Merciful God, he was dead. Ali was dead. His heart did a sudden, light back-flip of joy.
The bright white light of Heaven and the sound of merry birdsong, chuckling streams and chattering children greeted him gaily. He had made it. Hamdullilah. Thanks be to God.
The pain was gone, replaced by a dull, nagging soreness in every pore and cell. His wrists and ankles ached abominably, along with most of his muscles, and his swollen genitals throbbed leadenly. The blindfold was gone and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Still everything was golden-white. Somewhat blurred, somewhat hazy, a white-robed angel hovered nearby, ready to minister, ready to heal, ready to help him face God's throne. Ali sighed contentedly.
''You know what they say about jihad, Ali?''
What was Talal Hafez doing in Heaven? Ali did not understand.
''Ibn Nuhass talked of a hadith in which The Prophet, Peace and Blessings Be Upon Him, was asked about the best jihad.''
Someone was sawing at the ropes that bound Ali to the wooden chair. Talal Hafez was pacing the bare boards, gesticulating with his hook.
Ali's heart thumped back to earth. Bollocks. He was still alive. He was still in this bloody room with these bloody maniacs. A cold wave of disappointment broke over his head.
'' 'The best jihad', he said 'Is the one in which your horse is slain and your blood is spilled.' Moussa is the horse but yours, Ali, is the blood.'' Talal Hafez dragged the hook through his beard thoughtfully. ''I am giving you the chance to save your soul, to redeem the sin of murder by paying a blood-sacrifice which will be your own worthless life, for, as Ibn Hanbal said, the most righteous believer is he who is killed whilst shedding the last of his blood. This is your moment to ascend to Heaven.''
''I was hoping to have a few more years before that happened,'' Ali said thickly.
''You wanted to help me,'' said Talal, ''And so you shall. This afternoon a wedding party shall take place in a very popular Old City restaurant called Leila's. The bride is the daughter of a prominent Shi'ite businessman, the groom the son of a Government Minister. Around two hundred guests will include politicians, military and security officials and members of the Syrian media as well as many important figures from the world of business and commerce. You will infiltrate the wedding party and blow it up.''
Hisham was drawing a thick, khaki-coloured canvas body-warmer from a holdall. Two wires, one red, one blue, protruded from the back. It was a bomb-vest.
''This,'' Talal Hafez continued, ''Contains two kilograms of high-explosive and half a kilogram of steel ball-bearings. You should kill around fifty guests, injure and cripple a further hundred. You will utterly destroy the restaurant. The wedding reception will be a blast.'' He smiled grimly. ''You see, I too can joke.''
Hisham was already feeding Ali's arms through the holes.
''If the guests are as important as you suggest,'' Ali said, his head clearing rapidly, ''There will be tons of security, maybe even some of my people. How will I get in?''
''Through the kitchen,'' said Talal. ''You will be delivering vegetables from the market.'' He smiled again. ''The Al-Amin market. Nice twist, don't you think? That the market which shares your vile, treacherous name will ultimately lead to your death.''
Hisham zipped up the jacket. Ali felt the weight of the explosives and felt sick.
''Get dressed.'' Hisham threw Ali's clothes at him.
''Hisham will come with you,'' Talal explained, ''And when you are in an advantageous position, he will detonate the bomb.'' He tossed Hisham a mobile phone. ''Just press Hash Five,'' he said, ''And run. Fast.''
''You won't get away with this,'' Ali said. ''My people are combing this city for you. It's only a matter of time before they catch you.''
''Time enough to go out with a bang,'' said Talal. ''One more delivery and we will shut up shop. I will escape through the desert, maybe back to Iraq, and disappear. They will not find me.''
''Ah,'' said Ali, ''That word 'delivery'. I saw it in your email exchanges with Hands across the Sands. Several deliveries to Moustapha Al-Sekem in Jordan. What does it mean?''
''My,'' said Talal, ''You have been busy.''
''What are they? Bombs?''
''Bombers,'' said Talal. ''We send bombers, worthless beggar-boys, glue-sniffers, little whores from the alleys who perform sex-acts in toilets, street-scum that no-one will miss.''
''He means you, Hisham,'' said Ali cheerfully. ''He's described you to a tee.''
Hisham scowled.
''It allows them one chance of salvation,'' said Talal, ''To redeem their lives for God.''
''By blowing themselves to pieces,'' said Ali.
''Exactly.''
''And you smuggle them across the borders in Al-Houri's delivery trucks,'' said Ali, ''Hidden inside crates of machine parts and someone at the borders waves them through.''
''All the paperwork is in order,'' said Talal, ''And there are always so many crates so late at night. It would take several hours to check them all. Our boys have fought in Iraq and Egypt, Jordan and Lebanon, and now in Syria we will strike our deadliest blow.''
''What about the Jerash Festival?'' said Ali. He was dressed now, his navy blue T-shirt tight over the bulky bomb-vest.
''Well, well.'' Talal narrowed his eyes. ''After today, it will be Moustapha Al-Sekem's problem, not mine. You look splendid. Connect the wires.'' Hisham did so. ''You are now primed, a walking, living, human bomb, a dead boy walking. If you cry out, warn anyone or try to run away, Hisham will shoot you in the knee and then explode the bomb. Wherever you are in the cramped Old City, you will cause carnage. The wedding is our primary target but anywhere will do. It does not really matter who you kill.'' He stroked Ali's cheek. ''You're so lucky. In one hour you will be with the angels in Heaven. I almost envy you.''
''Feel free to take my place,'' said Ali, getting unsteadily to his feet.
''One bullet left.'' Hisham dug the Sig-Sauer into his side. ''Enough to rip a hole through your stinking guts. Let's go.''
They went down the stairs and into the hall. Talal's men, now a gallery of grotesques, watched silently. Osama's thin face had swollen to twice its normal size, his eyes reduced to tiny slits in the puffy flesh, the skin a painful-looking purple with weeping, angry blisters bursting everywhere. A pus-stained, blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around the middle of Anas' face where his nose had once been.
''He won't be sniffing any more glue,'' Ali remarked.
The man he had hit with the bottle had stitches in his forehead whilst the hands of the man who had caught the Walkman were swathed in gauze, the skin tight, plastic, puckered and pink. Firas, sticking plasters starkly white on his scrawny throat, looked deeply traumatized.
''The men from the mosque,'' Ali laughed. ''Good luck against the Syrian Army, boys.''
''I wonder you can joke,'' Talal remarked.
''The Martyr goes to his death with a light heart,'' said Ali. ''Hadith 1. Ali ibn Hassan from Baghdad said it.''
Hisham jabbed him with the gun and snarled ''Move.''