As the plane lifted off the ground, he could feel an unstoppable rage course through him. What the fuck is Thur doing here? Had he retired and left Syria behind? How could such a bastard have escaped punishment for his crimes?
To ask the question was to answer it. All the bastards remained free men, up to and including President Assad himself. Dared remembered the interview he’d given two years before to an investigator from Amnesty International. His testimony — along with that of some eighty other victims — had been incorporated into a report with conclusions that had been impossible to deny. In Saydnaya, thousands of innocents had been systematically tortured and murdered. Students, lawyers, human-rights activists, soldiers, officers. Since the failure of the Arab Spring, somewhere between five thousand and thirteen thousand of the regime’s opponents had been executed. Three hundred deaths per month, often many more than that, and the torture and murder had continued to this day.
The most loathsome fact of all was that the guilty parties would never be held to account for their crimes. Russia still supported Assad, while the rest of the world declined to choose sides and simply waited for the conflict to bleed itself out. Now that the dictator had the upper hand, he was once again the only authority the West could engage with. That thought was unbearable, and Dared struggled with it daily. Was there nothing he could do?
Thur returned from the bathroom at the front of the economy cabin. He’d been there twice already. A weak bladder, Dared suspected. Or airsickness. He had considered following Thur into the narrow space and killing him. But how? Thur was bigger and, despite the difference in their ages, undoubtedly stronger. And how could Dared hope to leave the scene of such an act without being noticed?
An absurd idea.
A daydream.
Thur deserved to die, but Dared wasn’t prepared to risk his hard-won freedom to achieve that end.
He watched as his enemy stood, waiting for the passengers in his row to make room for him, absently stroking his bushy mustache. For the briefest moment, Thur looked right at him, and his eagle eyes glittered. Had he recognized Dared? It was hard to believe that could be possible. Thur had personally tortured, humiliated, and murdered hundreds, if not thousands, of men. Merciless, a killing machine. And the bastard probably never lost a second of sleep over his deeds.
Dared balled his fists and saw his knuckles whiten. The women on either side of him inched away. He tried to force himself to smile, but failed.
The seat-belt sign illuminated. “This is your captain speaking...” The voice on the PA system announced that the plane would be landing at Amsterdam’s airport in a quarter of an hour. The temperature on the ground was 41°F, visibility was good, and there was no wind.
Inside Dared’s head, however, a storm raged. Anger, frustration — especially the latter. Sitting so close to the man who had destroyed his life and had been responsible for the death of his brother, yet he was unable to do anything about it. He craved revenge, but understood that his options were extremely limited. Perhaps he could turn Thur over to the police upon their arrival at the airport. This man is a war criminal. Arrest him!
They would laugh at him.
Meanwhile, Thur had visited the bathroom yet again. Visibly perspiring, he limped back to his seat. Was he ill? Dared hoped so. Typhoid fever, cancer. He would be happy if the villain dropped dead right there and then. Aisle Seat and Middle Seat stood once more to make room for him, and Thur dropped clumsily back into his place by the window.
The airplane descended through the clouds. Far below lay The Netherlands, a sea of lights. Streets, highways, homes. A network of orderly straight lines.
With a gentle bump, the Boeing touched down and taxied toward the terminal. The moment it came to a stop, the passengers jumped up and pulled their carry-ons from the overhead racks. The aircraft’s door opened, and the seats and aisles gradually emptied.
Thur remained in his seat, his head resting against the window, as if he’d fallen asleep.
Dared also stayed where he was, no idea what his next move might be.
“You all right, sir?”
With a concerned expression on her face, the flight attendant bent over Thur, who mumbled something inaudible, got to his feet, took a small case from the bin, and, supporting himself by holding onto the seat backs, struggled up the aisle to the exit door.
Dared slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and followed.
“Have a nice stay in Amsterdam, sir.”
As he nodded his thanks to the crew member at the door, Dared watched Thur stagger up the jet bridge like a drunkard. The man was definitely sick. Dared stayed close behind him.
They reached the far end of the jetway. The terminal was visible on the other side of a glass wall. There was still some distance to go before they would arrive at passport control. A sign on a pole apologized for the moving walkway being out of service. Thur made an annoyed gesture and stumbled slowly on, Dared keeping thirty feet behind him.
The Bull reached the restrooms, then leaned against the wall between them, as if unsure which was the right one. Then he pushed the men’s room door open and went inside.
Dared hesitated. Should he follow the Bull into the bathroom? And, if so, then what?
He looked around. No travelers, no airport personnel, no crew. The corridor was deserted.
He pushed open the bathroom door and examined the interior. Three urinals and two sinks to the right, four stalls to the left. The handicapped stall’s door stood open a crack.
As Dared listened for evidence of anyone else’s presence, he saw Thur sitting on the floor of the handicapped stall, leaning against the side wall, his eyes closed, his face white and dripping with sweat, his jacket unbuttoned. His suitcase lay at his feet.
Dared pushed the stall door open.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
“Are you all right?”
He said the words in English, and there was no sign that the Bull was aware of him standing there. He set his messenger bag down on the floor and leaned over Thur.
“Can you hear me?”
No reaction.
“Do you need help?” he asked, this time in Arabic.
Thur opened his eyes and peered up at him in surprise.
“Are you sick?”
Thur nodded as if it was a foolish question and stammered something unintelligible.
“What’s that you say?” said Dared, swinging the stall door closed behind him.
“Hypodermic,” the Bull gasped.
Dared recognized the symptoms: the pale face, the perspiration, the irritation. Karim al-Zaliq was diabetic, and his blood sugar was dangerously low.
“Dextrose,” the man managed to say, and he motioned to his case, which he had apparently been unable to open.
Dared undid the clasps. Inside one of the compartments, he found a vial of dextrose tablets and four insulin pens and needles.
“Dextrose,” Thur said impatiently.
“I can’t find your tablets,” Dared replied, turning the case so Thur couldn’t see the vial.
The Bull muttered angrily.
Dared took the four needles from their sterile packaging, pressed each onto a separate insulin pen, rotating them clockwise to engage their locking threads, then set each pen to the maximum dosage. When he flicked the top end of each barrel with a fingernail, he saw Thur’s eyes widen in fear.
“What are you—?”
Before the man could move, Dared jabbed two of the needles into his stomach.
“What are you doing?”
“Repaying you for all the deaths you have on your conscience,” Dared spat out, pressing the plungers.