When Zuabi returned, the sun had gone down and it was time for Maghrib — evening prayer. So the two went to the wudu room together and quietly washed their bodies before heading upstairs to kneel before Allah.
Afterward, they returned to Zuabi’s office, and after a few brief pleasantries Haddad broke the news.
“I think they may have traveled with me on the plane to Belgrade,” he said. “That is the only explanation I can think of for their being there. But I wasn’t aware of them until after I arrived in Sofia.”
Zuabi considered this. “Do you know who they were?”
Haddad shook his head. “A Turk and a woman, that’s all I can tell you. I thought she was a Gypsy, but now I’m not so certain.”
Haddad saw no point in mentioning their night together. The whore lingered in his memory as an effigy of dangerous lust and blind, stupid, dangerous trust. The pleasures he had enjoyed, and they were considerable, were swallowed in a swamp of disgust and self-reproach.
Zuabi frowned. “This is a concern, Hassan. If someone knows about our plans, they could destroy everything we’ve built. I assume you took care of the matter?”
“The woman,” Haddad said. “But the Turk got away. And I can’t be certain how much he knows.”
Zuabi’s frown deepened. “Our friends won’t be happy about this. They’ll want assurances that we haven’t been compromised. Our relationship is already on shaky ground after the incident with Abdal.”
Zuabi often spoke of their “friends,” but had never bothered to give Haddad details about who they were. The Hand of Allah had several sources of revenue, much of it funneled through charities around the world, but these particular friends-or benefactors-continued to remain anonymous to Haddad, an endless source of frustration for him. Did Zuabi not trust him? Was he not, after all, one of the Hand of Allah’s most dedicated soldiers?
But like any good soldier, he remained silent, not allowing himself to ask the questions that so plagued him.
Instead he said, “Is it necessary for them to know?”
Zuabi thought about this a moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in raising an alarm until we understand who we’re dealing with. You continue as before and I’ll look into the matter. If you see this Turk again, find out what you can and then kill him.”
“What about Abdal? Have you decided what to do with that fool?”
Haddad had only learned about the disaster in San Francisco upon his return to London, and had been relieved to hear that the Americans believed the incident had originated locally. Abdal al-Fida had recently returned to London himself, and if it had been up to Haddad he would have killed him within moments of his arrival.
But Zuabi was apparently leaning toward benevolence.
“He’s quite contrite about the whole incident,” the old cleric said. “He has promised to do anything he can to remain in our favor.”
“He’s a liability,” Haddad said. The words were softer than he had intended, since he himself had made a few bad calls of late.
Zuabi nodded. “But I see no reason to let him believe that. Fear has a way of loosening a man’s tongue. If he continues to believe he is safe with us, he’ll remain faithful to the cause.” He paused. “And he is the son of one of my dearest friends. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
“Is it wise to let sentiment guide us?” Haddad pressed. “We could arrange an accident-”
Zaubi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not worry. Abdal will be dealt with when the time is right.”
“And the woman he’s been seeing? Will she be dealt with, too?”
“We’re not savages, Haddad. Abdal may be impulsive, impatient, but he’s not stupid. The woman is a mere distraction. A Yemeni girl. I’ve looked into her and she knows nothing about us.”
“And if you are mistaken?”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Haddad made it a habit to question everyone’s judgment, including his own, but he immediately backed down.
“No,” he said softly. “Of course not.”
The anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Zuabi rose from behind his desk. “Then I believe we’re done here.” He gestured for Haddad to accompany him to the door. “There’s much to do before you travel, my brother. This Turk aside, I trust everything else is in order?”
“Yes. It’s all falling into place. I’ll be leaving again in a few days.”
“Good,” Zuabi said, then smiled. “I look forward to the moment we can stand here together and celebrate the defeat of the infidels.”
“As do I,” Haddad told him. “As do I.”
He was waiting for his train when he thought he saw the Turk again.
Haddad stood close to the tracks at the Westminster Underground Station, listening to the voices of waiting passengers reverberate against the walls, when he caught a glimpse of movement at the far edge of the crowd.
Small. Dark hair. Flash of a beard.
Nothing particularly noteworthy, of course. There were at least half a dozen such people here. But the figure he saw had a way of carrying himself that reminded him of the man he’d spotted on the train from Belgrade and in that hotel lobby.
An instant later the man was gone, swallowed by the crowd, and Haddad wondered if his imagination were getting the better of him. He’d barely seen a face, and what he had seen could be anyone. Anyone at all.
But he didn’t think so.
His instincts may have failed him somewhat in Bulgaria, but he had the same feeling now that he had then: that he was once again being watched.
And he knew who the watcher was.
He didn’t take a second look, however, instead keeping his eyes on the tunnel, waiting for his train to arrive. If the Turk remained in that same general area he’d be entering just three cars down.
Haddad wasn’t foolish enough to make the same mistake twice. He assumed the Turk wasn’t working alone. The Gypsy whore had been replaced by someone new. Someone who would also be on this platform, a rooks-on-king move modeled after the game of chess: one rook could be blocked, lost, or avoided by the king but not without remaining vulnerable to the other.
The woman standing next to him, perhaps? The old man stooped over the water fountain? The curly-headed college student with an e-book reader?
It could be any of them. Or none. The only way to find out was to leave this place and see who followed.
But he didn’t leave immediately. Instead he waited several minutes until his train finally glided up to the platform, its brakes hissing. The doors opened and the crowd began pushing through them, anxious to find seats.
Haddad moved along with the other passengers, then hung back suddenly and turned, heading for the stairs.
He didn’t wait to see if he was followed.
When he reached the street, Haddad immediately ducked into a nearby pub-the Old Town Brewery-and stood near the front window, watching the underground steps less than two hundred yards away.
A moment later a man emerged from the stairwell and bounded to the top of the steps, out of breath, his head swiveling, his eyes frantically searching the crowded sidewalk. There was no question about it now.
It was the Turk.
As the man’s gaze shifted to the pub, Haddad stepped back from the window to avoid being seen. The place was dimly lit and the shadows hid him well.
But the Turk must have had instincts, too. He knew that Haddad couldn’t have disappeared that fast unless he’d taken refuge in one of the nearby stores. And the darkness of the Old Town Brewery was the most likely candidate. Fixing his gaze on the front doorway, the Turk headed straight for it.
That was Haddad’s cue to move.
The pub was sparsely populated with ruddy-faced businessmen and their whorish companions. Haddad weaved his way through them to the back, counting the seconds it took, then ducked through a doorway marked TOILETS and found himself in a dim hallway lined with old black-and-white photographs of London.