Looking up through the dust to the tops of buildings left standing, Azrak could see smoke plumes covering the city. The driver took a fast and sharp left turn, throwing him hard up against the door. As a group of unarmed men dashed across the road to cover in front of them, the driver revved the van’s engine, changing from second to third gear. A crumpled body lay in the middle of the road between two burnt out cars; one car, lying on its roof, skewed around so its still-flaming engine was nearly touching the corpse. Azrak’s driver had no choice. The van veered between the cars, its path straight towards the dead man. The van lurched upwards as it traveled over the body; a speed bump in the road of death. Another sharp turn to the left, this time the road was blocked by more armed men and mortars. The van screeched to a halt, weapons were aimed at them. A loud exchange of words, then acknowledgment they were on the same side. The six Saudi Arabian-supplied 120 mm mortars weren’t going anywhere, so the van had to reverse. Azrak watched the mortar men as his van reversed. Bombs were released into the tubes by pulling cords attached to clips on the bombs, allowing the deadly load to slide backwards to the firing pin at the base. Two mortars whoomphed as they propelled their ammunition, the trajectory only just missing the tops of the buildings in front of them; the mortars themselves bucked with the force of spewing out the bombs, only staying upright due to heavy sandbagging of the base plates and bipods. Azrak silently willed success to the bombs, invoking Allah to rain terror on his enemies.
The street-to-street fighting was less intense the further they traveled; the area was under FSA control. The van gained speed through the streets and entered one of the main roads leading towards Al-Zabadani. The arterial route was a wide six-lane road, divided down the middle with iron fencing, street lights and shell-shredded palm trees. There was more traffic here, cars, trucks and motorcycles bustled along. Azrak heard a loud thump, then another. The government forces were employing their own mortar attack. Suddenly a mortar round exploded twenty yards away. Azrak’s driver instinctively swerved the van to avoid the hot shrapnel which radiated out from the impact. Another explosion. This time it was closer. The driver had no time to react. Metal fragments tore into the side of his head and body, the van altered course and veered across the road before coming to an abrupt halt after colliding with a truck going in the same direction. Azrak took a blow to the head as he hit the roof strut. The engine stalled as the van, still in gear, had nowhere to go. With half the driver’s head scattered over the cab and himself, it took only seconds to react. Azrak pushed his door open, thankful he was unhurt and ran to the driver’s side. After two desperate attempts the driver’s door opened and his limp body fell to the ground. All praise and glory be to Allah. Removing the body away from the van’s wheels, Azrak seated himself, his buttocks sliding on the blood-drenched seat. There was no time to waste.
Driving at speed, Azrak made it to his destination without further incident. The death of his fellow fighter, an arm’s length away, was a small price to pay and now nothing more than a memory. Already it was stored away, with similar memories.
Azrak entered his brother’s house, where he exchanged a quick greeting. “It is here?”
“Yes, praise Allah, it has arrived.”
The full-bearded Mubarak Azrak wore the traditional jalabiya, a long white collarless gown. He reached for the small brown package on the table and handed it to his younger brother, who took it gently.
“We must hurry — it must be on its way tonight. For now it lives but should it die, we die with it. Allahu akbar.”
“Allahu akbar.”
Azrak took a knife from a bloodied pocket and slit the package open revealing a plastic cylinder. Holding it up to better light, he looked inside at the grungy scabby contents and smiled.
“First we must fold the keffiyeh inside the paper.” Azrak took the red and white checkered head scarf and wrapped it in brown paper.
“Do you have the tape?”
“Yes.” Mubarak took a strip of brown packing tape and cut off a two-foot length. Taking care not to stick the strip to himself, he laid it on the table sticky side up. Karam then unscrewed the plastic container and upended the mucus-covered scabs onto the wooden table. Taking his knife he carefully cut up the scabs, one by one, until they were the finest particles he could make. Once he had completed the cutting he used the flat blade of his knife to take up minute pieces of scab and with the utmost care, placed them along the sticky side of the tape — spacing them out along its full length. He carefully scraped up any mucus still on the table and in the plastic container, and placed it on the tape as well. Not a scrap was wasted.
“Now for our gift — place it on top of the tape.”
Mubarak lifted up the wrapped keffiyeh and carried out the instructions. The older brother took over and finished wrapping the parcel with the now disease-ridden tape. Another layer of brown paper was used to cover the parcel and this was taped up, this time with clean tape. Azrak wrote the name and address of the person would receive this precious cargo; Bashir Zuabi of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, New York, USA.
“Hopefully, with Allah’s help, the infidels will not discover our hidden surprise. The cattle’s gift to us has been spread so thinly I think it will not be noticed. Come, Mubarak, before we post our gift let us rejoice! Bring out the nargileh, my brother.”
Mubarak left the room, returning with the water pipe.
Chapter Four
The American Airlines Boeing triple seven touched down at the John F. Kennedy International Airport in the early afternoon, New York time. Lilburn and Dr. Crawston were met by an officer of Homeland Security who whisked the pair through Customs, cutting red tape.
It was seven degrees Fahrenheit warmer than London. Springtime in New York was a perfect time to visit: the summer crowds had yet to arrive, it was warm enough to enjoy the outdoors yet cool enough to be comfortable. New Yorkers warmed to the change in conditions, and Central Park was busy, with thousands taking in the relaxed atmosphere of its eight hundred and forty three acres of paths, lakes and open spaces; a blissful retreat from the hustle and bustle of the inner city.
The pilot of the EC120 five-seater helicopter had already set the rotors in action warming up for his flight to Albany, an hour away. The jet black helicopter with its distinctive shrouded tail rotor, looking like a ducted fan, waited patiently for its V.I.P. passengers.
The downdraft of the whirling noisy rotors plucked at Evangeline’s jacket.
“Take this first seat here, ma’am, buckle in and enjoy the flight.” The pilot helped Evangeline into the rear of the cockpit as Lilburn entered from the door opposite.
“Slightly different from the last aircraft, I must say,” Evangeline raised her voice to compensate for the noise of the helicopter.
Lilburn pointed at the headset. “Put the headset on, it’ll be easier to hear.”
Adjusting the set to sit comfortably on her head, Evangeline spoke into the mike. “How’s that?”
“Much better, these choppers are very quiet but it still helps to wear the set. Once the pilot gets in and shuts his door it’ll be better still. Now what was that you said?”
“I was saying before that this is totally different from the last aircraft.”