think you’ll make a fine lawyer,” he said.
“Very well,” Sadiq said. “Since we are in agreement I will tell you what I know. My uncle has an acquaintance, a very fat man from the south of the city-his name is Malik. I am told he supplies American prisoners to this man, Farooq, just as Ghazan al Ghazi did. Lately, Malik has spoken of unspeakable experiments in Saudi Arabia, a laboratory where the prisoners he has supplied are used to test a special weapon that will certainly kill millions of infidels.”
“The Saudi Kingdom is a big place,” Quinn mused. “You’ll have to do better than that to get your law degree.”
“Of course, of course, my friend.” Sadiq chuckled with a little more abandon that he should have, considering what his life was worth at the moment. “I know this laboratory is at a university that trains
… how do you say… medical doctors for animals…”
“Veterinarians?”
“ Ajal,” Sadiq said. Precisely. “That is the word. There is a campus of King Faisal University there for agriculture and veterinarians. Women may also study at this university. I understand you allow women to study at Harvard. Do you think this is wise?”
Jericho rolled his eyes. “Stay focused, my friend. We are talking about the lab”
“Yes, the lab… Farooq is said to have a small residence near the oasis of Al-Hofuf, adjacent to the stud farms belonging to the university. That is all I know.” Sadiq’s voice fell to a whisper. “But I think it is enough. Is it not?”
“Farooq is in Al-Hofuf now?”
“According to the information I have. This is timely, is it not?”
“It is enough,” Quinn said. “Tell no one that we’ve spoken. Stay where you are. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
Quinn hung up Miyagi’s phone as Thibodaux handed him the cell with Win Palmer on the line.
“Looks like someone needs to go to Al-Hofuf,” Quinn said, knowing as he spoke who that someone would be.
“I’ve got the Shop working your background even as we speak,” the Director said. “The Bombardier will be waiting at Langley inside the hour. I’ll meet you there for a better briefing.”
“And Jacques?” Quinn asked, reading the concern on Thibodaux’s face. “What’s his role in this?”
“He’ll be backing you up in spirit from a remote location. Unless you can teach him Arabic in the next few hours, you’ll have to go this one alone.”
“I have to ask, sir…” Quinn paused, not wanting to overstep his bounds with a member of the President’s Cabinet. “The Saudis are our allies. We’re not going to try any diplomatic channels here?”
“This is one of those times I mentioned when we first met. We can’t use you and the diplomats. If our experts at CDC are correct about the stuff these guys are making in their lab… we don’t have the luxury of waiting for the glacial pace of diplomacy. Besides-” Palmer chuckled. “Diplomats aren’t very good with hammers.” Then he cut the connection.
“You trust this kid Sadiq?” Thibodaux asked fifteen minutes later as they packed new gear in the Touratech aluminum cases on their respective motorcycles. “I mean, he could be setting you up.”
Quinn shook his head. “I don’t trust anyone over there. But there were a lot of times he could have gotten me killed if he’d wanted to.”
“My experience,” Thibodaux said, stepping in to his black Aerostich Transit leather pants and shrugging on the jacket. In the tight, armored leather he looked like a superhero without a cape. “Snitches just love to hear themselves blab. Wonder how many folks he’s told about Al-Hofuf besides little ol’ you.”
“There is that.” Quinn swung a leg over his BMW, happy to be back aboard his beloved bike. “But it can’t be helped.”
He’d been itching to see what the bike could do ever since Mrs. Miyagi told him “the Shop” had tweaked it. The engine popped to life with the same purring roar he was accustomed to. He toed the shifter into first and held the clutch, letting her roll forward a few feet before gassing to a wheelie. After a short fifty feet, he let the front wheel settle back to the pavement and made a tight circle next to a waiting Thibodaux. He waved a good-bye salute to Mrs. Miyagi, nodding slightly to let her know he was pleased with the modifications.
“Well, here we go, Chair Force,” Thibodaux said, gunning the throttle. “No matter how this turns out, at least you’ll get to take care of some ’surgents.”
CHAPTER 21
Fallujah
From his years of service to the sheikh, Zafir had learned that black trousers were less likely to show blood. He would have worn a black shirt as well, but decided that would look too conspicuous if he was forced to make a quick escape. He slipped a pair of vise grips and a small roll of duct tape wound around a Popsicle stick into the pocket of his slacks and bounded up the concrete stairs to Sadiq’s tiny apartment. He’d dressed the part of a simple Iraqi shopkeeper and taken an overly contrite mood at every American checkpoint. Since he carried nothing they recognized as a weapon, none of the U.S. military personnel who detained him had paid him a second notice after the initial humiliation of being stopped in the first place.
They had no idea what he had planned for the vise grips and duct tape.
At the top of the fourth flight of stairs a dusty tangle of dead spiders and a stack of old newspapers lay piled on the concrete at either side of a gray metal door. Zafir smiled to himself. He went through the motions of knocking in the event anyone was watching. It seemed American informants were behind every tree and bush. If he killed ten random people, nine would be kafir — apostates of Islam, in bed with the Americans in one way or another.
A muffled voice came from inside, followed by the shuffling hiss of slippers against a tile floor.
“Who’s there?”
Habit caused the Bedouin to stand to one side of the entry-out of the line of fire. Even meek little lambs sometimes carried weapons, and the more frightened they became, the more likely they were to shoot through a closed door at an unseen threat.
“I am a messenger from the U.S. embassy,” Zafir mumbled in English. He didn’t particularly care if the boy understood him or not. “I have good news.”
“Do you know the code word?”
To his surprise, the door creaked open a fraction, waiting for the code. When the boy saw his caller was not an American, he threw his body against it, trying to shove it closed, but it was too late. Zafir slammed his fist against the startled boy’s nose as he shouldered his way in.
Zafir shut the door behind him so no neighbors would interfere with his methods. Sadiq cowered on the floor, blood pouring from his shattered nose in pools on the chipped tile.
“If you are from the embassy why do you do this to me?” he groaned, hand splayed across his bloody face.
“I am not from the embassy, you idiot,” Zafir laughed. Methodically, he began to unbutton his shirt. “I am a messenger-from Allah. And you have been talking to the Americans.”
“Everyone here talks to the Americans…” Sadiq’s voice quavered. “What are you doing? I’m a student… waiting to return to Baghdad and the university when it is safe… Why are you taking off your clothes?”
Zafir draped the shirt in the seat of a padded chair beside a cluttered table that occupied a quarter of the cramped apartment. “I wish to keep it free of blood-your blood-while I work.” He took the roll of tape from the pocket of his slacks and bound the boy’s wrists behind his back. As Zafir expected, Sadiq held out a pitiful hope that if he complied, he wouldn’t get hurt. Foolish boy. Zafir threw him on the shabby couch under a poster of an American actress wearing a swimsuit. The Bedouin spoke slowly, lips pulled back in disgust, showing yellow teeth. “Malik suspects you have been working with the Americans.”
“Malik is a liar!” the boy shrieked, trying to disappear by sinking deeper into the threadbare cushions.
