was a woman, a prostitute from Riyadh. Even the sight of her bleeding from the nose and dull, sightless eyes failed to arouse any sense of pity. The woman’s daughter, a child of seven lay in the bed next to her. Younger than the rest, she’d been stronger, her slight body more adept at fighting the virus. But in the end, it had claimed even her.
There was a microphone inside the lab so Farooq could listen to the moans of the patients. He had it turned off for now, but Zafir could tell by the way the little girl’s shoulders heaved that she was crying. So much the better-a child of corruption deserved no happiness in this world or the world to come.
“What of Malik?” Farooq said, still gazing into the glass. An ever-present grin perked the corners of his mouth.
Zafir nodded in thought. It was his habit to pause for a few moments before answering the sheikh. The fat Iraqi had been talking far too much, this was true. With the recent success of the experiments, they would have no more need of his prisoners… It all seemed simple enough.
“You rewarded Malik well, but you cannot buy the allegiance of such a man. You may only rent it. He has reached the end of his usefulness,” Zafir said.
“We think alike, my brother.” Farooq’s voice buzzed slightly against the glass.
“Shall I bring him here?” Zafir asked. “For the experiments?”
Farooq smirked, shaking his head. “No, I think not. The flood that would come from that fat body would be uncontainable. Kill him and be done with it.”
“I’ll see to it right away,” Zafir said. “Personally.”
Farooq suddenly turned to face him, cocking his head. “Have I not treated you well?”
Zafir knew where this was going. “Much better than this humble Bedouin deserves,” he whispered.
“Then why do you wish to leave us?”
Zafir had prepared himself for this question. He grit his teeth, paused another moment, then answered slowly. “I do not want to leave. But, Allah willing, I wish to play a larger part.”
“If you do this,” Farooq whispered, “your death is a certainty. It is a divine thing to be a martyr in our holy struggle, my friend, but you are needed here.” He wagged a slender finger. “I am informed you have news of the woman in Texas.”
Zafir sighed, deep within himself. There was little Farooq did not know.
The sheikh pressed the issue. “Is it because of the American you wish to play such a role in the game?”
Zafir shook his head, slowly. “No.” It was the first time he’d lied to his master. The very thought of what the woman had done boiled in his stomach.
Of course it was because of her.
Farooq’s thin lips parted, but he waved the idea away as if it was a bothersome fly and started again. “I have no quarrel with you going to America-and I certainly find no fault in seeking your pound of flesh from the infidel woman. But, when you are finished, return to me, where you are needed… I see no point in your playing the role of the pawn when you could stand here, beside me.”
Zafir bowed his head. “I will do as you wish… as I have for these many years. But you now know my heart. I am weary of watching others punish the Americans for their insolence. Allah willing, I might be of a greater service in my master’s game.”
The sheikh nodded slowly, pondering. He put an index finger to the glass, pointing to the Riyadh prostitute. She was no more than twenty-five but looked twice that. “See how the woman bears her agony in silence. She is the bravest of them all.”
“Perhaps she has lost her mind,” Zafir said. “If she could see how her child suffers she would not be so brave.”
“Perhaps,” Farooq said. “Yes, perhaps that is it.” He looked up. “Let us consider your request after Salat ul Isha. I will think better after prayers.”
“I leave for Iraq tonight then.” Zafir withdrew a half step, waiting as always for the sheikh to dismiss him.
“I understand our Iraqi friend is close to a certain university student in Fallujah,” Farooq said, smoothing his thin goatee with boney fingertips. “We are, as they say in chess, at the endgame, Allah willing. The Americans must not learn too much until the time is right. Pay the boy a visit as well. Find out what he knows.”
“As you wish,” Zafir said. He looked forward to the task. The methods he used to obtain information would be a pleasant diversion from thoughts of the infidel whore-until he could go to Texas and settle things with her as they should have been settled long ago.
CHAPTER 15
Harris Methodist Hospital Outpatient Psychiatric Clinic Fort Worth, Texas
Carrie Navarro exhaled through pursed lips, sank back against the chilly cushions of a leather couch, and tried to focus on the most horrible moments of her thirty-two-year life. Dr. Soto had agreed to meet her for an evening appointment, after a long day at work, so she was already exhausted. Her eyes were closed, her hands lay flat and loose on top of her thighs. She was pretty, in a world-wise sort of way, with dark features and full red lips. Her eyelids and fingers seemed in constant motion, quaking slightly like leaves in a gentle breeze.
“Let the memories flow back slowly… water filling a cup,” Dr. Soto said in her cool-cloth-to-the-forehead voice. She was a professional, dressed in fashionable red slacks and a white silk blouse, the kind of mature woman Carrie found it easy to trust. “You are completely safe, watching events unfold as an objective bystander, not a participant…”
Throughout three years of therapy, Carrie had learned to trust the mild-mannered doctor as much as she trusted anyone in the world. Andrea Soto knew more about Carrie than her own mother-the intimate details, private things you didn’t tell your closest friends. Even friends made judgments. Everyone made judgments about certain things-everyone except Dr. Soto.
Soto’s voice was firm and matter of fact. It had surprised Carrie at first that the doctor hadn’t whispered when she put her under. “Okay,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine,” Carrie said, watching the movie of her earlier, unspeakable life unfold before her eyes.
“Are you comfortable?”
Carrie’s long eyelashes fluttered but didn’t open. “Yes,” she said, feeling thick and sleepy.
“Good,” Soto said, and Carrie heard the sound of her pencil zipping across her notepad. “Let’s begin.”
“What is the date?”
“Today or then?” Even under hypnosis, Carrie couldn’t help but be argumentative. It was her nature, and in the end, it was what had gotten her into such trouble.
“Then,” Soto said, ever patient.
“June 8… al-Zarqawi has just been killed by a U.S. air strike.”
“Where are you?”
“Baquba,” Carrie said, holding her breath. Her moist lips were set in a hard, grimacing line. “Do I really have to come back here?”
“No, honey,” Soto said gently. “You don’t have to. But I think it will help you heal if you do.”
Carrie sat for a moment, saying nothing. Long purple nails with snow-white tips dug at her jeans. The trembling grew more pronounced.
“All right,” she sighed. “I’m here, in Baquba.”
“What do you smell?”
“Earth… orange groves… trash,” Carrie said. “And gunpowder.”
“Good. Now, when you’re ready, tell me what you see.”
Carrie Navarro suddenly grinned. “Damn, Doc!” she said. “I’m lookin’ hot in my sexy reporter outfit!”
