Claudine. Calling her name to himself sent a melancholy shiver down his spine. I won’t leave you, he promised with a teenager’s violent passion.
Sitting up, he drew his knees to his chest and surveyed the densely furnished space he’d occupied for twelve years. Posters of Beckham, Ronaldo, Luis Figo, and the incomparable Zidane graced one wall; a single framed print of thousands of hajjis circumambulating the Ka’aba, another. Twin chrome towers displayed his CDs. Pearl Jam and Creed were sandwiched between Nusrah Fateh Ali Khan and Salif Keita. Wedged against the wall was his prayer rug, neatly rolled up. An autographed photo of the 1998 World Cup winners occupied pride of place on his dresser, next to the desk where he’d studied countless hours to make the grades his father expected of him. When he’d made perfect marks three years’ running, his dad had rewarded him with a Bang and Olufsen stereo. More meaningful was the hug that came with it. The pull to his father’s chest. The lasting embrace. The kiss on the cheeks. He would never forget the fierce light burning within his father’s eyes, or the palpable outpouring of his pride.
Abandoning the bed, George Gabriel picked up a pair of fifteen-kilo dumbbells and began pounding out a set of curls. He could feel the eyes upon him, still prideful, but watchful, too. Commanding him. George was no longer a son, but a soldier, with the same responsibilities, and the same punishment for failure. His breath came harder, his arms swelling with fatigue. No matter what, he could not fail his father. It was unthinkable.
After thirty repetitions, he laid the dumbbells on the ground and looked at himself in the mirror. His biceps quivered. He checked that the door was locked, then rummaged through his armoire. His stash was hidden in a sock deep on the second shelf. He took out a pipe and filled the bowl. The window was open a crack, admitting a cooling night breeze. He lit the bowl and held the hit in as long as possible. When he exhaled, only a wisp of smoke left his mouth. He slipped the weed back into the sock, smiling. He was sure Amina knew it was there, just as he was sure she’d never say a word to his dad. They were friends. They shared secrets. She knew about Claudine. She’d asked how Claudine’s father could allow her to date a boy she was not going to marry, and listened in awe as George related his girlfriend’s plans to study medicine and become a cardiovascular surgeon. He’d even shown Amina her picture.
A hand groped beneath the shelf, peeling away the tape until he freed the photograph. A glance at the door and he brought it into the light. She was blond and intelligent, with a cat’s green eyes. Born a Roman Catholic, at nineteen she was a devout atheist. On the back of the photo she’d penned the words “With all my heart to my forever man.”
There was no more dangerous contraband.
George smiled bitterly. Her “forever man” was booked on a flight to Dubai in less than twenty-four hours. Disconsolately, he replaced the photo. There were still a few things he hadn’t told Amina. He hadn’t revealed that the touch of Claudine’s hand made him happy for a week. Or that the hint of her smile filled him with an uncontrollable anticipation. He hadn’t told her that they were sometimes making love two times a day, and that, yes, he really did want to marry her. Some things even Amina wouldn’t understand.
Not long ago, he’d spoken to her about a woman’s rights. He told her she didn’t have to stay inside all day long, looking after the kids, cooking all the meals. She didn’t have to agree with his father’s every pronouncement. Later that night, he’d overheard her tell his dad she would be going shopping the next day with a friend she’d made, a kuffar like Claudine, a lady not of the faith. Sweetly and excitedly, she’d told him that she wouldn’t be home until later that evening, and asked if he might come home early to look after the kids and feed them their supper. There followed an ugly laugh, then a terrific slap that had made George wince. The ground floor shuddered when Amina hit the floor.
George had been too scared to go downstairs and check how she was.
Strangely, Amina had thanked him the next day. It was better that she knew her place, she’d said. She hadn’t asked about Claudine since.
The room was suddenly quiet and he could hear his heart beating in his chest. The household was asleep. Not a sound lifted to him. He swallowed and found his mouth dry. He was smart enough to know that it was no ordinary case of cottonmouth.
“Hijira.” He whispered the word. A new beginning. George Gabriel had to pinch himself to remind himself he wasn’t dreaming.
Yet, the word stirred him. How could it not, when he’d been hearing of it his entire life, living it day in, day out, eating it, breathing it, sleeping it? The moment was upon him: the realization of his family’s destiny. And with it, the responsibility his father had thrust upon him.
The plane ticket lay on his desk, next to the dagger. It was an Italian blade, his father had told him. Made for the close kill. Unsheathing the knife, he caressed the tip. A bead of blood blossomed on his fingertip. He licked it, before spreading the plans of the Salpetitpierre Hospital out in front of him. Using the dagger, he traced his path from the parking lot to the third-floor burn unit. He found the exits and committed them to memory. He located the stairwells and the security stand and the nurses’ station. Getting in would not pose a problem. The hospital was a sprawling complex covering three city blocks with a dozen entrances, none of which boasted so much as a security guard. There were no metal detectors on the premises, no secret surveillance devices. It would be a question of moxie, of having the courage to get in and do the job, and get out, quickly, neatly, and efficiently.
Pushing aside the map, he opened the ticket jacket and removed a photograph of the man he was to kill. It looked like the reproduction of a passport shot. He was still young, but there was nothing boyish about him. The eyes were exacting. The mouth firmly set. The jaw wide. The neck well-muscled. He decided he would not want to fight this man, even if he had been badly burned by Taleel’s bomb. A blow to his shoulder would incapacitate him, but George should not be worried. The American would be unsuspecting, an easy target if George moved quickly and did not hesitate.
Dagger in hand, George Gabriel stood from the desk. Assuming the fighter’s stance, he executed the controlled movements he’d learned at the camp in the Bekaa, advancing, lunging, blocking, slashing, always grunting as he delivered the death blow. In the warm air, his bare skin glistened with sweat.
“I am a Utaybi,” he murmured to his reflection as he drove the blade home. “Hijira is my destiny. I am a Utaybi. The desert is my home.”
But as he repeated the words, his conviction faltered, weakened by the sinful smile of a passionate young woman with hair of gold and a generous figure. Dropping his hands to his side, he froze, knowing then fully, and for the first time, that he was no longer certain of anything. His name. His destiny. Or his home.
Chapter 26
The weight of the Virginia dusk struck Owen Glendenning like a velvet hammer as he poked his head through the doorway of the Lear jet. It was just after eight. In the distance over the army of bridged oaks and the picket of weeping willows, the sun retreated below the horizon. They had taxied to a far corner of the runway at Dulles International Airport. As the roar of a departing aircraft faded, a bullfrog’s contented croak reasserted itself in lovely counterpoint to a lazy cicada.
Allan Halsey was waiting at the base of the stairs. “Welcome back, Owen. How you feeling?”
“Trips are getting longer and the days are getting shorter. If that doesn’t sum it up, try this: like shit.”
Halsey led the way to the waiting automobile, opening the rear door for Glendenning. “I figured as much. I’ve got some chow set up for you in the war room. Sykes is in from the Bureau to take a look at the evidence you brought along.”