Ahmed pointed a gun at his cousin’s face. Lana thought he was going to shoot him right then. But he didn’t.
Now, we are taking you where we all want to go.
When Ahmed had said that, did he mean it ironically? she wondered.
What difference does it make?
But then she realized that it could make all the difference in the world.
Chapter 23
the throbbing in Lana’s hand awakened her fully. She’d been napping in the back of the van through most of the drive. But pain now overcame weariness. She tested herself, flexing her fingers. She could make a fist. It was her only weapon as the driver wheeled into a dingy garage whose lone window bore spidery cracks. A fist. She shook her head at the pathos. What good could it do in the company of such heavily armed enemies?
A skinny bald man rolled down the garage door.
The jihadists jumped out of the vehicle and dragged Lana and Ruhi from the back. Two men forced a keffiyeh on Ruhi, while another unbound Lana’s wrists, which befuddled her. Not for long. Ahmed thrust a dark hijab into her hands and ordered her to put it on. She found it odd, after their murderous actions, that several men turned away when she slipped it over her clothes. But not Ahmed. He kept a gun on her the whole time. Once she was fully veiled, her hands were quickly bound again.
Immediately, they loaded her and Ruhi into another van, similar to the one the SEALs had used to rescue her from the embassy in Riyadh.
She was seated, as she had been then, with armed men on both sides of her. But the jihadists pressed their weapons against her — knives lodged so tightly to her ribs that she feared a sneeze, cough, or sudden turn would leave her bleeding.
Ruhi was forced against a boarded window. A bony-cheeked man jammed a pistol under his chin. Ruhi’s life, she realized, was cheaper now because of her presence. They didn’t need him. She thought they must know that, and couldn’t comprehend why he was still alive. Ahmed had certainly shown a complete absence of compassion, so it wasn’t a blood link keeping Ruhi among the living. Maybe it was nothing more than an oversight, or Ahmed’s desire to lord as much power as possible over his expatriate cousin.
Death would come to both of them soon enough, as well as to Emma. To the whole of her country. But she focused — how could she not? — on the unbidden tragedy of her only child. I’m sorry, dear heart, she said to Emma in the silence of her thoughts. I’m so sorry. She had no hope of ever being heard, but in the only way she could, she sought Emma’s forgiveness for dragging her into this horror. Your pain is all on me.
The turban-headed driver navigated desert roads without pause, but just as Lana nodded off again, she was jarred awake by a small crater.
“IEDs,” Ahmed said with evident pleasure from the front passenger seat. He turned to bestow his smile on her. Even as she noticed how much it resembled Ruhi’s, she felt her stomach sour. She would have ripped out his eyeballs, if she could have. “Just a carful of NGOs,” he explained. Nongovernmental organizations. “Good-bye, kafirs.”
The jihadist on her left must have spoken English, because he laughed at the insult and nodded enthusiastically at Ahmed.
“Do you want to say where you’re taking us?” Lana asked Ahmed.
He nodded, but not at her, to the English speaker. She turned to the man, puzzled. He punched her hard enough that her lips and nose exploded with pain. It felt like he’d bashed her face with a lead weight.
“Never speak to any of us,” Ahmed said calmly, “unless you are spoken to. I did not ask you a question.”
She swallowed blood, rage, and tears that wanted to run from the sudden crack of bone on bone — the involuntary response that comes from any blow that catches the tender spot between the upper lip and nose. It’s the way a woman can reduce even the strongest man to tears. The way she wanted to begin an attack not on her assailant, but on Ahmed — and then work her way to all points south.
They passed ancient cliff dwellings, shadowed by the harsh light. She guessed the rudimentary homes had been carved out of the mountains thousands of years ago, yet might well be occupied now. Her suspicion was confirmed with the flash of a child’s face, a little boy. Already poisoned by hate and intolerance? She could not muster enough hope to think otherwise.
The canyon widened, and they drove around an outcropping as wide and tall as a building. She glimpsed a floodplain miles ahead and a small town, and the pale green glimmer of fields in the distance.
Ahmed tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed for him to keep going straight. “Hurry.”
A mujahideen stood guard in the doorway of a broad, flat-roofed building with mud-colored walls, the brightly striped red, white, and black Yemeni flag flying before it. He squinted in the blanketing glare of the sun. A village woman in a black hijab was plodding toward him. A beggar, no doubt. Make that another beggar. Yemen was a nation of beggars. She’d want food, maybe water; she wouldn’t dare ask for coin. He sighed and looked away from her. Go back to your fields. Great matters are at hand. Leave us to do our work here. Soon you’ll hail from the proudest nation on earth, and you will have mujahideen to thank for that honor.
He glanced back. She was nearing him now. He waved her off.
Submissively, she kept her head down. But she raised her hand above her waist, the wide black arms of her chador drooping. Yes, food, that’s what she wants.
“I have no food for you,” he shouted. He made a gesture for her to go away.
Still, she came toward him. Past the children playing soccer. She placed her hand on the head of a boy who looked eight or nine. He looked up and grinned at her. So she’s borne a son. Fine. I’ll talk to her. Tell her the world changes soon. Be patient. Always the women are impatient.
As his body language softened, she nodded at him. She might have smiled. It was hard to tell with the veil. You see only the eyes, and she mostly kept her gaze toward the ground out of respect. She seemed to have difficulty breathing. So that was it. She’s sick.
“What is it?” From behind, his fellow guards converged quickly at his side. Eight of them. They had been covering the other exits and entrances. They must have heard him yell at the woman.
“A beggar,” he told them. “Sick. Not breathing well.”
She turned to regard the children, no more than thirty feet away, as their soccer ball rolled toward the group. The commander stepped out and kicked it back to the little ones.
They cheered him.
As they turned their attention back to the beggar woman, she slipped a thick canister out from beneath her chador and blasted a weapons-grade blend of pepper and tear gas at them in a swift arc.
After another blast from the canister had them retching and kneeling, she tore off her veil, revealing a form-fitting gas mask and blond hair.
Candace took a step back to protect her eyes, the only exposed part of her face. She looked behind her, willing her companions to hurry. Far beneath this structure lay the nerve center for the cyberterrorists, according to information gathered by Saudi intelligence in the last few hours. The nature of the site seemed confirmed by the route taken by the mujahideen who’d abducted Ruhi Mancur and Lana Elkins, to judge by the Mabahith’s locator chip in Ruhi’s thigh.