“You’re awake,” the woman said in Arabic. “Good. We brought your suitcases here.”
She had a basin of water in both hands, still steaming hot. There were two hand towels on her shoulder and what looked like a blue silk hijab for Hala. Clothes from back home.
“As soon as
you’re ready, you can come have breakfast with him,” she said. She set the basin and towels on a chair, then turned to go. “I’ll just be outside.”
“Excuse me. Breakfast with who?” Hala asked.
The woman stopped, but only to look them over again, assessing them in some way. “Don’t be too long,” she said. “He’s waiting.”
THEY WERE BROUGHT around through the darkened back of the mosque. Hala could hear the Fajr prayer coming through the walls as they moved quickly along, carrying their shoes.
The housekeeper, or whatever she was, stopped at a tall carved door and let them inside, but she didn’t follow. The breakfast was already set.
“Brother. Sister,” the man at the table greeted them, also in Arabic. “Come and sit. The coffee’s getting cold.”
He was squat, like a man crossed with a toad, but his face was open and seemed friendly. He watched them come into the room with the kind of amused curiosity one usually reserved for a visit by children.
It was only when they came closer that Hala noticed the wheelchair. The heavy table and his long shirt had obscured it until now.
“Thank you for having us, Sheikh,” Tariq said. “We’re very sorry for the imposition. We apologize.”
He waved their concern away. “You were right to come here,” he said. “And I’m not the imam of this mosque. Just a Family member like yourselves. You can call me Uncle. Now, please, don’t be so polite. I know you must be hungry.”
She was, but Hala still paused to take stock. The man — Uncle — had scrambled eggs, pita, and jam on his plate. There were several other untouched dishes on the table.
He picked up on it right way. “Smart,” he said. “But completely unnecessary. What would you like me to try?”
“The labneh,” she said. “And the date spread.”
She didn’t back down, and it seemed to please rather than antagonize Uncle. His grin only broadened as he took large bites of both, then poured coffee for all three of them from the same pot.
“Very good. I’m impressed. Now, enough antics. You can relax,” he told them in a quiet voice that was also firm and reassuring.
As they loaded their plates, Hala’s mind came back to the night before. “What about the others?” she asked. “Is everyone —”
“Perfectly safe, thanks to you,” Uncle said.
It seemed imprudent to complain about the mother bitch right now. “The assignment didn’t come off,” she said instead.
“Yes, but not without some impact all the same,” he answered. “Two of their police officers are dead. That’s a powerful symbol to the Americans. They both hate and love their police. The authorities are terrified, mostly because they don’t know what to make of us. The kidnapping of the children has them baffled as well.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “Of course, we are responsible for that.”
Tariq passed her a piece of bread, smiling with his eyes. He was obviously proud that The Family had already accomplished so much.
Hala sipped her coffee. It was Arabic, and not entirely hot, but delicious. She wanted to ask more about the president’s children but thought it would be wise to let Uncle take the lead on that subject.
“There will be other important assignments,” Uncle went on casually. “In fact, we’d like to reposition you. We’re prepared to do this now, the sooner the better. As you know so well, we are at war!”
The words hung there in the air.
“I’m sorry? Reposition?” Tariq asked.
“Take charge of the next phase we have planned for the Americans. Part of it, anyway.” He took a large manila envelope from the pocket on the back of his chair and slid it across the table.
“Go ahead,” he said, smiling as though it were a personal gift. “Take a look.”
Tariq tilted the envelope to empty its contents — a disk in a thin jewel case, two American passports, a car key, and an engraved hotel folio with a room entry card inside.