Collision(95)

“So do we.” And then, of course, in the manner of my people, she begins to inquire about my mother, my cousins—she knows my brothers and my father are dead and she says nothing of them.

I answer quickly, ask after her own family, then take refuge in consulting my watch. “Well, this was a lovely surprise, Roula, but I must get back to the campus. I didn’t give myself enough time to explore.” I tender an awkward grin.

She gives me a bright smile. “Well, it was nice to see you, Khaled.”

“Good to see you, too.” I turn and walk away and I don’t look back. My outing, my training run, is ruined. Two blocks further I risk a glance. There were two trackers following me, and now there is only the one. The other tracker is, of course, now shadowing Roula.

I am brought back to the house, questioned thoroughly. I explain she is a friend from home, studying architecture in America. That she is harmless.

“But you are not supposed to be here,” the masters say to me. “What if she mentions to her family, to her friends, that she saw you here?”

“I gave her a story consistent with my cover,” I said, and they laugh, not because it is funny. I keep hoping they will tell me this is a test, that Roula is part of the organization. But they give no such reassurance.

“What should I have done?” I say, miserable.

“You don’t talk to her. You walk away, you get away from her.”

“But she knew it was me. To run would increase her suspicion—”

“But she would never be sure it was you. You spoke with her. She knows too much.”

Coldness touches my heart. This is not how it is supposed to be. I have come here to learn how to do good work, how to kill those who must die, not innocents like Roula. “What will happen?” I finally say.

My masters exchange a glance. “Her family’s phones in Beirut will be tapped; their e-mail and physical mail will be monitored. We will listen and see if she mentions seeing you here. If she does not . . . fine. If she does . . . well. Then we shall see. This is on your head, though—let it be a lesson you never forget.” As though I was a prankster schoolboy, fresh from a whipping.

I am not sure I believe them. I am sick with fear they will have Roula killed tonight. I return, at their orders, to my room. I lie on my bed and study the ceiling. I feel they are watching me; this is a test, and I am failing.

The door opens. I sit up. One of the masters, the one called Mr. Night, enters and closes the door behind me.

“Are you going to kill her?” I ask in a rush.

“No,” he says. “You must think us rather impulsive. Or cruel.”

“I’m a realist about our work.”

Mr. Night nods at me. “But, if necessary, someone will speak to her. Impress upon her, forcefully, the need for silence. Your presence here must be kept secret.”

I swallow. Forcefully can cover many options. But if he says she will not be killed, I believe him. My life is in the hands of these people; I have to trust them. “I understand.”

“If she is unable to keep her silence . . .” He shrugs.

“She will,” I assure him. “She is a very sensible girl from a good family. Perhaps someone in her family could be recruited as well.”

“Perhaps.” He clears his throat. “I need to know if you’re truly ready for the job, Khaled.” (It is painful for me to record his words, but in fairness I must.)

“I am. I am. Please.” I have a sudden fear that I might now be expendable. But they need us . . . there are so few of us willing to do the work, to take the enormous risks. I had already risked so much in coming forward, in making it here.

He studies me for a long while, saying nothing, and I compose myself and don’t plead my case further. I have to be strong now.

“You are still one of us. Here is your assignment.”

I nearly collapse in relief, but I do not let emotion cross my face. I read the file they hand me, see what my first battle in the war will be.

I am more eager than ever to do my job. They release me from my room. I drive over to the shooting range and start putting bullets into the targets, each squeeze of the trigger a relief.





30

Dawn crept in through the heavy, yellowed curtains, as though reluctant to bring brightness to the darkened rooms. Ben awoke on the futon; he could feel the hump of the gun under his pillow and he pulled his hand back from it with a jolt. His arm ached. He’d slept far heavier than he’d thought possible.

Pilgrim was awake and brewing coffee, standing over the sink, staring into space.

“Hey,” Ben said.

No answer.

“You’re not a morning person,” Ben said.