The Man in the Black Suit

by Sylvain Reynard

  Acacia didn’t respond.

  Ibrahim came a step closer. “You came to find out what was happening.”

  “They were bullies.”

  “I was four. You were my big cousin, even if you were only a girl.”

  Acacia snorted and opened her eyes. “I was six. I think.”

  “You pushed the boys out of the way and called them cowards.” Ibrahim gave her a serious look. “The boys were much bigger than you, but you stood in front of me.”

  She peered up at her cousin suspiciously. “You were crying. I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

  “The ringleader, Hassan, pushed you to the ground. You got up. You dusted off your dress and stood, your head held high. So he pushed you again. You got up. Over and over he pushed you down, and you kept getting up.”

  She shrugged. “I was stubborn.”

  “He screamed at you to stay down. You kept standing up.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Acacia admitted. “They had us against the fence. They could have thrown stones at any moment.”

  “The others pulled Hassan away. He was screaming, and they were afraid their parents would hear. You took me home.”

  “I can’t believe you remember that. It was a lifetime ago.”

  “‘Whoever does an evil deed will not be recompensed except by the like thereof; but whoever does righteousness, whether male or female, while he is a believer—those will enter Paradise,’” Ibrahim recited.

  Acacia recognized the words from the Qur’an. “Are you telling me I did a righteous thing?”

  Ibrahim didn’t answer.

  “I’ve read the Qur’an, too.” She retrieved the book from the table next to her bed and flipped through it. “‘And if any one of the polytheists seeks your protection, then grant him protection so that he may hear the words of Allah. Then deliver him to his place of safety. That is because they are a people who do not know.’”

  “You know, Hanin. You were raised Muslim.”

  “I am Muslim. I never left the faith. Look.” She held up her wrist and showed him the hamsa pendant. “I wear it for protection.”

  “You whored for a Jew,” he spat.

  “My father is going to kill me. But I protected you when you were a child, Ibrahim. Now I’m asking for your protection. If the Qur’an commands you to protect non-Muslims who seek your help, how much more should you protect one of your own?”

  “‘He it is who gives life and causes death; and when He decrees a matter, He but says to it, “Be,” and it is,’” Ibrahim countered. “It is the will of Allah that you return to the truth faith.”

  “‘Grant him protection…Then deliver him to his place of safety,’” she repeated. “I’m a Muslim. I’m asking for your protection.”

  Ibrahim’s expression shifted. He moved closer to the door. “You fornicated with Mossad.”

  “How do you know? Because my father told you?” Acacia’s anger flared. “What else did he tell you? That bombs don’t kill people, people kill people?”

  “We’re fighting a war.”

  “A war with whom? Other Muslims?”

  Ibrahim glared. “Some of the governments are corrupt.”

  “My father gets to decide who’s righteous? He isn’t an Imam. He isn’t a holy man.”

  Ibrahim stepped forward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I do.” She lifted the Qur’an. “I’ve read it in Arabic, the same as you. Are you going to tell me that saving you from those boys wasn’t a righteous deed?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m not the one with the gun, cousin.” She pointed an accusing finger. “You accuse me of fornication, but are you guilty of murder?”

  She flipped through the pages of the book. “‘Whoever kills a soul—it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one—it is as if he had saved mankind entirely.’”

  Ibrahim spat out a curse. “You aren’t worthy to recite it.”

  “Why not? The Qur’an tells me to read it. You’re going to tell me to go against the Qur’an?”

  “You aren’t reciting all of it. You’re picking and choosing.”

  “Are there passages that contradict what I’ve recited?” she challenged.

  He crossed his arms. “The Qur’an is truth.”

  “Then there won’t be a contradiction. When my father kills souls—Muslims, Jews, and Christians—it is as if he has killed the entire world. And when he stands before Allah, he will be judged.”

  Ibrahim took a step forward, his face angry. “If we don’t protect our people, they will be slaughtered. Someone has to defend them.”

  She took a deep breath. “How are you defending them? You can’t be in favor of killing Muslim children, Ibrahim. That’s what my father’s weapons do. They kill mothers and children.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Propaganda. You’re Mossad.”

  “I’m Muslim. I work at a hotel in Paris, and I’m certainly not a spy. I speak the truth.” She pointed to the Qur’an. “When my father murders me, I will stand before Allah and be judged. And I will stand as one who did a righteous deed. When you enter the afterlife, you will be a murderer.”

  Ibrahim cursed her, loudly and angrily.

  But Acacia wouldn’t stop. “Ask my father about Damascus, when he sold bombs to Muslims so they could kill other Muslims.”

  Ibrahim passed a hand over his beard. His hand was trembling.

  “You didn’t know about that, did you?” Acacia quieted her voice. “Why do you think my mother and I left Jordan? We loved our friends and neighbors. We loved our community. We didn’t want to stand by and watch my father deliver weapons that would kill.”

  Ibrahim shrugged unconvincingly. “In war, there are casualties.”

  “But the casualties aren’t supposed to be Muslims, are they? You shouldn’t kill the righteous, the people of faith.”

  “Shut up!” Ibrahim’s face darkened with anger, and he spat at her.

  Acacia lifted her hands in an expression of surrender. “Ibrahim, where are your mother and sisters?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Are they well?”

  He jerked his head.

  “Please greet them for me, cousin. May peace be upon them.”

  Without acknowledgment, he strode to her cot and picked up the Qur’an. “You’re an apostate. You don’t deserve to touch this!”

  “You would take away a Muslim’s holy book?”

  Ibrahim scowled. “You left the faith for a Jew.”

  “I protected you. I did a righteous deed. Will you stand by and watch while my father throws stones?”

  Ibrahim avoided her eyes. Carrying the book reverently, he went to the door and knocked.

  “When you stand before Allah, you will have to answer for your actions,” Acacia called after him. “What justification will you give for killing your own people?”

  The door opened and slammed shut, leaving her alone.

  She curled into a ball on the cot.

  It was likely she’d worsened the situation and that Ibrahim would run and repeat everything to her father. But since her father intended to kill her, she had nothing to lose. Better that he fly into a rage and murder her than starve her to death or force her to watch him murder her mother.

  She closed her eyes and prayed she’d have the strength to make her escape the next day. Time was running out.

  Chapter Fifty

  A HAND COVERED HER MOUTH.

  Acacia jerked awake and drove her fists into the dark figure bent over her.

  The room was black. Not even the lights from the courtyard were shining through the window.

  The figure batted away her blows. “We’re here to rescue you. Keep quiet. Injuries?” he whispered in English.

 
“Concussion,” she whispered. “Bruised back. But I can walk.”

  The man wore combat gear, which she could barely make out. He seemed to be accompanied by others. She wondered if they’d cut the power to her father’s compound. They appeared to be wearing night vision goggles.

  The man lifted her to his shoulder and began to move. Acacia bounced as they exited the cell and jogged down the hall. He picked his way around a couple of bodies on the floor. She couldn’t tell if one of them was Ibrahim.

  She heard a shout in the distance and the rattle of gunfire.

  The man clutched her more tightly and began to run. Boots pounded against the concrete floor and over the mosaic tile in the courtyard.

  Gunfire split the silence and a spray of bullets flew through the air. She heard the cries of someone who was hit and loud cursing in Arabic.

  She heard more gunfire, and the man carrying her went down.

  Acacia landed on the soldier, who tried to cushion her blow. She rolled off him and ducked for cover. “Are you all right?” she hissed in English.

  The man swore and grabbed his thigh. Blood poured from underneath his fingers. “Goddamn it!”

  A flashlight shone in her eyes. Someone grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet.

  She planted her feet, squinting to see who held her hand. As soon as she realized it was one of her father’s men, she didn’t hesitate.

  She withdrew the spoon she’d hidden in her sleeve and jammed the handle into the side of the man’s neck. Blood spurted in a wide arc as he screamed in pain. He released her and fell to his knees as blood continued to spurt from his wound. He covered his neck with his hands, gurgling and gasping.

  Acacia stared, frozen.

  Another soldier began dragging her toward the door. “We gotta go. Now!”

  Acacia turned to see the wounded man slump to the floor. He didn’t move.

  Bullets whizzed by, and two other solders approached from in front of her, trying to provide cover to their fallen comrade.

  Acacia struggled to keep up with the soldier who gripped her bicep. He pulled her out of the courtyard and toward a waiting Humvee.

  Acacia vomited next to the vehicle.

  “Jesus,” one of the soldiers said. He grabbed a cloth from inside the Humvee and handed it to her. “Is there more?”

  Acacia didn’t answer. She vomited once again and doubled over.

  “We gotta go,” another voice said from inside the Humvee.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered, swallowing bile. She wiped her mouth with the towel.

  “Are you sure?” the soldier asked. He examined her quickly.

  She climbed into the Humvee, and he followed.

  The armored vehicle pulled away, speeding down a rough, uneven trail.

  “Status,” the man in the front passenger seat barked.

  “The raven is here. She just emptied her stomach, and she’s covered in blood.” The soldier who’d helped her replied. He had an English accent and began running his hands over her arms and legs.

  “It isn’t my blood,” she replied in English.

  The soldier took note of her bandaged head and facial bruising. “She’s going to need a medic.”

  “Copy that. There’s one waiting.” The man in the front sounded American. He seemed to be the officer in charge.

  “Drink this.” The soldier on Acacia’s right handed her a bottle of water. He didn’t sound American.

  She tasted the water gratefully, but was careful not to drink too much.

  “Innis is down,” the English soldier announced.

  “Is he the soldier who was carrying me?” she croaked. “Is he all right?”

  “We’ll find out in a minute.” The officer’s tone was grim.

  “I’m sorry.” A wave of emotion hit her.

  “Honey, you got nothing to be sorry for.” The officer turned in his seat. He made eye contact. “This is our job.”

  The communication link in the vehicle crackled to life. “Innis needs a medic. Taking him back to base.”

  “Copy that. Out,” the officer responded.

  He turned to the driver. “Location?”

  “Out of range.”

  “Good.” The officer hit a couple of buttons, and the com link crackled once again. “Ranger one to S-one. We’re out of range. Go get them.”

  “Copy that, Ranger one,” a voice came over the com link. The accent was Middle Eastern, but Acacia couldn’t place it.

  “Good luck, S-one. Over.” The officer pressed a button again, and the com link fell silent.

  “Is there a NATO base nearby?” Acacia asked.

  “Negative,” the Englishman clipped.

  She was alarmed. “Then who are you?”

  “Private contractors,” the man sitting on her right said.

  Now she recognized his accent. “Israeli?” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  “Mossad?” she asked.

  “Ex-Mossad.”

  “They thought I was Mossad.”

  “No, they didn’t,” he scoffed. “If they had, they’d have tortured you and put you out to bid.”

  Her eyes met his. If her father had captured him, things would have been far worse for him than for his American and British colleagues.

  “I think I killed someone.” She spoke to him in Arabic, hoping he could understand.

  The Israeli’s eyes flashed to hers. “Better him than you,” he replied in Arabic.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. I was trying to get away.”

  He made a horizontal motion with his hand. “Someone puts a gun to your head, someone threatens you, you do whatever you can to stay alive. That’s self-defense.”

  Acacia took a drink of water, trying to process everything that had just happened. She thought of the man in the courtyard, blood spurting from his neck. She thought of the soldier who’d carried her, clutching his thigh and swearing.

  Her father had caused this. He’d kidnapped her from her home and killed Kurt, her protector, in the process. The killing and injuries that resulted from the kidnapping were her father’s fault.

  Damn his soul, she thought. Her body shook.

  She put her hand over her heart. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said in Arabic.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Acacia was grateful they could understand one another. She didn’t want a large audience for her words. “May peace be upon you and your household.”

  “Peace be upon you, as well.”

  “What are you saying?” the officer broke in sharply.

  “She’s giving me beauty tips,” the Israeli replied in English.

  Laughter erupted in the Humvee.

  “Injuries?” He leaned closer, still speaking Arabic.

  Her hand touched her bandage. “Concussion. Head wound. Facial bruising. Blunt force to the lower back. I think they hit me with a rifle when they kidnapped me.”

  The Israeli’s expression tightened. He shifted the gun that rested on his lap.

  Three military vehicles appeared out of the darkness and sped past them, heading in the opposite direction.

  “There won’t be anything left by the time they’re done.” The Israeli jerked his chin in the direction of the other vehicles, speaking to Acacia.

  “Who are they?”

  “Syrian special forces.” He turned to face forward.

  Acacia hugged herself in an effort to stop her body from shaking. If the Syrians knew about her father’s connection to the Damascus bombings, they’d kill him.

  She remembered Nicholas telling her about the intelligence he’d acquired about her father. The Damascus bombings had not been included in the dossier.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  She’d been the source of t
hat information. She’d only passed it along to one person, which meant…

  She removed her hand from her mouth. “Are the Syrians going to kill everyone in the compound?”

  The Israeli turned his head. “I don’t know their rules of engagement.”

  Acacia felt like she was going to be sick again. She covered her mouth.

  “Put your head down.” Careful to avoid her bandage, the Israeli guided her head between her knees. “Breathe in through your nose, slowly.” His hand rested lightly between her shoulder blades.

  Acacia did what she was told. She put her guilt and horror aside to focus on her breath, visualizing her emotions like a wave that crashed over her and spilled onto the floor of the Humvee. In her mind’s eye, she watched the waters recede.

  “If it’s either you or them, you choose yourself,” the Israeli whispered. He kept his hand to her back and lowered his head so he was almost at eye level. “Every time.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to die,” she whispered.

  “They chose death when they kidnapped you and killed your bodyguard. Actions have consequences.

  “They can’t bomb people into oblivion and turn around and expect judicial process. That is not justice.”

  She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, her lungs the only thing tethering her to the moment.

  “Everyone wants justice,” she mumbled. “But does anyone know what justice really is?”

  The Humvee made a sharp turn and increased its speed. The Israeli withdrew his hand.

  Acacia lifted her head. Lights in the distance lined what appeared to be an airstrip. She saw a small jet.

  The Humvee pulled alongside the jet, near another Humvee. Several armed soldiers were guarding the plane.

  “There’s your ride,” the officer announced over his shoulder.

  The Israeli helped her out of the vehicle and held her arm as he escorted her to the plane. Her legs shook, and she stumbled.

  A man stood at the foot of the staircase that rose to the jet’s door.

  Rick.

  Without a word, she went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She hugged him as if he were a long-lost friend.