Rafiq let the moment settle on him. His beautiful wife, eyes flashing, long, dark hair whipping around her face as she shouted out to her son. Javi, riding as if he’d been born in a saddle, let out a laugh of pure joy as he urged the pony faster. Consuela reached out and gripped the pocket of his shirt—
“Boss.” A hand touched his arm.
Rafiq turned around. Jamil was panting. “There’s been news,” he said. “News about… home.” He handed Rafiq a smartphone.
He had the web browser open to Al Jazeera, and a story about ISIS. Rafiq bristled. The so-called Islamic State fighters, nothing but a shell for Sunni extremists, were in the news all the time now. He and his men often lamented the fact that they were in South America when the real fight was back in Lebanon with their Hezbollah brothers. Rafiq always reinforced the necessity of their mission for Hashem, but deep inside even he sometimes wondered if what they were doing was worth it.
“Read the article, Boss,” Jamil urged. His face was gray with worry.
Rafiq scanned the news story. He was about to flick the text up when his thumb froze over the screen.
ISIS forces attacked the small Lebanese village of Arsal, near the Syrian border, this morning. Initial reports are that the town was decimated by the Sunni extremists…
Rafiq handed the baby to Nadine and ran for the house.
His chest was heaving with effort and sweat darkened the neckline of his shirt when he reached the study. He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the wall safe open. He flipped to the back of the codebook, where there was a list of email addresses next to a column of code words.
He booted up the computer, cursing the deliberate slowness of Microsoft Windows. Finally he was able to open his email. He typed in the email address from the codebook and put in a few lines of meaningless text in the body of the email. None of that mattered. He went back to the header and typed the phrase “sunrise service” in the subject line.
He hit send.
Rafiq gripped the edge of the desk. Don’t make assumptions. She’ll be alright. She has to be alright.
In his mind he could see the streets of Arsal, his boyhood home. The cafe on the corner, the elementary school down the street, the park across the road where he was allowed to play by himself as his mother watched him from their second-story apartment. The same apartment where she still lived.
The computer gave off a soft ping and the bold letters of a new email showed up at the top of his inbox. The header said “undeliverable message.” He opened the message and scrolled past the meaningless text to the link at the bottom of the screen.
The link took him to a one-time-use chatroom, with a countdown timer in the lower right corner. The space was active for only five minutes, then it would be wiped off both computers.
He watched the cursor blink at the top of the blank screen.
Are you there? he typed.
Two agonizing minutes went by.
Yes.
I know about the situation at home.
I’m sorry for your loss.
So it’s true, she’s gone?
Yes. I confirmed this just two hours ago.
I must go back.
Absolutely not. Remain in place.
Rafiq looked at the timer. Less than a minute remained.
I need to make funeral arrangements.
I will take care of it. You must stay.
Fifteen seconds.
Rafiq clenched his teeth together so hard he heard ringing in his ears. I understand, he typed.
The timer ran to zero and the screen closed automatically. The computer rebooted itself and ran a program to remove all traces of the chatroom event.
But he didn’t understand. Seven years he had done what his brother — half brother, he reminded himself — had asked of him. Without question. Now his own mother, his true flesh and blood, was dead, and his half brother expected him to sit on his ass in South America drinking wine and riding horses while his boyhood home was attacked by the Sunnis.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out the last letter he had received from her. It was dated three months ago. Their communications were sporadic, mostly letters hand-delivered through the Lebanese Arab network. He leafed through the spidery handwriting to the last page. His mother had always been an artist. He had sent her a snapshot of her grandchildren, and she had reproduced the picture in pencil for him, just as she used to draw Rafiq when he was young.
He traced the outline of the drawing with his finger. The anger and the grief settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Hot tears stung his eyes.
There was a knock at the study door. Rafiq took a deep breath to compose himself. He stored the codebook in the safe before he opened the door to the study. Jamil and Farid stood in the hall, worry written on their faces.
“It’s true,” he said.
The brothers exchanged glances. They were from the same village as Rafiq. He knew what they were about to ask him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The brothers’ eyes fell to the floor. “Only one of you may return home to make arrangements.” The twins looked up, surprised. Rafiq smiled to himself. Fuck his half brother and his stupid mission. Hashem had told him he was not allowed to return to Arsal. He said nothing about the brothers.
“I will go,” Farid said. It was clear that the twins had already decided this in advance.
Rafiq nodded, and he embraced each man before they left.
Nadine waited for him in the hallway. Her face was white and drawn, making her dark eyes look even larger.
“My love,” she said, opening her arms. “I am so sorry.”
Rafiq buried his face in her shoulder and cried.
CHAPTER 29
Brendan held his breath as the mast lifted free of the Arrogant.
The crane operator halted the lift when another gust of November wind whipped in off the Chesapeake Bay. The shipyard worker tending the line leaned back to counter the force of the stiff breeze. The mast steadied.
Slowly, moving inches at a time, they landed the butt end of the mast into the customized holder and lowered the top end down into a waiting cradle.
Brendan expelled a long breath.
“You and me both, sir,” said the man to his left. Chief Petty Officer Timothy Scott, aka Scottie, rubbed his hands together. In the military, with a name like Scott, you were invariably connected to the iconic Star Trek character. He affected a Scottish accent. “I’ll have a wee look inside tonight, sir, and see what’s the problem with the blasted receiver.”
“Scottie,” Brendan replied, “we’ve talked about this. No ‘sirs’ around here.”
Scottie blushed. “Sorry, skipper — Brendan — won’t happen again. Old habits, you know.”
“I know, Scottie. Don’t I know it.” It was true. Although he still retained his commission as a naval officer and had even been promoted to Lieutenant Commander, the idea of forgoing naval etiquette had hit him harder than he’d expected. The fact that the Naval Academy was visible across the windswept Severn didn’t make it any easier. So many memories, some of them even military.