Authors: Terry Hayes
He nodded. ‘The file contained the usual empty analysis and a few incomplete logs of membership,
but buried among it was this …’ He held up a three-page document in Arabic.
‘About five years ago a low-level field agent interviewed a Saudi aid worker who had delivered food and medicine to the refugees in the Gaza Strip. While he was unloading trucks at a dilapidated
hospital, he heard about a man who had been brought in earlier in the evening after an Israeli rocket attack.
‘When his work was done he went up to see the wounded man to find out if there was anything he
could do to help. The man, with shrapnel wounds near his spine, was going in and out of delirium,
and the aid worker ended up sitting with him through the night.’
The director paused, looking at the document, checking his facts. ‘It appeared the wounded man was a doctor and, at one stage, semi-delirious, he mentioned he used to be a member of the mosque in Manama. That was how the report ended up in this particular file.
‘Everybody assumed he was a Bahraini. But he couldn’t have been because, much later on, again in
his delirium, he said his father had been publicly beheaded—’
I sat forward so quickly I was lucky not to fall off the chair. ‘Bahrain doesn’t do that,’ I said.
‘Exactly – only one country does.’
‘Saudi,’ I replied.
‘Yes. It appears the man had been travelling in a car with his Palestinian wife and child when it was rocketed – whether the vehicle was targeted or if it was collateral damage, nobody knows.
‘The woman died, but not immediately. In his rambling account, he said that he was holding her and
she made him promise – promise before God – that he would protect their child. The little boy had
survived with minor injuries—’
‘Praise be unto Allah,’ the whole room said in Arabic.
‘But the mother knew,’ the director continued, ‘that for him the tragedy was doubly great. Not only
had he lost her but he also suffered—’
‘From Down’s syndrome,’ I said with sudden certainty.
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s definitely him – al-Nassouri,’ I said, getting to my feet, having to work off the flood of nervous energy. ‘It’s his son – I know the boy. Where did the hospital send the child – to an orphanage?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Run by the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade – I’ve seen the receipts.’ At last I understood why Leyla Cumali hadn’t sent the money to Unicef.
‘What else?’ I asked, probably more harshly than manners dictated, but we were on a roll and nobody noticed.
‘The dead woman’s name was Amina Ebadi – at least that was one name she used: many of the Palestinian activists use aliases or
noms de guerre
. We’ve done a search on her, but can’t find
anything.’
‘Yes, but what about him – what about the doctor?’ I asked, my voice crackling with intensity. ‘Did
the aid worker get the name he was using?’
‘That was a strange thing – the doctor was in terrible shape but, when the aid worker returned the
following night, he’d discharged himself. Probably scared about what he might have said when he was rambling—’
‘His name, Director? Did he get a name?’
‘No.’
I stared at him. ‘There’s
nothing
?! Nothing more?’
He nodded. ‘We’ve been through everything. The original report wasn’t followed up. It didn’t seem
to have any significance—’
‘Until now,’ I said bitterly. I tilted my head back and tried to breathe. The news seemed to have sucked the air – and the energy – out of the room. The agents and the director kept watching me, but I tried to think.
I knew more about Zakaria al-Nassouri than any covert agent had a right to. I knew he was born and
raised in Jeddah, that he had stood in anguish in the square where his father was beheaded and that his mother had taken him to live in exile in Bahrain. I knew the name of the mosque he had joined in Manama and that his fellow worshippers had arranged for him to go to Afghanistan and fight the Soviets. At the end of the war he had bought a death certificate, somehow acquired a new passport and vanished into the trackless Arab world. He had studied medicine, graduated as a doctor, met a woman
who sometimes used the name Amina Ebadi and married her. Together they had worked on the undocumented and lawless frontier – the refugee camps of Gaza: a hell on earth if ever there was one.
I now knew that the married couple were travelling with their young child when they were hit by an
Israeli rocket, killing the mother and injuring the doctor. The little boy was taken to an orphanage and the doctor must have asked his sister Leyla to reach out and save him. Full of hatred, without family responsibilities, using his knowledge as a doctor, enabled by the vast haemorrhaging of information
on the Internet, he had set about synthesizing smallpox. He had returned to Afghanistan to test it, and we heard him on the phone, worried about his beloved child, the only link he had left to his dead wife.
And after that? After that, the music stopped and there was nothing. Who was he now? What name
was he using? And – more importantly – where was he? ‘A way in,’ I said softly. ‘Somehow you push
forward and find a way back in.’
Nobody knew if I was talking to myself or offering a suggestion to everyone. I probably didn’t know either.
‘That’s all we have on the man,’ the director said, sweeping his hand across the floors of motorized files. ‘There’s no name, no identity and no trace. Not here, anyway.’
He was right, and the silence hung in space. Through the haze of smoke, I looked at the men. There
was no way back in for any of us, hope was gone, and I knew …
We had lost him
.
I forced myself not to show my despair and stood a little straighter. Bill had always told me there
was no excuse for bad manners, and I owed the Saudi men something.
‘You’ve done more than anybody could have asked,’ I said. ‘It was a thankless task, but you did it
with talent and good grace and I thank you wholeheartedly.’
It was probably the first time they had heard genuine praise instead of empty flattery, and I could
see on their faces the pride it brought them.
‘
Jazak Allahu Khayran
,’ I said finally, butchering the pronunciation but using one of the only Arabic phrases I recalled from my earlier visit. It was the traditional way of offering thanks: ‘May God reward you with blessings.’
‘
Waiyyaki
,’ they all said, smiling kindly at my effort and offering the time-honoured response:
‘And with you.’
It was the signal everybody needed, and they got to their feet and started packing everything up. I
remained where I was, standing alone, desperately trying to find another way forward, a route, a path.
A miracle.
I journeyed through the catalogue of my professional memory, I let my mind wander down every
unconventional alley, but I came up empty.
I had identified the Saracen, but I didn’t know him; I had located him, but I couldn’t find him; he
was somebody, and he was nobody. That was the truth, and nothing in the world was going to change
it.
I looked at my watch.
Chapter Eight
IT WAS THE worst phone call I have ever had to make. Nobody was angry, nobody shouted or made accusations, but the sense of failure and fear was overwhelming.
After I had said goodbye to the director of the Mabahith, one of the black SUVs took me the short
distance across town to the high-security compound that housed the US consulate. Carter from Beirut
Station had called ahead and alerted them to my presence, so I had little delay in getting through the anti-suicide barriers and guardhouses.
Once I was inside, the young duty officer assumed I needed a bed for the night and started to show
me towards a guest apartment, but I stopped him halfway to the elevator and told him I needed a telephone in the building’s Tempest zone – an area specially engineered to prevent any electronic eavesdropping. The Mabahith and I might have ended on good terms, but that didn’t mean I trusted them.
The duty officer hesitated, probably wondering who I was exactly, then started activating the electronic locks on blast-proof doors, leading me deep into the heart of the building. We passed through an internal security checkpoint, which told me we were entering the area occupied by the CIA, before arriving at a small room with only a desk and a telephone. The blandest place you have
ever seen, distinguished only by its complete lack of sound.
I closed the door, activated the electronic lock, picked up the phone and asked the operator for the Oval Office.
The phone was answered immediately and I heard the president’s voice. It was clear he was exhausted, but it was equally obvious that his spirits were buoyed by the expectation of good news. I had told them I would have the Saracen’s full name, date of birth and probably a photo. I had found
them too, I just hadn’t anticipated they would be useless.
Whisperer announced that he was on the line as well, and I think he guessed from my downbeat greeting that a disaster was heading down the pike. Like any good case officer he had learned to judge every nuance of a joe’s behaviour. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice tightening.
I told it to them hard and cold and straight, like one of those accident reports you read in the daily news. I said that, despite all our efforts and the great promise of a few hours ago, we had nothing to work with. Nothing at all.
There was a terrible silence.
‘One minute we were cock of the walk, next a feather duster,’ Whisperer said finally. ‘It’s a bust—’
‘Busted flat and out of time,’ the president added, the exhaustion, stripped of its veneer of hope, coming through loud and clear.
‘What about the others?’ I asked. ‘Everybody who’s looking for the nuclear trigger. Anything from
them?’
‘A hundred thousand people and nothing,’ Grosvenor replied.
‘I figure we never had a chance. I think we ran into the perfect storm—’ Whisperer started to say.
‘A cleanskin flying solo,’ I said.
‘A cleanskin, yes. But not totally solo – no,’ he replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘In Afghanistan – he must have had help for at least a short period. A man flying solo can’t grab
three hostages.’
He was right, but it didn’t seem important and, anyway, the president was already moving on.
‘We’ll pick up the woman – what’s her name, Cumali? – as soon as possible. Is that the plan?’ he
asked Whisperer.
‘Yeah. Pilgrim believes she’s in the dark – am I right?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘As Whisperer probably told you, Mr President, she has a way of contacting
him, but I think it will be booby-trapped. She’ll misplace a letter, use a different word – it’ll warn him to run.’
‘You may be right,’ the president said. ‘He bought a damn death certificate, he’s smart enough – but we have to try.’
‘I’ll send a team in fast,’ Whisperer said. ‘We’ll get her out of Turkey, rendition her to Bright Light.’
Bright Light was the code name for Khun Yuam, the CIA secret prison I had visited up on the Thai–
Burma border. The story was that once somebody disappeared into Bright Light, they didn’t emerge.
It was strange – given the magnitude of the events which we were confronting – but I couldn’t help
thinking about the little guy and what would happen to him. Back to an orphanage in either Gaza or
Turkey, I figured. Wherever it was, there wouldn’t be much bowing and laughter.
‘At dawn, or near enough, I’ll issue an executive order,’ Grosvenor continued, ‘and close the borders. We’ll isolate the country the best we can – airports, land crossings, ports of entry, everything we can think of.’
It was obvious they were still heading down the human-vector track and, even if they were right about the method of dispersal, over half a million illegal aliens entered the country every year – a good indication that any attempt to secure the borders would be of little use. Like the old virologist had said: sooner or later, we all sit down to a banquet of consequences.
Even though I didn’t think their plan would work, I said nothing. I had no alternative, so it would
have been churlish to tear it apart without having something better to offer. They were doing their best to keep the country afloat, that was all.
‘We don’t have to say it’s smallpox,’ Whisperer suggested. ‘We could claim it’s a highly virulent
avian flu. As bad as it is, it’s not freighted with the same terror. Once you say “smallpox” and add
“sledgehammer”, it’s gonna be like Mount Everest – it’ll make its own weather.’
‘No,’ Grosvenor replied – he had obviously thought of it too. ‘What happens when the truth gets
out? Our only hope is the cooperation of the public – given the chance, Americans always rise to the occasion. Betray them and you’ve lost ’em. One vector, one trace, that’s all we need and we can track it backwards. I also plan to release the vaccine. I don’t know if it will do any good, but we have to try everything and use what we’ve got.’
‘Yes, Mr President,’ Whisperer said. ‘What about you, Pilgrim? Coming home?’
‘I’ll go to Gaza,’ I said.
It was Whisperer who recovered first. ‘An American alone in Gaza, without a legend? They’ll be
lining up with bomb belts and baseball bats – you’ll be dead in a day.’
‘I’ve spoken to the Saudis – they’ve got some people on the ground who can help.’