Kharouf had also been one of Nazim’s shooting instructors and one of the exercises had been firing at live cattle. On other occasions the cows were already dead, but he’d wanted Nazim to get used to firearms and to see what bullets did to flesh.
‘No, the practice sessions were good. I’m not afraid of firing at people. I mean, they’re not really people.’
Kharouf didn’t answer. He leaned on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and waiting. He knew that the best way to get Nazim to speak up was to allow a few moments of uncomfortable silence. The kid always ended up spilling out whatever was bothering him.
‘It’s just… well, I feel bad about not saying goodbye to my parents,’ he said finally.
‘I see. You still blame yourself for what happened?’
‘A little. Am I wrong?’
Kharouf smiled and placed a hand on Nazim’s shoulder.
‘No. You’re a sensitive and loving young man. Allah gave you those qualities, blessed be his name.’
‘Blessed be his name,’ Nazim repeated.
‘He also gave you the strength to overcome them when you need to. Now take Allah’s sword and do his will. Rejoice, Nazim.’
The young man attempted to smile, but the result was more of a grimace. Kharouf increased the pressure on Nazim’s shoulder. His voice sounded warm, loving.
‘Relax, Nazim. Today Allah is not asking for our blood. He is asking for that of others. But even if something were to happen, you’ve video-taped a message to your family, haven’t you?’
Nazim nodded.
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. It could be that your parents have become slightly westernised, but deep in their souls they are good Muslims. They know the reward for a martyr. And when you reach the Next Life, Allah will allow you to intercede for them. Just think how they’ll feel.’
Nazim imagined his parents and his sister kneeling in front of him, thanking him for their salvation, begging him to forgive them for being wrong. In the gauzy mist of his fantasy, this was the most beautiful aspect of the next life. He finally managed to smile.
‘That’s the way, Nazim. Your face has the bassamat al-farah, the smile of a martyr. It’s part of our promise. Part of our reward.’
Nazim slipped a hand into his jacket and gripped the handle of the gun.
Calmly he and Kharouf got out of the car.
13
EN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF AQABA, THE RED SEA
Tuesday, July 11, 2006. 5:11 p.m.
‘You!’ Andrea said again, with more anger than surprise.
The last time they’d seen each other, Andrea had been perilously balanced thirty feet above the ground, pursued by an unlikely enemy. Back then Father Fowler had saved her life, but he had also prevented her from getting the great story of her career, the kind most reporters only dream about. Woodward and Bernstein had done it with Water-gate, and Lowell Bergman with the tobacco industry. Andrea Otero could have done the same, but this priest had got in the way. At least he got her - I’ll be damned if I know how, Andrea thought – an exclusive interview with President Bush, thanks to which she was now onboard this ship, or so she surmised. But that was water under the bridge and right now she was more concerned with the present. Andrea wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away.
‘I’m happy to see you too, Ms Otero. I see that the scar is barely a memory.’
Andrea instinctively touched her forehead, the place where Fowler had caused her to have four stitches sixteen months ago. A thin pale line was all that remained.
‘You’re a safe pair of hands, but that’s not why you’re here. Are you spying on me? Are you aiming to screw up my work again?’
‘I’m on this expedition as an observer for the Vatican, nothing more.’
The young reporter eyed him suspiciously. Due to the extreme heat the priest was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with his clerical collar and sharply pressed trousers, all in the usual black. Andrea looked at his tanned arms for the first time. His forearms were huge, with veins as thick as a ballpoint pen.
Those are not the arms of a Bible-basher.
‘And why does the Vatican need an observer on an archaeological expedition?’
The priest was about to answer when a cheerful voice interrupted them.
‘Great! The two of you have already been introduced?’
Dr Harel appeared at the stern of the ship, flashing her lovely smile. Andrea did not return the courtesy.
‘Something like that. Father Fowler was about to explain to me why he was pulling a Brett Favre on me a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Ms Otero, Brett Favre is a quarterback – he doesn’t do much tackling,’ Fowler explained.
‘What happened, Father?’ Harel asked.
‘Ms Otero came back here just as Mr Kayn was getting out of the aircraft. I’m afraid I had to restrain her. I was kind of rough. I’m sorry.’
Harel nodded. ‘I understand. You should know that Andrea didn’t attend the security session. Don’t worry, Father.’
‘What do you mean don’t worry? Has everyone gone totally crazy?’
‘Take it easy, Andrea,’ the doctor said. ‘Unfortunately you’ve been sick for the last forty-eight hours and you haven’t been kept up-to-date. Let me fill you in. Raymond Kayn is agoraphobic.’
‘So Father Tackler just told me.’
‘Besides being a priest, Father Fowler is also a psychologist. Please interrupt me if I leave something out, Father. Andrea, what do you know about agoraphobia?’
‘It’s a fear of open places.’
‘That’s what most people think. In reality, people suffering from this affliction exhibit symptoms that are a lot more complex.’
Fowler cleared his throat.
‘The thing that agoraphobics fear most is losing control,’ the priest said. ‘They’re afraid of being alone, of finding themselves in places from which there’s no escape, or of meeting new people. That’s why they stay at home for long periods of time.’
‘What happens when they can’t control a situation?’ Andrea asked.
‘It depends on the situation. Mr Kayn’s case is particularly severe. If he finds himself in a difficult situation he may well panic, lose touch with reality, begin to suffer dizziness, tremors and heart palpitations.’
‘In other words, he couldn’t be a stockbroker,’ Andrea said.
‘Or a neurosurgeon,’ Harel joked. ‘But sufferers can lead normal lives. There are famous agoraphobics like Kim Basinger or Woody Allen who’ve fought the illness for years and come out on top. Mr Kayn himself has created an empire out of nothing. Unfortunately, in the last five years his condition has deteriorated.’
‘I wonder what the hell provoked such a sick man to risk coming out of his shell?’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Andrea,’ Harel said.
Andrea noticed that the doctor was looking at her in a strange way.
They all remained silent for a few moments and then Fowler resumed the conversation.
‘I hope you can forgive my excessive force earlier.’
‘Maybe, but you almost took my head off,’ Andrea said, rubbing her neck.
Fowler looked at Harel, who nodded.
‘You’ll understand in time, Ms Otero… Were you able to see the men getting off the aircraft?’ Harel asked.
‘There was a young olive-skinned man,’ Andrea replied. ‘Then a man of about fifty dressed in black who had a huge scar. And finally a thin man with white hair, who I imagine must be Mr Kayn.’
‘The young man is Jacob Russell, Mr Kayn’s executive assistant,’ Fowler said. ‘The man with the scar is Mogens Dekker, chief of security for Kayn Industries. Believe me, if you had come any closer to Kayn, given your usual style, Dekker would have become a bit nervous. And you don’t want that to happen.’