Only one short year ago, Devon had made a fake ID for him, Jacob having said he looked the oldest because of his wispy mustache. Jacob had sent him into a store to buy beer, and Hussein had walked woodenly through the door, mumbling all of the data on the ID over and over to set it in his mind. At the counter, with the cashier staring intently first at him, then the false driver’s license, he’d panicked. When the man had asked for his address, he’d raced out of the store, leaving the beer and the ID behind.

Jacob had laughed about it, but Hussein knew his weakness. And this time he wasn’t buying alcohol. There would be no door to race out of.

Remember your father. This is the way out.

Hussein had never been religious, and in fact hadn’t ever once prayed as far as he could remember, but he was convinced getting jerked into the back of that van was a message. Divine intervention from Allah, or Yahweh, or something else. Walking stoically down the alley, he prayed for the first time. To a God belonging to no religion. Or all religions. He didn’t care, as long as his prayer was heard.

He exited the alley, glanced furtively left and right, begging for a vehicle to allow him one more second of delay. The street was empty. He started to cross and heard his name shouted. He looked up and saw Ringo leaning on the concrete balcony outside their little apartment.

“We good?”

Hussein nodded, and Ringo said, “Come on up. I want to see.”

Ringo disappeared inside, and Hussein jogged across the street, just one more young man in a sea of them on the east bank of Amman.

Hussein took the stairs one at a time, almost stutter-stepping, with each leg stopping on an individual step. He reached the apartment and knocked, then remembered he lived there. He put his hand on the knob and the door was yanked open, Ringo standing inside.

“Well? Did you get the access badge?”

Hussein dug through his knapsack and pulled it out. A long lanyard with a plastic card at the end, it was electronically mated to a receiver in the door of the kitchen. Ringo snatched the badge out of his hand, saying, “Perfect.” He studied it, then said, “You don’t take good driver’s license photos, do you? You look like you’re going to throw up in this one.”

Hussein smiled weakly and said, “They don’t care what you look like. Only that you match the picture.”

Ringo tossed the badge onto their small table and moved into the kitchen, pulling out a microwave snack from the cabinet. Hussein saw what he was about to do and began to panic, just as he had in the grocery store a year ago.

“Ringo, I thought we’d go out to eat tonight. One last meal. Back to that place we ate at last night.”

Ringo popped the microwave dish into the oven and said, “You thought wrong. The last thing we need to do tonight is be on the street.” He waved a spoon and said, “With your luck, we’ll get arrested for jaywalking.”

Hussein stuttered, his mind spinning for an excuse to leave the building. He spit out, “I found something you should see. At the hotel. We can eat at the restaurant on the way.”

“What?”

“A camera. I mean, I think it’s a camera. I wanted you to see it just in case.”

“Why in bloody hell would I care about a camera? I have half the world chasing me for my executions of the infidels. One more won’t matter.”

“Okay, okay. I . . . just thought you’d want to see it.”

Hussein gave up trying to get Ringo to leave, focusing now on the secondary plan he’d been given, trying to glean any information he could. Getting away from Ringo to rejoin the predator in the van was a problem he didn’t want to contemplate just yet.

One step at a time.

He asked, “When are you going to attack?”

“I’ll call.”

“I think I should know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

Hussein laid his pack on the chair, his back to Ringo, pretending to dig through it. As nonchalant as he could, he said, “Are the men ready?”

“Yes. More than ready. And the cell in Ma’an is watching the news. As soon as we make the broadcast, they execute, spreading the fire in Jordan. A double blow.”

“Where are our men staying? Is it around here? Do you have to drive them, or will they walk?”

“You mean to the hotel? Of course we’re driving. Do you think we can walk with our weapons in our hands? Why all the questions?”

Hussein turned around and said, “No reason. I just think I should know. I’m part of this too.”

Ringo stopped his fork halfway to his mouth, squinting. “Why are you sweating so much?”

Hussein wiped his forehead and said, “It’s hot in here.”

Ringo stood. “Not that hot. Why haven’t you mentioned your dad? Yesterday that was all you cared about. Today, all you care about is how I’m doing the mission.”

Hussein’s lip quivered, but he said nothing.

Ringo advanced on him. “Did you tell your father something about the mission? Did you warn him?”

Hussein started backing up, holding his hands in the air. “No, no. Of course not. Ringo, I didn’t say anything to my father.”

Ringo grabbed both of his shoulders and shook him violently. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did.”

“Nothing. I swear, I’ve done nothing. I got the badge like I promised. That’s all.”

Ringo pulled out his knife, the dull black of the steel contrasting with the shiny edge of the blade. Hussein panicked, jerking out of Ringo’s grasp and tearing his shirt down the front.

The tiny microphone flopped out, a traitorous piece of metal attached to a black wire.

Time stood still for a brief second, Hussein panting, unaware, and Ringo staring.

Ringo said, “What the fuck is that?”

Hussein looked down and felt his world crumble. He stumbled back and said, “My iPod. It’s for my iPod!”

Ringo jammed him against the wall and brought the knife forward. “You fucking liar!”

He brought his face within inches of Hussein’s and said, “Know this, Lost Boy: Your father is dead.”

He jammed the knife deep into Hussein’s chest, and Hussein screamed. Ringo brought the blade up again and Hussein sagged against the wall. He began laughing, a crazy hitch that echoed off the cinder-blocks.

Hussein said, “Kill me. Do it. Send me home.”

When Ringo hesitated, Hussein grabbed the back of his head with both hands, feeling a strength he had never known. He said, “They’re coming for you. They’re going to slaughter you. They’re on the way.”

Ringo’s eyes went wide and he threw Hussein aside. He fell to the floor, his blood pumping freely from the puncture in his chest. Ringo ran to the table and slammed his laptop closed, then dialed a phone. Hussein shouted, “Ringo, look at me.”

Cell to his ear, Ringo did.

“You’ve taken the lives of many people, and now you will pay.” Hussein coughed and sagged, then regained his strength. “I know who will extract that payment. I’ve met her. She’s a Jew. And she’s a greater killer than you. She’s going to carve you up like all the men you murdered.”

Hussein saw the fear in Ringo’s eyes and felt victory.

He had won.

He lay back onto the floor, his life force draining, and thought of his father. He prayed that the predator in the van wasn’t tricking him like so many others had in his life. Prayed that this one time, someone would honor what he said.

He heard Ringo shouting into the phone in Arabic, then saw him run to the balcony, laptop case flapping against his back. He heard distant footsteps on the stairs outside.

He closed his eyes, dreaming of his mother and father, lovingly together, in a world that didn’t exist.

35

Jennifer heard the British terrorist say, “Why are you sweating so much?”

Then, the scrape of the chair.