forty-eight

James felt a shock deep in his gut. Was this what it had all been about? Had Malak just indicated in those few mocking, cynical words that this crazy scheme had as much if not more to do with money than extremism? That his entire organisation was a willingly gullible force, expendable and ready to die, with himself sitting at its head, unseen and untouched?

“Why is your hatred of America so deep?” he said. “I take it you’re the organised and patient man and the others are the cannon fodder?”

Malak grunted. “My parents and two sisters were killed by a missile strike when I was five years old. It was an American missile and they were in a school at the time.” His mouth twisted. “So much for precision and reliable intelligence. Isn’t that what the Pentagon is always claiming? Twelve other children and five teachers also died in that incident and countless others were maimed for life.”

James swallowed hard. The pain in the man’s voice carried the ring of conviction. “Where did this happen?”

“Where doesn’t matter. I was taken away from the place two days later and never went back. But I never forgot.”

James thought about the timing and Malak’s approximate age. It had to have been during the first Gulf War, in the early nineties. An accident of war, perhaps, of bad coordinates or intelligence, or simply a lack of care in designating a target. None of it mattered now, except that whatever the cause, it had created a monster.

Up front, Bilal said something and the van began to slow.

A man was standing by the side of the road.

“Turn in the gate here,” said Malak, putting a cell phone away. He looked at James and spoke carefully, the passion gone. “We’re going to change vehicles. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can use the opportunity to run. We’re a long way from anywhere and I still have the phone numbers of the men watching your family. I will call them if I have to.”

James shook his head and remained silent. He was still stunned by the scenario Malak had unveiled, of a generation of future terrorist attacks driven by a man willing to use others to die in his desire for vengeance. The horrifying aspect was, it was an idea that he could see replicated by others with the same twisted zeal. If Malak succeeded in his ghastly plan, the idea would spread and, even if he disappeared, others would soon take his place.

Bilal stopped the van and turned off the engine. The silence after hours of being in the noisy echo of the vehicle was intense, and James struggled to catch the sound of Malak’s voice. The terrorist had jumped out of the rear doors to greet the man waiting for them, and he began issuing rapid orders.

Bilal came round the side and undid the cuffs, then dragged James roughly from the back and made him squat down by pressing his shoulder in an iron grip. James looked around and saw the man, a slim, dark-skinned individual in his forties, handing Malak a pile of clothing and boots. For a second he couldn’t identify the items in the gloom, but then the familiar pattern of the fabric became clear. They were combat uniforms.

James looked past the two men and his mind raced ahead to what was about to happen, collating facts and stitching them together.

He was looking at a light army patrol vehicle complete with ID plates and numbers. With the uniforms, it was obvious what Malak was about to do. He was planning on going right into the area near the Altus air base! He wondered at the sheer crazy effrontery of the man. Then cool reason took over and he saw the simple brilliance behind the move.

After all, who would question another military patrol among so many? With security so tight and every spare man and vehicle called into use, they’d be all but invisible.

His suspicions were confirmed when the newcomer patted the hood of the vehicle and said with only a faint trace of an accent, “Fresh out of the repair shop an hour ago. It hasn’t been signed out yet, so nobody will miss it for at least forty-eight hours. Those uniforms are all genuine, but don’t go talking to other patrols. Everybody is on edge and ready to go operational. It’s best if you stay on the move—and don’t forget to salute if you see an officer.”

“Good work,” said Malak. He turned to Bilal and told him to get James on board and for both of them to change into the uniforms and boots. Then he said to the other man, “You’re coming, too.”

“What?” The man looked startled. “No, you don’t understand. Now that I stole the patrol vehicle I have to leave—they’ll know it was me.” He held out his hand. “Give me the keys to the van and I’ll be gone. I’m already getting too much flak because of where I came from and I can’t stand it anymore. I said I’d help with this and the stuff for the men at Fort Sill, but that’s it. I have a family to protect.”

Malak reached behind his back and produced his pistol. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. Now, you either stop your whining and get in the vehicle with the others … or I leave you here with a bullet in your cowardly skull.”

The man swallowed then did as he was told.