6. The kidneys
7. The spinal column
Principles and Rules for Firing
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:1. Control yourself when you squeeze the trigger so the gun doesn’t move
2. Squeeze the trigger without too much force and without pulling on it
3. Do not let the sound of the shot affect you and do not concentrate on what it will sound like because that will make your hand shake
4. Your body should be normal, not tense, and your limbs relaxed; but not too relaxed
5. When you fire, line up your right eye with the centre of the target
6. Close your left eye if you fire with your right hand and vice versa
7. Do not take too long in aiming or your nerves may fail you
8. Do not feel regret in squeezing the trigger. You are killing an enemy of your God
47
WASHINGTON SUBURB
Friday, 14 July 2006. 8:34 p.m.
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 kafirun2 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?’
2Disbelievers, 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.’
48
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Saturday, 15 July 2006. 2:34 a.m.
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.
Let me see. What the hell do I remember about these bastards? They’re yellow scorpions. The girl has twenty minutes at most before things turn ugly. If only one of them stung her, that is. If more than one . . .
A terrible thought crossed the doctor’s mind. If Andrea was allergic to the scorpion’s poison, she was a goner.
‘Andrea, listen to me very carefully.’
Andrea opened her eyes and looked at her. Lying on her bedding, clutching her leg and staring blankly ahead of her, the girl was clearly in agony. Harel made a superhuman effort to overcome her own paralysing fear of scorpions. It was a natural fear that any Israeli, as she was, born in Beersheba at the edge of the desert, would have learned as a young girl. She tried to put her foot on the floor but couldn’t.
‘Andrea. Andrea, on the list of allergies you gave me, were cardiotoxins included?’
Andrea howled again in pain.
‘How do I know? I carry the list because I can’t remember any more than ten names at a time. Fuuuuuuuuuuck! Doc, get down from there, for God’s sake, or Jehovah’s, or whatever. The pain is worse . . .’
Harel tried again to master her fear, putting a foot on the floor, and in two leaps she reached her own mattress.
I hope they’re not in here. Please God, don’t let them be in my sleeping bag . . .
She kicked the sleeping bag to the floor, grabbed a boot in each hand and returned to Andrea.
‘I have to put on my boots and go over to the medicine cabinet. You’ll be all right in a minute,’ she said, pulling on her boots. ‘The poison is very dangerous, but it takes almost half an hour to kill a person. Hold on.’
Andrea did not reply. Harel looked up. Andrea had brought her hand up to her neck and her face was starting to turn blue.
Oh, Holy God! She is allergic. She’s going into anaphylactic shock.
Forgetting to put on her other boot, Harel knelt next to Andrea, her naked legs exposed to the floor. She had never been so aware of every square inch of her flesh. She looked for the place where the scorpions had stung Andrea and found two spots on the reporter’s left calf, two small holes, each surrounded by an inflamed area roughly the size of a tennis ball.
Shit. They really got her.
The tent flap opened and Father Fowler came in. He was also barefoot.
‘What’s going on?’
Harel was leaning over Andrea, trying to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
‘Father, please hurry. She’s in shock. I need epinephrine.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the cabinet at the end, second shelf from the top. There are some green vials. Bring me one and a syringe.’
She leaned over and blew more air into Andrea’s mouth, but the swelling in her throat was hindering the passage of air into her lungs. If Harel didn’t treat the shock straight away, her friend would be dead.
And it’ll be your fault, for being such a coward and climbing up on the table.
‘What the hell happened?’ said the priest, running to the cabinet. ‘She’s in shock?’
‘Get out,’ Doc screamed at the half-dozen sleepy heads peering into the infirmary. Harel didn’t want one of the scorpions to escape and find some other victim. ‘A scorpion stung her, Father. There are three in here right now. Be careful.’
Father Fowler flinched slightly at the news and moved carefully towards the doctor with the epinephrine and syringe. Harel immediately injected five CCs into Andrea’s naked thigh.
Fowler grabbed a five-gallon jar of water by the handle.
‘You take care of Andrea,’ he told the doctor. ‘I’ll find them.’
Harel now turned all her attention to the young reporter, although by this point all she could do was observe her condition. It would be the epinephrine that would have to work its miraculous effect. As soon as the hormone entered Andrea’s bloodstream, the nerve endings in her cells would start firing. The fat cells in her body would begin to break up the lipids to free extra energy, her heart rate would increase, her blood would carry more glucose, her brain would start producing dopamine, and most importantly, her bronchial tubes would dilate and the swelling in her throat disappear.
With a loud gulp, Andrea took her first breath of air on her own. To Dr Harel, the sound was almost as beautiful as the three dry thuds of Father Fowler’s gallon jug that she had heard in the background as the medicine continued to work. When Father Fowler sat down on the floor next to her, Doc had no doubt that the three scorpions were now reduced to three stains on the floor.
‘And the antidote? Something to deal with the poison?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes, but I don’t want to inject her just yet. It’s made from the blood of horses that have been exposed to hundreds of scorpion stings so that eventually they become immune. The vaccine always carries traces of the toxin, and I don’t want to risk another shock.’
Fowler watched the young Spaniard. Her face was slowly starting to look normal again.
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget it.’
‘No problem,’ replied Harel, who was by now all too conscious of the danger they had been through, and began to shake.
‘Will there be any after-effects?’
‘No. Her body can fight against the poison now.’ She raised the green vial. ‘This is pure adrenalin, it’s like giving her system a weapon. All the organs in her body will double their capacity and prevent her from choking. She’ll be all right in a couple of hours, although she will feel like shit.’
Fowler’s face relaxed a little. He pointed to the door.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘I’m no idiot, Father. I’ve been in the desert hundreds of times in my country. The last thing I do at night is make sure all the doors are closed. In fact, I double check. This tent is more secure than a Swiss bank account.’
‘Three scorpions. All at the same time. In the middle of the night . . .’
‘Yes, Father. That’s the second time someone has tried to kill Andrea.’
49
ORVILLE WATSON’S SAFE HOUSE
OUTSKIRTS OF WASHINGTON, DC
Friday, 14 July 2006. 11:36 p.m.
Ever since he had started hunting terrorists, Orville Watson had taken a series of basic precautions: making sure he had telephone numbers, addresses and postal codes under different names, then buying a house through an unnamed foreign association that only a genius would have been able to trace to him. An emergency hideout in case things got ugly.
Of course, a safe house only you know of has its problems. For a start, if you want to stock it with supplies then you have to do so on your own. Orville took care of that. Once every three weeks he would take to the house cans, meat for the freezer, and a stack of DVDs of the latest films. He’d then get rid of anything that was out of date, lock up the place and leave.
It was paranoid behaviour . . . no question about it. The only mistake Orville had ever made, other than letting himself be followed by Nazim, was that the last time he’d been there he’d forgotten the bag of Hershey bars. It was an unwise addiction, not only because of the 330 calories per bar, but because an emergency order to Amazon might let the terrorists know that you were inside the house they were watching.
But Orville hadn’t been able to help himself. He could’ve done without food, water, internet access, his collection of sexy photos, his books or his music. But when he’d entered the house in the early hours of Wednesday morning, thrown the fireman’s coat into the garbage bin and looked into the cupboard where he stored his chocolate and saw that it was empty, his heart had sunk. He couldn’t go three or four months without chocolate, having been totally hooked ever since his parents’ divorce.
I could’ve had a worse addiction, he thoug
ht, trying to calm himself. Heroin, crack, voting Republican.
Orville had never tried heroin in his life, but not even the overwhelming craziness of that drug couldn’t compare to the uncontrollable rush he felt when he heard the sound of foil crackling as he unwrapped his chocolate.
If Orville were to go all Freudian, he might have decided that this was because the last thing the Watson family had done together before the divorce was to spend the Christmas of 1993 at his uncle’s house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. As a special treat his parents took Orville to the Hershey factory, which was only fourteen miles from Harrisburg. Orville grew weak at the knees when they first entered the building and absorbed the aroma of the chocolate. He was even given some Hershey bars with his name on them.
But now Orville was even more worried by another sound: that of breaking glass, if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him.
He carefully pushed aside a small pile of chocolate wrappers and got out of bed. He had resisted touching the chocolate for three hours, a personal record, but now that he’d finally given in to his addiction, he planned to go all out. And again, if he’d gone all Freudian about it, he would have worked out that he had eaten seventeen chocolates, one for each member of his company who had died in Monday’s attack.
But Orville didn’t believe in Sigmund Freud and his head trips. For a case of broken glass, he believed in Smith & Wesson. That’s why he kept a .38 Special next to his bed.
It can’t be. The alarm is on.
He picked up the gun and an object that sat next to it on the night table. It looked like a key chain, but it was a simple remote control with two buttons. The first set off a silent alarm at the police station. The second set off a siren throughout the estate.
‘It’s so loud it could wake up Nixon and get him tap dancing,’ the man installing the alarm had said.
‘Nixon’s buried in California.’
‘Now you know how powerful it is.’
Orville pressed both buttons, not wanting to take any chances. On hearing no siren, he wanted to beat the shit out of the cretin who had installed the system and sworn that it was impossible to disconnect.