Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup (15 page)

She didn't move.

"There is no baby, is there?" he said.

No answer.

"That's what I thought. Where is your husband? At work?"

"Dead."

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you." He hesitated, then lowered his veil.

When he revealed his face her body language shifted subtly. Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. She was still afraid, but she trusted him for some reason. Him, this strange mujahid who had carried a Dragunov sniper rifle into her house.

"What do you want?" she said.

"Your neighbor," Ethan said. "Tell me everything you know about him. Quickly."

Her head shifted subtly to the right, indicating she knew he was referring to the Chinese national in 2B.

"He moved in over a month ago, after the previous occupants fled. He and his wife keep to themselves, mostly. He leaves around noon every day. For work, I guess."

"You've seen the armed escort that accompanies him?"

She nodded slowly. "It is hard not to. Sometimes they come to his door, making a loud racket in the halls. Most of the time he goes down to meet them with his bodyguards."

Ethan glanced toward the door and its peephole, and then at the canopied window adjoining the family room. Confined as she was to her apartment most of the day, Ethan supposed she was well-acquainted with her only windows onto the world.

"His bodyguards?" Ethan said.

"Yes, two Chinese men. They are with him at all times. They room in the apartment."

Ethan rubbed his chin. Interesting. That meant his wife was likely confined to the bedroom when the scientist and his bodyguards were home. "He leaves at noon every day? Bringing his bodyguards with him?"
 

"Yes. Except Sundays."

"And he comes back with the bodyguards in the evening?"

"Yes. Around eight o'clock."

"Does he go out regularly at other times?" Ethan said. "For prayers, maybe? A nightly walk, a morning stroll?"

The voice behind that black-shrouded face became cold. "Do you believe I spend my days glued to the spyhole at my front door? I don't know."

"How well do you know the wife?"

"I don't."

Ethan rubbed his chin. "Make friends with his wife. Develop a rapport. Gain her trust."

"Why?" she said.

"Other than for the obvious reason that if you don't do as I ask, I'll hand you over to the Khansa'a brigade?" He retrieved a handful of Syrian pounds from his pocket and let them land, clinking, onto the countertop.

Her veiled head turned toward the coins. "I don't want your money."

"Take it," Ethan said. "There's more where that came from. A lot more. As long as you do what you're told."

She remained silent. He wished he could read her expression through that black veil.
 

"If you won't help me, perhaps I'll turn in the baker across the street. Knowingly selling goods to an unchaperoned woman is a crime."

"I'll help you," she said quickly.

"Good." Blackmail was an unfortunate part of the job, and he used it when he had to. Didn't mean he liked it. "I'll send you more instructions in a few days. You have access to the Internet?"

"There is an Internet cafe a block to the north. I go there once every few days."

"By yourself?"

Her head bobbed slightly. "Yes."

"You have no one who can act as your chaperon?"

"My brother," she said. "But he visits only once a week."

"What about a chaperon service?"

"The Caliphate does not allow them. All chaperons must be related."

Ethan chuckled softly. "That doesn't stop people from offering the service."

"It's risky," she said. "If a militant or Hisbah checks our IDs and discovers we're unrelated..."

"It's less risky than going out on your own."

She didn't have a response to that. Certainly a stubborn woman.

Ethan rubbed his forehead. "All right. Check your email by yourself, when you can. Do you have The Mujahid's Security?"

"I have this. My husband taught me how to use it."

"Good." He wrote down the username and password to one of his gmail aliases. "I'll expect a message from you in the draft folder in a few days, if not sooner, containing your public key." He handed her a memory stick he'd bought from a street vendor. "Run the program on here before you send me any messages. It will delete any malware on the machines you use." He'd given Mufid a similar stick a few days ago.

Ethan turned to go, then paused, remembering something she had said. "This brother of yours. What day does he visit?"

"Wednesdays."

That was tomorrow. "I'd like to meet him," Ethan said, never one to miss an opportunity to acquire another asset.

She took a step back. "No. We should... we should leave him out of this." The fear was thick in her voice.

Ethan was beginning to suspect her brother was a rebel of some kind. Even better.

"I insist," Ethan said. "Tomorrow, tell him you wish to be chaperoned on a date."

"And what do I say to explain how we met?"

"Tell him a mujahid knocked on the wrong door. Tell him I was enamored when I saw you."
 

"How do you know I'm not ugly behind this veil?" she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.

"Maybe you are. Tell him I was enamored anyway. How often do we mujahadeen get the chance to see a woman's face these days, after all? You could look like a donkey and I'd be in love."

"But I never answer my door without the veil," she said.

"Just say you washed all your niqabs and only had a hijab handy. It's not a crime to answer your door without a veil."

"Isn't it?"

"Not if you don't let the visitor in. Tell him the mujahid insisted, and you were afraid so you opened it, just a crack, keeping your door chain latched."

She hesitated. "This is a bad idea."

"I'm the father of bad ideas. Tomorrow at eight. Al Rashid restaurant. Just in front of Swan Garden beside the Municipal Stadium."

"I know the place," she said.

Ethan grinned. "They serve amazing
fatteh
."
 

"I don't like fatteh."

"Well you'll like the fatteh they serve. Eight o'clock. What was your name again?"

She hesitated. "Alzena."

He wasn't sure he believed her. Alzena was a generic name that literally meant "the woman."

Ethan smiled and said: "And I am Alrajil." The man.

* * *

At the checkpoint Abdullah and the others gave him shit for taking so long to bring the bread. "We thought you ran off to join the infidels!" Zarar joked, though his accusation wasn't so far from the truth.

That night Ethan left Mufid an encrypted message, sending the address of the target's apartment and the time the motorcade arrived. He asked if Mufid, his son or one of their associates could covertly tail the motorcade and relay the eventual destination to him. A photo of the final building would be good, too, but not required.

The next evening Ethan left the compound after prayers and jogged to the restaurant where he was to meet Alzena. By the time he arrived he was covered in sweat.

Though he'd cased the spot earlier, at night the area was a completely different beast, and at first he wasn't even sure he had the correct location, as the unpowered street lamps provided no light to read the sign, nor were there any windows on the otherwise nondescript building.
 

When he stepped inside, he found himself in a dining room of burnt-brick walls decorated with abstract paintings. Cylindrical light casings hung from the ceiling; lightbulbs shone dimly from within, indicating that somewhere a diesel generator was operating. Small candles inside glass bowls provided additional ambiance at each table.
 

The eyes of the male patrons turned toward him, and his gaze was met with either nonchalance or fear, and sometimes contempt. He wore a traditional white robe and checkered keffiyeh, but what made it obvious he was a militant was the Dragunov he sported over one shoulder. He had considered leaving the sniper rifle behind but in the end decided to bring it. The pros of being readily identifiable as a mujahid far outweighed the cons.
 

The two women present had raised their niqabs to eat, and while their faces were readily exposed, their hijabs still hid their hair. Both women appeared middle-aged and relatively plain, and didn't allow their eyes to stray from their chaperones, who sat across from them. Neither of them could have been Alzena, because their tables had seating for two alone.

The elderly proprietor immediately rushed forward to greet him. "Salaam, salaam. Welcome to Al Rashid!" He shook Ethan's hand enthusiastically.

"Salaam," Ethan said, smiling lightly.

"We welcome the fighters of our great Caliphate!" the proprietor said. "Welcome with open arms!"

"Wonderful," Ethan said.

The man led him to a table for four and Ethan took a seat in one of the wooden chairs. The red tablecloth had the words "Coca-Cola" on it.

The elderly proprietor hurried to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a cool towelette. Ethan used it to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and neck.
 

When the man had gone, Ethan watched the doorway for a minute, then glanced at the menu. Each Arabic entry had the English equivalent written beside it:
Sorcki
Salad (dry cheese with thyme, tomato, onion, parsley, olive oil),
Kibeh Niye
(raw lamb meat mixed with bulgur wheat and spices),
Makdous
(tangy eggplants stuffed with walnuts, olive oil and red peppers). The latest prices were printed on paper cutouts glued to the menu—the cost of each item had increased so many times that the cutouts formed small lumps.
 

Ethan's attention was drawn back to the door as a woman and man entered. The woman's niqab was still down, so he couldn't see her face. It must have been difficult for her to navigate the dark streets outside with that on, though apparently in the low light of the restaurant she could see readily enough, because she gestured toward Ethan immediately.

Upon seeing the man who accompanied her, he understood in that moment why Alzena hadn't wanted to have the meeting.

Fool
, he thought.
 

The pair reached the table and Ethan stood.

"As salaamu alaykum," the chaperon said in a cool voice.

"Wa alaykuma salaam," Ethan returned with a calm he did not feel. He shook the man's hand.

Her brother was not a rebel at all, but rather, judging from the radio harness worn over his white thawb, and the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he was a young, strapping member of the Hisbah.

He sat to Ethan's left, while the veiled woman took the seat across the table, also to his left so that she wouldn't reside directly across from him.

Ethan was about to initiate small talk when the black ghost lifted her veil and his breath caught in his throat.

A woman of her spectacular beauty was a rare, rare thing. She had it all. Perfectly symmetrical features. Prominent cheek bones. Strong, sharp nose. Flawless olive skin. Luscious, sensual lips. Almond-shaped eyes. He only wished he could see her hair, hidden as it was beneath the folds of her hijab.
 

Alzena's head was lowered, but she glanced upward for a moment and when her gaze met his, Ethan felt his heart quicken. Those eyes were like two blue, brilliant sapphires, of an azure different from anything he had ever seen. They seemed fathomless, and he felt they could swallow him up if he stared for too long. And yet for all their depth, there was a sadness about them.
 

The moment lasted maybe half a second before she lowered her gaze once more, her cheeks reddening slightly.

"I am Raafe," her brother announced coldly, breaking Ethan's trance. "Alzena's brother. You are Alrajil?"

Ethan glanced at Raafe. The Hisbah regarded him with open disdain.

"Yes," Ethan said.

The proprietor came over and lavished Raafe with praise. "What great works the Hisbah are doing for this city! What great changes have taken place. Allahu ahkbar!"

"Allahu ahkbar," Raafe agreed.

"Allahu ahkbar," Ethan echoed.

The proprietor gave the new arrivals cool towelettes, then took the drink requests. Water for Ethan and Alzena, a coke for Raafe. Ethan also ordered the mains: chicken fatteh, kebab
khashkhash
, and a side of flatbread.
 

"So you want to marry my sister?" Raafe said into the uncomfortable silence that followed the proprietor's departure.

Ethan had almost forgotten: going on a date in a strictly Muslim country was tantamount to asking for a woman's hand in marriage.

"I am considering this, yes," Ethan said. It wasn't even a lie. He couldn't resist glancing at her, though she refused to meet his gaze that time.
 

"It is very unusual how you met," Raafe said.

"It is," Ethan agreed, not exactly sure what Alzena had told her brother.

"The Khansa'a Brigade typically arranges weddings for foreign fighters," Raafe said. "Making chaperoned meetings such as these unnecessary."

"The women's brigade?" Ethan said. "I thought they were just sharia enforcers?"

"They are." Raafe seemed slightly insulted, as if he thought Ethan hadn't shown the proper respect due the Khansa'a by calling them
just
sharia enforcers. "But they also hunt down
eligible women."
 

Ethan thought that was an interesting choice of words.
Hunt down
. "I didn't know."
 

"We need to better educate the new fighters. It would avoid uncomfortable situations such as this." Raafe tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Speaking of the Khansa'a, I will have to have a talk with them. My sister's
iddah
ended weeks ago." That was the prescribed period of mourning a woman must observe after the death of a spouse: four lunar months and ten days. "I'm sure they will find someone perfect for her." Raafe spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion she would not marry Ethan. Which she wouldn't, of course.