“Luna,” said Manny, “there’s a checkpoint coming up. Get your documents ready.” He hesitated for a second. “Don’t talk unless you’re asked a question.”
We slowed to a coast, then stopped at a police barricade. A policeman in a khaki uniform and a black beret stepped up to the driver’s window.
I tensed up, but all the policeman did was glance at our documents, say, “As-salamu alaykum,” and wave us onward.
“That wasn’t bad,” I said. “We didn’t even have to show the marriage certificate.”
“The regular cops are okay,” said Manny. “And this is a company truck. We travel all over the country for work. It’s the religious police who check marriage certificates.”
“They have police to enforce religion?”
“They call it enforcing morals,” said Manny. He looked at me in the visor mirror. “You know, arresting free-range women, whipping mouthy women, enforcing separation of unmarried couples.”
“Are you waiting for me to complain, Manny?” I said. “Say something about social justice and freedom? It’s their country, they can run it as they see fit.”
Manny gave me a cynical look, so I elaborated. “I’ve been places where the women are in charge, places where we’re more or less equal, and now here. No matter where I’ve been, people are people. There’s good and bad people everywhere.”
“Luna’s a solid operative,” added Mike. “She doesn’t take crap, but she’s not going to risk the mission by acting out of place.”
It was quiet for a time, so I went back to dozing.
When I blinked awake, we were near the city and dawn was approaching. Finally the roadway sported some streetlights, making driving easier.
We left the highway and drove through the city streets. Not much traffic in the pre-dawn darkness. Cars here drove on the right-hand side of the road, like in the US, but instead of intersections with lights to control traffic, Saudi planners had used roundabouts.
At the first hint of dawn in the sky, loudspeakers started going off all over the city. I couldn’t understand the Arabic, but they all said the same thing.
“That’s the first call to prayer,” said Manny. “Get used to it; you’ll hear it several times a day.”
We arrived at a walled compound. There were concrete barriers on the road that forced Mike to zigzag to reach the gate.
Manny took our documents and entered the guard shack to check us in. His limp was worse, and it took him more than a minute to cross the short distance.
“I thought you said Manny was ‘cheerful and happy-go-lucky,’” I said. “He’s a sour old man. Did we catch him on a bad day?”
“I’ve never seen him so negative. I think his arm and leg are acting up.”
“Was he injured in the military?”
“He’s beat up, but not any worse than the rest of us,” said Mike. “But he has had a lot of problems since getting out.”
There was a long pause, then Mike said, “Is there any way you or your dad can help him?”
“I don’t know, Mike. Rescuing the hostages is my first priority. Logan’s in a lot worse shape than Manny.” Logan’s agony throbbed in my mind like a sore tooth, impossible to ignore.
“I was hoping Manny could come on the mission with us—with our backup team dead, we’re going to need help. But with the condition he’s in, there’s not much he can do for us.” Mike shook his head regretfully. “Just driving out to pick us up nearly wiped him out.”
“I’ll take a look,” I said. Mike looked hopeful, so I had to add a qualifier. “It depends on what’s wrong with him. There’s a lot of things we can’t heal.”
“No chance of an upgrade?”
I shook my head. “No way. Your upgrade almost killed you, and it wiped out both me and Mason. I can’t afford the energy or time to give him an upgrade. I can probably ease the pain a bit.”
“Thanks, Luna.”
“But he has to ask for my help.”
“What do you mean? What if he’s too proud to ask?”
“Then I can’t help him. It’s one our rules. We don’t use magic on humans unless they ask.”
“See, the thing is, I was thinking if you could heal Manny, we could get him to—”
The discussion stopped as Manny returned to the car. He pulled himself in clumsily, then handed us visitor badges.
“There’s more security here than at Nellis Air Force Base,” I said as I examined mine.
“And this is a civilian compound,” said Mike. “The US Embassy compound is even stricter.”
“You’ve been to Nellis?” asked Manny.
“We both live in Las Vegas. Mike and I dropped into Nellis once to check on a fender-bender,” I said.
Mike choked, then his face smoothed. Telling Manny the truth would convince him either that we were both insane, or that we were terrorists.
Following Manny’s directions, Mike made his way through the huge compound, driving down wide streets flanked by large two-story houses. It was still early, but we saw a couple of joggers getting in their run before the daytime heat became oppressive. It looked a lot like one of our compounds in Las Vegas.
“Hey,” I said, “that woman’s jogging without an abaya.”
“Here inside the compound,” said Manny, “we don’t allow religious police. You could walk around in civilian clothes.”
Mike pulled the Suburban into a large driveway, easing under a carport roof that would shade the vehicle from the harsh sun. We piled out, grabbed our packs, and walked up to the entrance.
When we stepped into the entrance of Manny’s house, I paused and took a deep sniff, cataloging recent visitors. On the right was a dining room with a sliding glass door that opened on a tiny garden. Stairs in front of us led up to the second floor. On the left was a living room filled with Ethan Ames furniture.
It looked like a model home, barely lived in. The only out-of-place piece was a well-used recliner awkwardly placed in front of the couch. A coffee table had been shoved aside to make room for it.
