveling, so it’s flexible.” She was putting on her blazer, motioning to Marwa, who sat on the bed, feet on floor. She was too used to hurry up and wait, Jake noticed. A travel veteran.

  “Did you pay the bill?”

  “No,” Hoda said. “She just slid the card.”

  Jake went to the phone, picked it up. It was dead. Not a sound. Without preamble, he walked to the window, producing a Swiss Army knife. With its awl, he carefully punched the drawn shade, bringing his eye to the peephole.

  “We’re blocked in by a van,” he said softly. He knelt b
y the door, looking under it. The weather stripping was long worn, and he could see outside: shadows, right outside the door, from the late morning daylight. Moving very quickly, and with stealth, Holman unzipped his duffel and reached inside, producing a long, thin soft zipped case. Zip. From it sprang a rifle: Ruger Mini-14, a 5.56 millimeter version of the onetime NATO issue, but with a folding stock and Nikon telescopic sight. He snapped the stock out, reached into the bag, and slapped a 30-round magazine home, pulling the bolt and letting it snap forward on its strong spring. He stepped to Hoda, placing his lips to her ear.

  “I’m going to shoot through the wall,” he whispered, “then give this to you. Stay back from the window, in shadow. You’re the base-of-fire. I’m going out the bathroom window to flank them.” Those words spoke volumes to anyone in the Army.

  With Jake taking charge, there was no time to debate, Hoda knew. She nodded. Holman gestured to Marwa. She approached him, hesitantly, and he abruptly placed his free hand behind her head, pulling her close to whisper. “Lie down in the bathtub, and don’t move no matter what.” Marwa didn’t hesitate: she was gone.

  Jake leveled the Ruger at the door, calculating, flipped the safety, and pulled the trigger five times. The gun barked, its muzzle flash filling the room as empty brass tinkled. He fired in a line, chest high, left-to-right, from outside the door to the other side. The 5.56 millimeter steel jacketed bullets punched through wall, insulation and door, and human distress sounded outside.

  Jake passed the Ruger to Hoda, didn’t look back, and headed for the bathroom. Putting a foot on the tub where Marwa lay, he peered out the high window. Nothing. Thank God—or Allah, he actually found himself say mentally—it wasn’t jammed, and opened easily. Jackknifing like a gymnast, he lift himself through the opening and somersaulted to the macadam on the other side. Gun out, he had his bearings instantly. He was already hearing the Ruger as he landed.

  Inside, Hoda lifted the shade and stood aside as three shots came through it. She was well back in the room, with every light out, looking through the scope at the van across the lot. Its side door was evidently on the far side, and figures showed at either end. The scope made aiming ridiculously easy, at that range. Pop! One down. Pop-pop! Two down. The Ruger had a comfortable feel. Whoever else was out there, they weren’t showing their face. Base of fire, Jake had said. Hoda began unleashing rounds at a steady, but unpredictable rate.

  Holman circled the building wing, finding the corner leading to the lot. Kneeling, he peered around. Two men were outside their door, both wounded. Pop, her weapon went. Pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop. He was up on the two pops, and sprinting on the three.

  The lot was about fifteen meters wide, and Holman crossed it quickly. Reaching one of the few cars on the other side, in the row where the Tahoe sat blocked in, he used the sedan for cover. Then worked his way from one to the next, closing. He was to the assassins’ side, while Hoda engaged their front. She’d stopped shooting.

  Her magazine was exhausted. Not knowing where Jake was, she risked being rushed, reaching into his duffel and, miraculously—Alhamdulillah—found another. She switched, was back at the window when an enemy risked trying to rush. Hurriedly, she fired. Missed, and the man scrambled back behind the van. But now re-armed, she went back to her popping, keeping them occupied.

  Meanwhile, Holman worked his way down the line, pistol drawn. There they were, behind the van. Holman thought about calling for their surrender, but discarded the idea: there were four of them left, and he was alone. With the women to think about. Or, rather, Marwa; Hoda could take care of herself.

  Holman leveled his Sig-Sauer on the hood of a sedan, and squeezed off a round. One man, utterly hidden from Hoda’s fire, went down. He fired again, and again. One hit, one miss. Two left. They’d made him: turned, began shooting at him. Holman ducked, using the car for cover. He’d never get closer. One of the two abruptly opened the passenger door, and evidently slid across into the other seat, because his partner moved to join him and drive.

  Holman didn’t hesitate, shooting him in the back. Twice. They would’ve.

  Through the scope, Hoda saw the other man in his window. Lowering the crosshairs, she aimed through the van’s door. In one of those oddities that can happen in a gun melée, Hoda fired once just as the assailant shot through the open window of his door.

  There was an eerie silence. Long and hollow.

  And then the sirens drifted into hearing.

  It was over. There would be no more running. This had done it. Jake hastened across the parking lot to the room, making sure to move where Hoda could see him. When she didn’t appear, he ran to the room door and knocked. Knocked again. Then kicked it. Weakened by gunfire, it quickly gave way.

  Hoda was inert on the floor. Blood pooled beside her.

  ***

  The siren laid a background wail as the ambulance fired down the passing lane, enroute to Rhode Island Hospital. Hoda was groggy, and in pain. She felt something warm on her hand and squeezed; felt a squeeze back. Turning her head, she looked up into Jake’s face, realized he was holding her hand. She wanted to smile at his expression as he watched the EMT, but couldn’t. Surprised at his forwardness, she slid down the tunnel of consciousness again, into oblivion. She never saw the Rhode Island trooper in his red-piped gray uniform.

  ***

  For three days the motel was a circus, an alphabet soup of agencies and agents, detectives and media. A weary Jake Holman dodged reporters and cameras, walking first this agency representative and then that through the episode, each hoping to catch him in an inconsistency. On the second day, the arrival of Robinson’s deputy helped turn the tide: federal jurisdiction offered Holman a shield. The professional in him took over, he was on autopilot, not allowing his natural tendency to think about the one thing uppermost in his soul: Hoda Abdelal. All anyone would tell him was she had not died. For the moment, he would have to be content with that.

  ***

  Days passed for Hoda as she gradually mended in the hospital. Her parents visited daily, her mother frantic her father ever the reserved physician, conferring with hospital doctors and imperious with the nurses, casting a skeptical eye. Once sure she was out of danger, they began the inevitable barrage: this living alone, this living on the edge, had to end. Come home, do your residency, be a doctor, then marry and raise children. That was that.

  Easy for them to say.

  Hoda had something else on her mind. When she’d stabilized, she became aware of a simple, yet tasteful bouquet on the window sill. One of the aides handed her the envelope. It held Jake Holman’s Agency card, and the florist’s blank read, “Thinking of you. May I visit?”

  Hoda smiled down at the card.

  “Are my things here?” she asked the aide.

  “I can get them.”

  “Yes. I need my cell.”

  “You’re not supposed to in here.”

  Hoda whispered, “It’s okay. I’m a doctor.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well… okay.”

  Minutes later, she sent a text to the number on Jake’s card:

  call first.

  Now, she’d have to get a pretty hijab.

  Breakthrough

  “I’m sure he’s a nice young man.”

  Abdul Hassan smiled, “And doubtless quite handsome. I can see why you’re smitten. But it’s quite out of the question, of course. You see that, surely.”

  Hassan said it in Arabic, with all the assurance that came of being a respected physician, privileged at more than a dozen of the best hospitals in the world. It was one of the things that brought him and his family to Greater Boston from Cairo. That, and educational opportunities for his daughter. When Hoda chose the University of Rhode Island—against his wishes for Boston University or Tufts—and an ROTC scholarship to blunt his threat not to pay, it had strained their relationship: Arab daughters do what they are told.

  Now that daughter, an only child thanks to fertil
ity problems causing Hassan and Maryam great sadness not to say embarrassment, faced them across a table in the little Middle Eastern café in suburban Norwood. Hoda’s world was fraying, pulling her in three directions.

  Graduating at the top of her class in pharmacy from URI, Hoda used the Army to pay for Tufts Medical School; but the Army wanted what it called a utilization tour: several years as an Army Medical Corps doctor. Then Military Intelligence found her, and her combination of clinical and Arabic language skills, and poached her from the Medical Corps. Hoda loved her job at Fort Monmouth, NJ, working on interrogation techniques. Unlike her father, she found no conflict of interest crafting new, sophisticated ways of extracting information from terror suspects without causing them harm. She was American-born, after all, and felt the sting when the World Trade Towers fell. It was her way of cultural atonement.

  So Medical Corps and Intelligence dueled over her—and into her life walked Jake Holman.

  Hoda and Holman had escorted a federal witness, a 15-year-old Muslim girl, from Washington to Boston months ago. Only they hadn’t gotten all the way, fighting through two ambushes before finally making a stand and wiping out the attack cell sent to kill the witness. Both she and Jake had been shot, Hoda critically. To Hoda’s astonishment, she found herself attracted to Holman, and she was sure he felt the same.

  Only he was all wrong: American, and not Muslim. Two strikes and out, in her father’s eyes. That Jake was considering shahada, conversion to Islam, made no difference to Dr. Hassan. Neither did he like his daughter in the Army, where she did not wear the hijab, the traditional Muslim head scarf both his wife and Hoda wore at that moment. Maryam’s was plain, but Hoda dressed as the stylish young Muslima she was: slacks and blouse, her hijab gaily patterned.

  And then there was the whole issue of family and children. As a Muslima, Hoda wanted children, very much. Wanted to be a wife and mother. Had the needs and desires of a woman her age, but indulging was out of the question in Islam. It was remarkable to her that in the weeks she had known Jake Holman, he had never once suggested haram, any physical contact. No other culturally American man she’d ever met was like that. Yet he seemed so… virile. He was a stud. At least to Hoda.