Contract With God (24 page)

‘Suppose we could do that and they believed us . . . what good would it do?’

In the darkness, Harel fought back a moan of rage and impotence.

‘The only thing I can think of is the same answer you gave me yesterday about the mole: wait and see.’

‘There is one way,’ Fowler said. ‘But it’ll be dangerous, and I’ll need your help.’

‘You can count on me, Father. But first explain to me what this Ypsilon protocol is.’

‘It’s a procedure by which a security detail assassinates all the members of a group they’re supposed to protect, if the code word comes over the radio. They kill everybody except the person who hired them and anyone he says should be left alone.’

‘I don’t understand how something like that can exist.’

‘Officially it doesn’t. But a few soldiers in mercenary outfits who were in Special Forces, for example, imported the concept from Asian countries.’

Harel stood very still for a moment.

‘Is there any way of knowing who’s included?’

‘No,’ the priest said weakly. ‘And the worst part is that the person who contracts the military detail is always different to the one who is supposed to be in charge.’

‘Then Kayn . . .’ Harel said, opening her eyes.

‘Exactly, Doctor. Kayn isn’t the one who wants us dead. It’s someone else.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

At first, there was absolute stillness in the infirmary tent. With Kyra Larsen sleeping with the other assistants, the breathing of the remaining two women was the only thing that could be heard.

After a while there was a light scratching. It was the
Hawnvëiler
zip, the most hermetic and secure in the world. Not even dust could penetrate, but nothing could prevent an intruder’s access once it had been unzipped twenty inches or so.

What followed was a series of faint sounds: stockinged feet on the wood; the pop of a small plastic box being opened; then an even fainter but more menacing sound: that of twenty-four nervous keratin legs scurrying around inside the little box.

Then there followed a discrete silence because the movements were almost inaudible to the human ear: the partly opened end of a sleeping bag being lifted up, the twenty-four little legs landing on the cloth inside, the end of the cloth being returned to its original position, covering the owners of those twenty-four small legs.

For the next seven seconds, breathing once again dominated the silence. The sliding of the stockinged feet leaving the tent was even quieter than before, and the prowler didn’t close the zip when he left. The movement that Andrea made inside the sleeping bag was so brief that it hardly produced a sound. It was, however, enough to provoke the visitors to her sleeping bag into discharging their anger and confusion after being shaken about so much by the prowler before he entered the tent.

The first sting drilled into her and Andrea shattered the silence with her screams.

It is better to choose a revolver, because even though it has fewer bullets than an automatic pistol, it doesn’t jam and the empty cartridges remain in the cylinder, making it more difficult for investigators.

[. . .]

 

The gunman should be familiar with the essential parts on the body or [where] to wound critically in order to aim at these areas on the individual who is to be assassinated. They are:

The biggest mistakes in aiming are due to physical stress or nerves, which can make the hand jump or shake. This can be caused by putting too much pressure on the trigger or by pulling on the trigger instead of squeezing it. This makes the muzzle of the gun shift away from the target.

For that reason, the brothers should follow these rules when aiming and firing:

 

Nazim took a sip of Coke but immediately set it aside. It contained too much sugar, as did all the drinks in restaurants where you could refill your cup as many times as you wanted. The Mayur Kebab shop where he had bought dinner was one such place.

‘You know, I saw a documentary the other day about this guy who only ate hamburgers from McDonald’s for a month.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

Kharouf had his eyes half closed. He had been trying to fall asleep for a while but couldn’t. Ten minutes ago he had given up and tilted the car seat upright again. That Ford was too uncomfortable.

‘They said that his liver turned into pâté.’

‘That could only happen in the United States. The country with the fattest people in the world. You know it uses up to 87 per cent of the world’s resources.’

Nazim didn’t say anything. He had been born an American, but a different kind of American. He hadn’t learned to hate his country, even though his lips said otherwise. To him, Kharouf’s hatred of the United States seemed too all-encompassing. He would prefer to imagine the President kneeling and facing Mecca in the Oval Office than see the White House destroyed by fire. One time he had said something of the sort to Kharouf and Kharouf had shown him a CD containing photos of a small girl. They were photos of a crime scene.

‘The Israeli soldiers raped and killed her in Nablus. There isn’t enough hatred in the world for such a thing.’

Remembering the images made Nazim’s blood boil too, but he tried to keep such thoughts out of his head. In contrast to Kharouf, hatred was not the source of his energy. His motivations were selfish and twisted; they were about getting something for himself. His prize.

Days before, when they had gone into the offices of Netcatch, Nazim had barely been conscious of anything. In a certain way he felt bad because the two minutes they had spent wiping out the
kafirun
²
had almost been erased from his head. He had tried to remember what had happened, but it was as if they were somebody else’s memories, like the crazy dreams in the chic-flicks his sister liked, in which the main character sees herself from the outside. Nobody has dreams in which they see themselves from the outside.

‘Kharouf.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘Remember what happened last Tuesday?’

‘Are you talking about the operation?’

‘Right.’

Kharouf looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.

‘Every detail.’

Nazim looked away because he felt ashamed of what he was going to say.

‘I . . . I don’t remember too much, you know?’

‘You should thank Allah, blessed be his name. The first time I killed someone I couldn’t sleep for a week.’

‘You?’

Nazim opened his eyes wide.

Kharouf tousled the young man’s hair playfully.

‘That’s right, Nazim. You’re a jihadist now and we’re equals. Don’t be so surprised that I went through tough times too. It’s sometimes hard to act as God’s sword. But you have been blessed with being able to forget the ugly details. The only thing left for you is pride in what you’ve done.’

The young man felt much better than he had in the last few days. He was quiet for a while, saying a prayer of thanks. He felt the sweat trickling down his back but didn’t dare turn on the car’s engine so that he could put on the air-conditioning. The wait began to feel endless.

‘Are you sure he’s in there? I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Nazim, pointing to the wall that surrounded the estate. ‘Don’t you think we should look elsewhere?’

²
Disbelievers, according to the Koran.

Kharouf thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to look. How long did we follow him? A month? He only came here once, and was loaded down with packages. He went out with nothing in his hands. That house is empty. For all we know, it could belong to a friend and he was doing him a favour. But it’s the only link we have, and we have you to thank for finding it.’

This was true. On one of the days that Nazim had to follow Watson on his own, the guy had started acting strangely, switching lanes on the highway, and taking a route back home that was completely different to the one he usually took. Nazim had turned up the volume on the radio and imagined he was a character in
Grand Theft Auto
, the popular video game in which the main character is a criminal who has to carry out missions such as kidnapping, killing, drug dealing and fleecing prostitutes. There was a part of the game in which you had to follow a car that was trying to get away. It was one of his favourite parts, and what he had learned helped him in following Watson.

‘Do you think he knows about us?’

‘I don’t think he even knows anything about
Huqan
, but I’m sure our leader has good reason to want him dead. Pass me the bottle. I have to piss.’

Nazim passed him a two-litre bottle. Kharouf unzipped his trousers and urinated inside. They had several empty bottles so that they could relieve themselves discreetly inside the car. It was better putting up with the hassle and throwing the bottles out later than having someone notice them pissing in the street or going into one of the local bars.

‘You know what? To hell with this,’ Kharouf said grimacing. ‘I’ll get rid of this bottle in the alley and then we’ll go look for him in California at his mother’s house. To hell with everything.’

‘Wait, Kharouf.’

Nazim was pointing at the gate of the estate. A delivery man on a motorcycle was ringing the bell. Seconds later someone appeared.

‘He’s there! You see, Nazim, I told you. Congratulations!’

Kharouf was excited. He slapped Nazim on the back. The boy felt happy and nervous at the same time, as if a hot wave and a cold wave were colliding deep inside him.

‘Excellent, kid. We’re finally going to finish what we started.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

Harel woke up startled by Andrea’s screams. The young reporter was sitting on top of her sleeping bag, grabbing her leg as she cried out.

‘God, it hurts!’

The first thing Harel thought was that Andrea had got cramp while she slept. She jumped up, turned on the infirmary lights and grabbed hold of Andrea’s leg in order to massage it.

It was then that she saw the scorpions.

There were three of them, at least three that had come out of the sleeping bag and were running around crazily with their tails up, ready to sting. They were a sickly yellow colour. Terrified, Dr Harel jumped on to one of the examination tables. She was barefoot and thus easy prey.

‘Doc, help me. Oh God, my leg’s on fire . . . Doc! Oh, God!’

Andrea’s cries helped the doctor to channel her fear and think. She couldn’t leave her young friend helpless and suffering.

A terrible thought crossed the doctor’s mind. If Andrea was allergic to the scorpion’s poison, she was a goner.