Abuse of Power (20 page)

It was amazing how reassuring it was just to hear Tony’s voice. Part of it was the fact that it was Tony himself, but part of it was having a friend on deck with him during a blow. Someone watching his back.

“I got sidetracked,” Jack told him. “I think it’s time for me to get a little more proactive with this story.”

“What does that mean?”

There was only one way Jack knew to make any leeway here and hopefully get the information he needed.

“I’m going to London,” he announced.

To which Tony replied, “I don’t think so, Jack.”

PART TWO

Vigilance

18

London, England

Ever since his return from the United States, Abdal al-Fida knew he had been living on borrowed time.

His contact in San Francisco had been vague about what might happen to him, and it would be up to the imam to decide whether he was to live or to die for his transgression. Abdal had received this news with trepidation, of course, but his meetings with his imam had given him hope. They had prayed together, and in the light of day he felt optimistic about his fate. He had sworn his undying allegiance to the Hand of Allah and begged for forgiveness, promising that he would never again fall prey to his impatience, and his own self-interest.

But with each night’s darkness came uncertainty. He would lie in his bed with Sara pressed against him, feeling the Newham cold seep in through his bedroom window, and anxiety would burrow into the pit of his stomach, the feeling that he would not be alive much longer.

Abdal would never have survived such torment if it had not been for Sara. She knew exactly who he was and what he believed, and what he was willing to do to further those beliefs. But she had not asked questions when he returned. She had only soothed him when he needed soothing, giving him pleasure while asking little in return. The Koran gave sexual freedom to men, saying, “
Women are your fields: go, then, into your fields whence you please
.” He had not known another Muslim woman like her, devout in her beliefs yet willing to love. But there must be others. In the Muslim world, the surgical restoration of virginity was a thriving business.

And if she
were
a sinner, the sin they shared was so sweet and exhilarating that Abdal could not imagine why Allah would condemn it. Surely they would be forgiven once they married.

Assuming he lived to see that happen.

Abdal had not told Sara about his mistake in America, how he had jeopardized months of planning with his impulsiveness. He couldn’t let her know that he was a failure, a disgrace, even though he was certain she would not think less of him for it. She knew what had been done to his family and she understood his pain. But he could not risk seeing even a hint of disappointment in her eyes—not judgment, but simple regret for his inability to exact vengeance against those who had harmed them.

Abdal felt her warmth in the darkness, her
life
. He had fallen in love with Sara the instant he saw her and he remembered that moment with great clarity.

It was late afternoon just six months ago, and he was in the tube, headed home after work. The train had pulled into the Charing Cross Station and the doors opened, letting in a rush of commuters. With them came what he could only believe was an apparition—a woman too beautiful to be real.

Yet she
was
real. And as she timidly pushed her way through the crowd, moving in his direction in search of a place to sit, Abdal jumped to his feet, gesturing for her to take his place.

She had smiled at him then, a smile like a warm breeze, and Abdal had stared at her so long and so hard that she finally looked away in discomfort.

He had cursed himself for making her feel that way. No one should—ever.

Abdal had never been awkward around women, but there was something about this one that both unnerved and fascinated him, and he could not bring himself to speak to her. To apologize for his rudeness.

Still, he wanted to ride past his stop, just to be near her a bit longer, and it had taken all his will to leave that train when he arrived at his station in Newham.

He saw her the next day. And the next. He didn’t know whether it was coincidence or the work of Allah, but they somehow managed to share the same car for nearly a week. On the fifth day, after he had once again surrendered his seat to her,
she
was the one to speak.

“My name is Sara,” she said softly, once again offering him that warm smile. “Since you’ve been so kind to me, I thought you should know.”

Names had never meant much to Abdal. They were merely labels used to identify people. But Sara’s name was like a song to him. The sound of it, as it was released from those beautiful lips, washed over him as if it were sent from heaven. A message from Allah that there was something special about this woman. Something beyond her beauty.

Sara.
Sara Ghadah.

Abdal’s own name caught in his throat as he struggled to respond, but he finally managed to get it out, and what followed was a flood of words he had no memory of. Whatever he said to her, it made her laugh and that could only be good.

For the next several days they sought each other out on the train until Abdal finally found the courage to ask her to dinner. They went as soon as they left the train, and only then did Abdal realize that Sara was just as eager to know him as he was to know her.

They ate at a small café near Hyde Park, a meal that lasted much longer than it should have. It was a traditional halal meal, which was more and more common in London, offered by merchants who prized profit over indignation toward the Muslim population. They had lamb with a white bean and risotto mix on the side, finishing with fruit. While the food was mediocre, every bite seemed exquisite because he was sharing it with her.

Afterward, they walked in the park, talking. Abdal told her about his job repairing computers in a small government office, but he didn’t mention the strings that had been pulled to get him that job, nor the parts of his background that had been carefully erased and rewritten.

Sara worked in a small office at the College of Islam, processing applications for new enrollees. She had immigrated from Yemen when she was nineteen after tragedy struck her family. Her brother—a young man who had given so much to her—died in an explosion, an innocent victim. Her desire to come here was fueled by the fact that it was the new battleground for their faith. The city, awash with Muslims, was sometimes referred to as Londonistan. It was meant as a pejorative, but both Abdal and Sara found it inspiring, proof that they had a home here and that there were those who feared their presence.

You do not wait for the enemy to come to you,
Abdal believed.

It was not until they shared their first night in bed that Abdal confessed there was much more to him than a simple computer repairman. That he was one of Allah’s chosen who had killed in His name.

And would surely do so again.

But Abdal did not tell Sara about the Hand of Allah. He had been sworn to secrecy by those who had recruited him, and he told her that the trip to America was for business. She suspected he had ties to a group of freedom fighters, but she didn’t push for details—not then. She merely told him how proud she was of the work he did, calling him her
aswas jundi.

Her brave solider.

But Abdal didn’t feel very brave these days. In the week since he had returned to Newham, he spent most of his time praying, hoping that Allah—and Imam Zuabi—would spare him. He didn’t want this for himself only. As much as he had come to depend on Sara, he knew that
she
needed him as well.

And then he discovered the dark side of that need, and of keeping his secret.

Abdal went to her flat after she’d failed to answer her cell. It was the longest, most agonizing journey of his life. He had knocked on her door, again and again, and was ready to force it open when she finally let him in. She was wearing nothing but a bed shirt, her face pallid, her beautiful brown eyes puffy from crying.

“What is it?” he said with alarm. “What happened?”

Sara fell into his arms and sobbed against his chest, and Abdal stood there feeling helpless, wondering what terrible thing could have happened. When she finally calmed down, they sat on her sofa and she told him that a student at the college—a student she had helped enroll—had been found stabbed to death. A young man from Lebanon who had wanted nothing more than to further himself. A young man who had reminded her of her brother … and of Abdal. She said she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to lose him. She had looked directly into his eyes as she said this, and Abdal fought to keep from looking away, afraid she might see the truth behind them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her.

But as the lie escaped his lips he felt ashamed for deceiving her, for his inability to tell her that his future was uncertain at best …

She had kissed him, then. Brought those beautiful lips to his, and as if trying to bury one emotion with another, she kissed him harder, letting him know that she needed to be loved. She lay back on the sofa, pulling him toward her, unbuckling his belt as he slipped his hands beneath her bed shirt, sliding them along her ribs.

He felt her excitement, her hand gently squeezing him, as the other hand pushed his pants to his knees.

Getting to his feet, Abdal quickly shed his clothes, then grabbed the bed shirt and pulled it over her head, exposing her flawless flesh. He had never seen a body more perfect. Had never known a woman who enchanted and possessed him so completely.

And as he guided her down to the carpet he wondered,
Is this our last time?
Would there even be a grave for her to stand over, or would he simply disappear?

Concentrating on the sound of Sara’s moans, the feel of her hands gripping his back as their bodies moved together, he tried to drive these thoughts from his mind.

She was getting close. She ran her hands up behind his neck and pulled him toward her, kissing him hungrily as her muscles tightened. Her breathing stopped as she squeezed her eyes shut then let go, a long, guttural moan filling his ears. Then Abdal joined her, pulling her close as he released himself.

A moment later they lay still on the carpet, their breath labored, Abdal still struggling with his dark thoughts.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I didn’t go to America on business.”

“I know,” she said softly.

Abdal was surprised. “But how?”

“I’m not stupid, Abdal. I know what you believe in, and I know you’re working with people who believe the same. You’ve been planning something together for several weeks now.”

He must have looked dumbfounded.

“You never tell me about the texts you receive,” she explained. “You do not speak to friends, do not appear to
have
any. You scan a restaurant, a park, the underground when we first arrive as though looking for someone—someone you hope not to find. You are not just a private man, Abdal, you
work
at it. You cultivate anonymity.”

He was stunned. She was better at this than he was. Abdal had never suspected
she
was studying
him.

“Can’t you see that’s why this student’s death upset me so?”

“Yes,” Abdal said. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t understand why you feel the need to keep it hidden from me,” she went on. “We both want the same thing. As the Koran tells us,
‘A life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and for wounds … retaliation.’
We both want retaliation.”

He nodded. She had obviously spent a lot of time considering this.

“I want to help you, Abdal. I want to be part of what you’re part of. To be one with you, just as we are when we make love. And if you’re to die, I want to die alongside you.”

These last words struck like a dagger. He had been on the verge of telling her everything but stopped himself, hard. It was one thing to risk his own life. He wouldn’t risk hers as well.

“I only hide these things to protect you, Sara.”

“You think I need protection?” she said sharply.

“It isn’t that,” he said. “I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. I won’t take that chance.”

“That is my decision to make.”

“Sometimes we are too close to our feelings to think rationally—”

“That too is Allah’s way. He will guide me. He knows that what we seek is right.”

Abdal was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Sara. I won’t. I
can’t.
”

She said nothing. Not with words. She just got to her feet, grabbed her bed shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.

Abdal waited several minutes, then pulled his clothes back on, went to the door, and knocked.

She didn’t answer, even after he called out her name.

A moment later the shower started and he knew she wanted nothing to do with him for the rest of the night.

She was, he thought, preparing herself for the inevitable.

Perhaps she was wiser than he.

Perhaps he should prepare himself as well.

*   *   *

Hassan Haddad stood in the shadow of a large oak tree, watching the woman’s window. It was dark up there, though he had an idea what was going on. He had seen Abdal’s woman enter the place two hours earlier. Sara Ghadah. He had followed her from the College of Islam where she worked, and he could only assume that they weren’t playing backgammon. He had seen Abdal arrive an hour later. He stayed for an hour more and had just left.

Alone.

Haddad was leaving the country soon, and there were things to be done, but this was the second night in a row he had come here. The second night in a row he had followed the woman. The second night in a row he had seen that fool Iranian come and go.

The first time he saw Ghadah, Haddad felt she was possibly the most alluring woman he had ever seen. It struck him as odd that she would be attracted to the likes of a weakling like Abdal. What could he possibly offer a woman like this?