Six Seconds (11 page)

25

Old Walled City of Shibam, Wadi Hadramaut, Yemen

I am dead.

Samara was lying in the bed of a darkened room and discerned two figures watching her. Seated in chairs, they were silhouetted against the brilliant sun that bled through the huge wooden shutters.

Was this the next stage of death?
The torment of the tomb?
The old women had told her the stories—how after

a believer’s death, after the mourners had left, two angels would appear and question the dead, to judge their entry into paradise.

“Where am I?”
“With friends, who wish to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Into the next life.”
Nausea surged through her and she vomited into the

pan at her bedside.

Her head throbbed with pain. She was disoriented, groggy from sedation.
But alive.
An IV drip was taped to her arm, her body sore as fragments of memory strobed.
The bandits attacking the camp.
She’d hid for days under the corpses; how they twitched as the vultures fed on them.
Then the horror of Baghdad.
The blinding thunder flashes, the earth splitting open.
Carrying her son in her arms.
As she recovered, she saw vials for drugs at her bedside.
A cup of water was handed to her.
“Samara, we’ve learned much about you in the few days you’ve been here after we found you in the desert.” The man’s voice was soft, sympathetic, as he looked over her papers. “Through our contacts, we know of the injustices that have been inflicted upon you. We know of the tragedies of Baghdad months ago, that forced you back to your people, your distant Bedouin relatives, to aid them.”
“Who are you?”
“Your brothers.”
“My brothers?”
“We will help you.”
“What of the others? Did any of the others in the camp survive, the children? The mothers? There was an old man, he tried to help me.”
“There is only you.”
“Oh!”
“Pray with us and you will understand.”
Samara wept.
“How can I pray? My faith has been destroyed.”

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“This will change, you have been called to your destiny.”
My destiny?
Something was taking shape.
It had been five months since the deaths of Ahmed and Muhammad. Five months since Samara began her search and now, here, the answers Samara had sought were emerging. As if rising from a shimmering mirage, something illusory was coming into view, as foretold by the old woman.
Although hesitant and unsure at the outset, Samara soon found herself echoing the men in prayer, like so many others who prayed at the appointed times of the day throughout Shibam.
The city, with its red and orange clay buildings towering over each other from the narrow terraced streets, was the city where frankincense traders had gathered for the great camel caravans that had jour neyed along the ancient spice route.
It was the city where her ancestors had prayed and honored the old ways.
In the weeks that followed, as Samara’s injuries healed, the shadow men emerged as patient teachers. Day after day, they filled her with the knowledge she needed to devote herself to that which they said was pre ordained.
During that time, pieces of the woman Samara had been broke away from her, turned to dust and disap peared into the desert.
Samara was reborn.
Transformed in the consuming drug-hazed winds of prayer and fanaticism.
The teachers enlightened her to
their
truths.
That her bloodline reached back for generations to an ancient Bedouin tribe. That according to ancient Bedouin belief, a person in Samara’s circumstance was required to adhere to a somber custom. That the family of those who have been murdered must exact vengeance on those responsible.
In an act of blood revenge.
“Deep within you, Samara, your heart thirsts for ven geance.
Embrace it.
”
Over several days of more medication and prayer, she came to accept that her anger was the fuel for the action she must take, until one day she said aloud, “I hate them. I hate them for what they’ve done.”
Then her teachers enlightened her to a metaphysical nightmare as they placed her cherished photographs of her family in her hands. Samara’s broken heart warmed as she touched her fingertips to their faces.
“When the unbelievers murdered Muhammad, Ahmed, your husband and your son did not go to paradise as your heart believed.”
Samara looked toward the speaker.
“Where are they?”
“They are at the door to eternal hellfire.”
“No.”
“The same is true for your mother and father, who died in Greece. The same is true for your relatives who were slaughtered in the camp.”
Samara wept for the beautiful children, their kind mothers, their gentle fathers.
“They remain in agony because you have not yet acted. You are the sole survivor. Only you can deliver

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them. When you complete your transition and become a willing warrior and carry out the action, Samara, you will join them in eternal paradise.”

If you become a willing warrior.

After weeks of medicated recovery and indoctrina tion, Samara accepted their teachings.
“What is my action?”
“It is simplistic to say you must exchange pain for pain, but for you, Samara, a greater role, one of monu mental significance, awaits. Are you prepared to accept the greatest sacrifice?”
The old woman’s prophecy had come true. Samara had found her answer in the desert—she must rescue her family and join them in paradise.
Even if it meant the greatest sacrifice.
“Yes. I accept.”

26

Karachi, Pakistan

Lights of the megalopolis glittered against the Arabian Sea as Samara’s jet from Yemen landed at Jinnah Inter national Airport.

A forger from Istanbul had been well-paid by Samara’s sponsors to produce the required travel documents. The caliber of his work allowed her to pass easily through im migration as a British nurse with a global relief agency.

The next morning, before dawn, two men from the agency arrived at Samara’s hotel-room door. They were Egyptian chemistry engineers who’d studied in Ger many. They loaded her bags into their four-by-four, saying little as they began their long drive without re vealing the destination to her.

After leaving Karachi’s sprawl, Samara noted the cities they passed—Uthal, Bela, and Khuzdar.
As the road descended into the plains to Surab, Samara scanned the vistas that stretched for miles, as if searching for herself. The vastness underscored her sense of emptiness. She confirmed her vow to accept whatever they set before her.

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Samara knew from maps she’d studied on the flight that their northern route paralleled the porous border with Afghanistan to the west. Its rugged terrain was threaded with hidden roads used by smugglers, drug dealers and refugees.

By sundown they had arrived at a camp of outbuild ings hidden in the hills close to the Urak Valley over looking Quetta.

The city twinkled at her feet.
She was taken to her private quarters in a small clay house, to a room no bigger than a cell consisting of a sleeping mat, gas lamp and footlocker. Exhausted, Samara slept for a few hours before she was called to predawn prayers.
Apart from armed guards and instructors, a dozen people were in her group, including three other women. One from Oman, one from Syria, another from the Philippines. While Samara’s face bore her loss, the faces of the women burned with righteous devotion. However, it would not be long before Samara’s face was indistinguishable from the others.
After prayers, they were led in training exercises. “For your protection as relief workers in dangerous zones.” An instructor smiled.
They learned self-defense, how to kill an attacker using a knife or a pencil. A loaded automatic rifle was placed in her hands. She was taught to shoot by firing at a dummy. The gun was surprisingly light but the recoil nearly knocked her down.
Later on, during classroom sessions in a small mess hall, theoretical operations and procedures were dis cussed, such as how to ID a U.S. Air Marshal. Weeks passed with the same routine.
Then a rumor floated through the camp.
Someone important had arrived.
That evening, Samara was taken to a secret site, deeper and higher in the hills, where they were escorted by heavily armed guards to a small encampment.
She was introduced to a handful of older men, sitting at a campfire drinking tea. As the flames lit their faces and embers swirled into the sky, they talked quietly for several moments until one stood and embraced Samara.
“Welcome, sister.” His garments smelled of jas mine. Then he held her in his sad, tired eyes. “We know of your suffering. We know of the violations. You honor your family by fulfilling your destiny. Come, share our tea and we’ll tell you something of your purpose.”
He explained how through religious groups and international relief agencies, Samara had been recom mended for a nursing job in a remote American com munity that faced chronic shortages of medical staff. Soon, she would be dispatched to the U.S. to be inter viewed for working and living there.
The man encouraged Samara to blend in with Ameri cans, find an American boyfriend, he shrugged, even marry, while she awaited instructions for her mission.
“Where am I going?”
“Montana.”
“Why there?”
The man looked to a colleague who held several files. One contained a printout from the Web site of Father Stone’s newsletter. The one that had given Wash

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ington concern because it had prematurely announced the pope’s upcoming visit to Lone Tree County.

“It is with great joy that we can confirm the Holy Father will visit Cold Butte.”
But the man didn’t offer Samara many details about what she was destined for in Montana.
“It will become obvious to you when you arrive.”
It would take several weeks, months in fact, before all was finalized. Until then, Samara would work with a relief group in Iraq, building credibility for her job in the United States.
“So, we will work and we will wait,” he told her. “Your American operation, like many others we have designed, is being reviewed. The instrument you require will be delivered to you in the U.S. at the ap pointed time. Others will be there to help you. Still others will watch over and protect the operation, unseen at every stage unless it is compromised and must be aborted.
“Your mission, above all else, will change history. It will mark the end to centuries of oppression and hu miliation inflicted by the nonbelievers.”
His eyes bore into hers.
“For you, this sacrifice will guarantee you and your family eternal happiness in paradise. Sister, now, with all that has been thrust upon you, do you accept that it has been preordained?”
Samara fought her tears and nodded.
Again, he embraced her.
In darkness, guided by flashlights, she was taken through the hills, back to the camp and her room.
Lying on her mat, by the pale light of her lantern, Samara stared at photographs of Ahmed, Muhammad, her mother and father.
Tears rolled down her face.
Soon they would be together again.

27

The frontier beyond Tal Afar, Iraq. Near the Syrian border

Days later, at the convergence of the Syrian and Turkish borders, Samara’s small group stole into north western Iraq.

Supplied with counterfeit documents, they joined members of their network’s relief agency.
A week later, they’d learned that a battle had broken out with a U.S. convoy near Tal Afar. They were close. The carnage was still burning in the market when they arrived. Samara had learned that one wounded Amer ican truck driver had been captured, that the insurgents intended to hold him hostage and make demands.
Ultimately, they would behead him.
Samara’s group intervened and won his release in exchange for cash. They would return him to U.S. au thorities as a sign of goodwill.
But after studying his ID, Samara had an ulterior plan.

Jake was lost.

Disoriented.

On his back, in tranquil light, cool water was sponged on his skin and the smell of flowers perfumed the air. He woke to the dark eyes of the woman tending to him.

His skull throbbed with flashes of Mitchell’s severed head.
Someone was shouting.
The woman calmed Jake, her touch comforting. Her soft voice carried a British accent and soothed him as she explained that he’d been wounded in an ambush but needed rest to survive.
Her name was Samara.
She was a nurse with the relief agency that had ne gotiated his release from the insurgents who’d attacked his convoy.
He was safe now, she said.
They were in an isolated remote reach, near the Syrian border. Messengers had been dispatched to get word through trusted channels to the nearest U.S. camp.
So soldiers could get Jake home to America.
In the days that followed, while Samara helped him, they’d learned something of each other.
Samara was born in London. Her father was a British professor, her mother an Iraqi nurse. Samara had married an Iraqi medical student she’d met at univer sity in London. They moved to Iraq, where they had a son. Both her husband and son were killed in the insanity that had plagued the country, leaving Samara to devote herself to frontline aid agencies.
Now, she was preparing to go to America to start a new life.
Jake thanked her for saving his.
“If you’re ever in California, contact me.” Jake gave her his e-mail address and phone numbers.
He showed her pictures of Maggie and Logan, told her about America, about his love for the open road, football, hot dogs and country music.
Samara never smiled.
She just looked at the photo of Maggie and Logan.
Then she looked at Jake.
She never revealed her thoughts to him.

Samara was amazed by Jake’s resemblance to her husband. He shared his good looks. He also had a young son.

Reflecting on it, as she treated Jake, Samara cautioned herself not to become distracted. But as Jake recovered, as they talked, grew familiar with each other, something happened. Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her, something that had died inside her had stirred.

One clear night when the sky was a sea of diamonds, after the others had gone to the nearest village for food, Samara and Jake found themselves alone.

In his tent, Samara checked on Jake’s condition and vital signs. Her face was beautiful under the dim lamplight. Her touch was soft. Jake searched her face, her eyes flickered like falling stars. Her shirt had slipped, exposing a patch of her bare shoulder. He put his arm around her and she didn’t resist.

He drew her near.
Samara looked into his eyes.
She didn’t resist when he kissed her.
A long, deep kiss.
Which she returned.
She sighed as she grew aroused and began to

unbutton his shirt, her hands exploring his hard chest, sending a shock wave burning through him, until he forced himself to break away.

It was wrong.
He thought of Maggie and Logan.
This was wrong.
No words were needed.
Samara left the tent.

They never spoke of it the next day, or the next when two Hummers arrived.
“Sergeant Kyle Cash,” said the U.S. soldier whose grin preceded him out of the truck. “Mr. Conlin, sir, we done thought y’all was dead. Some folks back in Blue Rose Creek, California, are going to be mighty happy. Mighty happy, sir.”
“Thank you for coming for me, Sergeant.”
It was that sudden.
Jake thanked Samara and the relief workers then climbed into the Hummer. She stood there watching him as they pulled away. Not smiling, not waving, just watching him pull out.
Jake looked back at her.
The woman who’d saved his life. He looked at her until she’d vanished in the dust, leaving him to doubt whether he would ever see her again.
“You know, sir, it’s a miracle any way you cut it,” Cash shouted to Jake, who nodded. “When word got to us that a relief agency was ensconced up here and had saved an American, well, no one believed it.”
“Why?”
“Intelligence says this zone is rife with death squads.”