by Isaac Hooke
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.
twenty-one
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 wet
ness 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 wasn'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."
"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.
twenty-two
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 Android 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.