Semtex, what a beautiful invention. Stable. Almost undetectable. Easy to carry. Easy to conceal. Easy to place. Deadly.
The right amount, the right place, an adequate detonator: boom.
Scarce. Controlled. Expensive.
The Fist has sources. The Fist has financing. Wealthy sheiks whitewashing their conscience or, like now, a crooked Israeli politician trying to make a comeback.
Fuad doesn’t know. Fuad doesn’t care. Fuad’s only concern is placing this and getting out from this small tight, dark space.
He has trouble breathing. The smell of damp concrete and earth is all around him. His heart is booming. He’s sweating. His mouth is dry. He’s nauseous. His hands are not shaking, they can’t shake, they mustn’t shake.
He clicks the beads. They’re not working. He says the prayers. They’re not working. The light is dimming. The walls are closing in. The ceiling’s caving in.
He coughs.
Tears stream down his cheeks.
He must do this fast.
The crew doesn’t know about this tunnel.
They don’t know about the hole under the mansion’s wine cellar, the snaking corridor behind the house’s furnace, under the avenue, along the gas pipe, just below the power cables.
They don’t trust him. They don’t like him. They’ll notice he’s missing.
He’s at the tunnel’s end, just under the target. He takes out the compass, tries to get his bearings right.
The compass doesn’t work. The magnetic force from the power cables is screwing up the needle.
Where’s the gas main? Where’s the house? Where’s the poured concrete and steel shield protecting the foundation?
He tests the detonator. The cell-phone signal is weak, intermittent. The detonator fails once. He tests the signal again, and it lights the detonator twice. He tests it once more, and it fails. Tests twice, it works.
It must do. He has to get out. He’s running out of air. He’s getting dizzy. The damp smell fills his nose.
He looks around. He closes his eyes.
“Allah, guide my hands,” he says.
He places the Semtex as best he can, inserts the detonator.
He runs.
He slips.
He falls, scrapes his forehead, bites some dust.
He gets up, keeps on running, his left hand clicking beads with each step.
He’s in the wine cellar. He can hear voices up the stairs.
“Where’s that lazy Iraqi?” says the crew’s leader.
“Who knows? The other day I caught him down in the cellar. He was acting all suspicious. I think he was trying to steal a bottle or two,” says the other voice. It belongs to the chief electrician. “How did we get stuck with this motherfucker?”
“Marina,” says the crew leader.
The chief electrician grunts. He knows the facts of life. “Talk to Alyosha,” he says. “See if you can get rid of him.”
“Have you tried talking to Alyosha?” says the crew leader.
“Wet his mouth,” says the chief electrician. “If worse comes to worst, we keep the Iraqi on shit duty.”
“He is on shit duty,” says the crew leader. “That’s why I’m looking for him. The latrines are full.”
They both laugh.
Fuad hears the laughter and voices dim out. They’re walking away.
He takes another minute.
He’s breathing normal. He’s under control. He can go now.
He’s placed the bomb.