might be. The answers really didn’t matter to him. No god had ever answered his prayers. To Hemingway that was more than adequate proof that there was no such being.
Several thousand miles away across the Atlantic, Captain Jack gazed up at the same sky and also pondered the events of the next day. Everything was done and only awaited the arrival of James Brennan and company. As a last measure all laptops used by the members of his operation had been destroyed. There would be no more movie chat room discussions. He would actually miss them.
Later that evening Captain Jack drove into the parking lot of Pittsburgh International Airport. He dropped off his car and headed for the terminal. His official itinerary was fairly straightforward: Pittsburgh to Chicago O’Hare; O’Hare to Honolulu; and Honolulu to American Samoa, where a puddle jumper would take him to his precious island.
His work in Brennan was done. He would not stay for the actual mission. That would be a little too tight even for him. And yet while his work here was finished, in other respects it was just beginning. And now it was time to activate his contingency plan. His partnership with Tom Hemingway was officially over, though the latter didn’t know it.
Captain Jack checked in for his flight but kept his bag, which was small enough to carry on. He went to a bar to have a drink. Afterward, he hit the restroom. From there he wandered the airport and then headed to the security lines. Yet instead of going through security he exited the airport, went to a different parking lot and picked up a car waiting for him there. He headed south.
Djamila sat at the kitchen table in her apartment and wrote the date and time of her death in her journal. She wondered how accurate she would be. If she did die tomorrow, her journal would be found. Perhaps they would publish it in the paper, along with her full name, which she wrote next to her time of death. Then, for some reason, she erased it. Would there be a possibility that she would survive tomorrow?
She stood by the open window and looked out, letting the gentle breeze wash over her, and smelled air that held the fragrance of cut grass, a relatively new sensation for her. It was quiet, peaceful here. No bombs or gunfire. She could see people walking together, talking. An old man sat on the front steps of the building smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. She could hear the peals of laughter of children from the small playground nearby. Djamila was young with her whole life ahead of her. Yet she slowly closed the window and drew herself back into the dark shadows of her apartment.
“Do not let me fail you,” she quietly asked God. “Do not let me fail you.”
Barely twenty minutes from Djamila’s apartment, Adnan al-Rimi had just completed his last prayer of the day. As Djamila had, he’d lingered over his words with God too.
He rolled up his prayer rug and put it away. Adnan only performed his prayers twice a day, at dawn and in the evening. He was a reluctant follower of Ramadan, his belly had been empty for too many years to starve it. Over the years he’d had the occasional cigarette and alcoholic drink. He had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca because he couldn’t afford the trip. And yet he considered himself a faithful Muslim because he worked hard, helped others in need, never cheated, never lied. But he had killed. He had killed in the name of God, to defend Islam, to protect his way of life. Sometimes it seemed his entire existence consisted of three elements: working, praying and fighting. He had worked hard to ensure that his children would not have to fight, would not have to blow themselves and others up to prove a point. But his children were all dead. The violence had reached them despite their father’s attempt to keep them safe.
Now Adnan had only one more task ahead of him.
With his eyes shut, Adnan paced off the dimensions of the hospital corridor in his apartment. He went down the hall, turned right, went fourteen paces down and moved right, opened the door and simulated going down eight steps, hitting a landing, turning and going down eight more, down the hall and reaching the exit door. Then he did it again. And again.
Afterward, Adnan removed his shirt and looked at his body in the bathroom mirror. Though his physique was still impressive, there was a frailty beneath the muscle that more resembled an old man than someone in the prime of life. The numerous external injuries he’d suffered over the years had healed. Inside, though, the scars were permanent.
He sat on his bed and withdrew from his wallet ten photos that he arranged in front of him. They were crumpled, faded reminders of his family. He lingered over each, recalling moments of peace and love. And horror. As when his father had been beheaded by the Saudis, for what amounted to a misdemeanor. It usually took two whacks with the sword to behead someone. Yet Adnan’s father had a very thick neck, and it had taken three strokes to sever it, an event eight-year-old Adnan had been forced to watch. Few people could have gone through these memories without shedding at least a few tears; however, Adnan’s eyes remained dry. And yet his fingers trembled as he kissed the fading images of his dead children.
A few minutes later Adnan put on his coat and left his apartment. The bike ride into downtown Brennan went quickly. He chained his bicycle to a rack and started walking. His path took him in front of Mercy Hospital, where he briefly glanced at his place of employment, at least until tomorrow. Then his gaze darted to the apartment building across the street where he knew the two Afghans were checking and rechecking their weapons, because they were methodical and obsessive men, as all good snipers had to be.
Adnan continued walking, turned down one street and then another and finally slipped into an alley. He rapped twice on the door. He heard nothing. Then he called out in Farsi. Footsteps approached, and he heard Ahmed’s voice answer in Farsi.
“What is it you want, Adnan?”
“To talk.”
“I am busy.”
“Everything should be done, Ahmed. Is there a problem?”
The door opened and Ahmed scowled at him. “I have no problems,” Ahmed said, but he stepped back for Adnan to enter the garage.
“I thought it wise to go over things one more time,” Adnan said as he sat on a stool next to the workbench. His gaze took in the vehicle that would play such an important role the next day. He nodded at it. “It looks good, Ahmed. You have done well.”
“Tomorrow will see whether we have done well or not,” Ahmed answered.
He and Adnan spent twenty minutes going over their assigned tasks.
“I am not worried about us,” Ahmed said sullenly. “It is this woman who troubles me. Who is she? What is her training?”
“That is not your concern,” Adnan answered. “If she was picked for this, she will do her job well.”
“Women are only good for having babies and to cook and clean.”
“You are living in the past, my friend,” Adnan said.
“The Muslim past was glorious. We had the best of everything.”
“The world has moved past us, Ahmed. For Muslims to be truly great again we must move with it. Show the world what we can do. And we can do much.”
Ahmed spat on the floor. “That is what I think of the world. They can just leave us alone.”
“We will see after tomorrow who is right.”
Ahmed slowly shook his head. “You trust in things too much. You trust the American who leads us too much.”
“He may be an American, but he is brave and knows what he is doing.” He gazed sternly at the Iranian.
“I will do
“Yes, you will,” Adnan answered as he rose to leave. “Because I will be right there to ensure that you do.”
“You think I need an
“Tomorrow we are not Iraqi or Iranian or Afghani,” Adnan replied. “We are all Muslims, following God.”
“Do not question my faith, Adnan,” Ahmed said in a dangerous tone.
“I question nothing. Only God has the right to question the souls of his people.” Adnan went to the door but then turned back. “I will see you tomorrow, Ahmed.”
