‘Can you walk?’ asked the priest, helping him to stand.
‘Is the Pope Polish?’
‘Not any more. My car is close by. Any idea where your guest has gone?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’ Orville said, grabbing a roll of kitchen towels next to the window and wrapping his hands in thick layers of paper, like giant wads of candy floss, which slowly began to turn pink from the blood.
‘Leave that and get away from the window. I’ll bandage you up in the car. I thought you were an expert on terrorists.’
‘And I suppose you’re from the CIA? Here I was thinking I’d got lucky.’
‘Well, more or less. My name’s Albert and I’m an ISL [5].’
‘A link? Who with? The Vatican?’
Albert didn’t answer. Agents of the Holy Alliance never acknowledged their affiliation with the group.
‘Forget it, then,’ Orville said, fighting back the pain. ‘Look, nobody’s going to help us here. I doubt if anyone even heard the shots. The nearest neighbours are half a mile away. Do you have a cell phone?’
‘Not a good idea. If the police show up, they’ll take you to hospital and then they’ll want to question you. The CIA will arrive in your room half an hour later with a bunch of flowers.’
‘So you know how to handle that thing?’ Orville said, pointing at the gun.
‘Not really. I hate guns. You’re lucky I hit the guy with the knife, and not you.’
‘Well, you’d better start liking them,’ Orville said, lifting his candy-floss hands and signalling the gun. ‘What kind of agent are you?’
‘I’ve only had basic training,’ Albert said, looking baleful. ‘My thing is computers.’
‘Well, that’s just great! I’m beginning to feel dizzy,’ Orville said, on the verge of fainting. The only that kept him from hitting the floor was Albert’s arm.
‘Do you think you can make it to the car, Orville?’
Orville nodded, but wasn’t too sure.
‘How many of them are there?’ Albert asked.
‘The only one left is the one you scared off. But he’ll be waiting for us in the garden.’
Albert took a brief look out of the window but he couldn’t see anything in the dark.
‘Let’s go, then. Down the hill, close to the wall… he could be anywhere.’
52
OUTSKIRTS OF WASHINGTON, DC
Nazim was very scared.
He had imagined the scene of his martyrdom many times. Abstract nightmares in which he’d die in a great ball of fire, something huge that would be televised all over the world. Kharouf’s death turned out to be an absurd anticlimax, leaving Nazim confused and frightened.
He had run off into the garden, afraid that the police would show up at any minute. For a moment he was tempted by the main gate, which was still half open. The sound of crickets and cicadas filled the night with promises and life, and for a moment Nazim hesitated.
So Nazim didn’t go out of the gate. He remained in the shadows, behind a row of badly neglected snapdragons that still displayed some yellowish blooms. Attempting to ease the tension in his body, he switched the pistol from hand to hand.
There was a noise from the path. Nazim listened more attentively. They were coming. He had to be quick. He had to-
‘OK. Throw down the gun. Go on.’
Nazim didn’t even think. He didn’t say a final prayer. He just turned around, pistol in hand.
Albert, who had gone out of the back of the house and had stayed close to the wall so he could reach the gate safely, had found the fluorescent strips on Nazim’s Nikes in the dark. It wasn’t the same as when he’d fired at Kharouf instinctively, to save Orville’s life, and hit him through pure luck. This time he had caught the guy unawares only a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the centre of Nazim’s chest, and squeezed the trigger halfway, calling out for him to drop the gun. When Nazim turned, Albert pressed the trigger the whole way, blowing open the young man’s chest.
Nazim was only vaguely conscious of the shot. He didn’t feel any pain, although he was aware of being knocked to the ground. He tried to move his arms and legs but it was pointless and he couldn’t speak. He saw the one who had fired bending over him, checking the pulse on his neck then shaking his head. A moment later, Watson arrived. Nazim saw a drop of Watson’s blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if that drop mixed with his own blood flowing from the wound in his chest. His vision was clouding over by the second, but still he was able to hear the voice of Watson, praying.
‘Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and an opportunity to praise him with righteousness and honesty. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the sacred Quran, which says that even though someone may raise his hand against us to kill us, we shall not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are those of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the tortures of Hell, and bring him close to you, oh Lord of the Throne.’
After that, Nazim felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had given everything for Allah. He allowed himself to be transported to such a state of peace that when he heard the police sirens in the distance he confused them with the sound of the crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear and it was the last thing he heard.
