Face-Off

By Chris Karsten

Abel finds himself in Bruges, with his friend and mentor Ignaz Bouts. Soon he is on the prowl again for skins with tattoos for his Cosmic Travels, now with Ignaz’s help. In a Sleep Inn in Bez Valley, Ella Neser finds his tracks. But she also has her hands full with the murder of a corrupt official from Home Affairs, found frozen and naked, with his throat cut. A journalist suspects that he supplied South African documents to Muslim militants and other customers willing to pay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Human & Rousseau
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9780798167321

Chris Karsten

Karsten is ’n bekroonde skrywer en voormalige joernalis. Sy romans is al vyf maal bekroon met die ATKV-prys vir spanningslektuur, en vier maal met die die ATKV-prosaprys. Vir ​Op pad na Moormansgat​ ontvang hy ook die kykNET-Rapport Herman Binge-filmprys.

Book preview

For Udo and Ilse

And now it was time to go – though in one sense he would never leave this place where he had been reborn, for he would always be part of the entity that used this double-star for its unfathomable purposes.

– Arthur C. Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey

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1.

Took your time, didn’t you? Rabie Saadi said over his shoulder to the two policemen. "Could be a murder, all that blood and hair, and now you show up. He unlocked the last door in the passage, next to the fire escape, and stepped aside. What good is it I phone, do my bit as a law-abiding citizen, and the cops take four hours to arrive? I run a business here, can’t wait all day. Time is money."

You’re not the only one calling the police. The sergeant’s big belly brushed against Rabie as he entered the room. What’s that stink? Place smells rotten. Do all your rooms smell like this?

That’s what I mean, said Rabie. We could have cleaned it up by now, if we hadn’t had to wait all day for the cops. He waved towards the vacuum cleaner, mop and bucket in the passage, next to the trolley with rags, brushes and bottles of Ajax, Vim and Mr. Clean. Fresh linen and towels lay folded on the trolley’s bottom shelf. Look at the place. Looks like someone butchered a pig in here.

Where’s the body? I thought you said it was a murder? said the second policeman, a constable.

The sergeant pointed at the carpet. Is this old blood, these stains?

Rabie looked at the sergeant. What? I run a hotel – I’m not a blood expert.

You’ll never get this carpet clean. Better lay a new one.

The constable opened a window for fresh air.

Bathroom looks even worse, said Rabie.

The sergeant peered into the bathroom. He definitely killed something in here, in the bath. But not a pig, not with that long hair.

Rabie came to the door, pointed at the old blood and hair caked in the bathtub, the sticky splatters and stains on the wall and floor tiles. Plughole’s blocked. I’ll have to get in a plumber.

Not before Forensics. The sergeant clicked his tongue, sucked on his teeth. He turned to Rabie. And you only discovered it this morning?

Not me, Evangeline. She knocked. When no one answered, she opened and found this mess.

The cleaner?asked the sergeant, rubbing his huge belly.

Housekeeper, said Rabie.

But this is old blood – been congealed for some time. Doesn’t Evangeline clean every day? What kind of fleabag joint do you run here? If the health inspectors come, they’ll shut you down.

What do you mean ‘fleabag’? This is a respectable establishment. A residential hotel’s what it is.

It’s a brothel, man! Everyone knows the Sleep Inn. Who stays in these rooms, hey? The Minister of Police, Speaker of Parliament, chairman of Anglo-American? You’ve got whores and strippers, Rabie, swinging around on those shiny poles in your bar.

So you’ve been here then?

How’s it work? They rent rooms by the month and you get a cut? Hard cash, tax-free?

Exotic dancers, said Rabie, is what they’re called.

How many rooms d’you have?

Twenty-four.

All occupied?

No. I keep a few for walk-in guests.

Like this one? Was he a walk-in guest? How long did he stay?

A month and a half.

And then he just left?

Paid two months in advance.

So he doesn’t owe you anything?

Well, he owes me for a new carpet. And for a plumber.

"But he put down a deposit and paid two months in advance."

Ja.

Didn’t claim back his deposit when he left?

He left in the middle of the night without a word. Left this mess.

It’s not a crime to leave in the middle of the night. You’ve got the deposit and half a month’s rental for damages.

"But it is a crime to kill someone in the bath. And I can’t afford that publicity. It’s bad for business, bad for my reputation."

The sergeant smirked. Your reputation?

Rabie took exception. I could have kept quiet, but I phoned you, didn’t I? Sat twiddling my thumbs for four hours before the police decided to show up. Now you talk about fleabags and brothels. Is that how a good citizen of this country is rewarded when he reports a crime, Sergeant? Hey?

When last did Evangeline clean this hellhole? Is that blood on the sheets as well? And those dirty pots and plates on the stove, all crusty with old food?

Ants and cockroaches all over the place, said the constable. You’ll have to get the fumigators in as well. If the health inspectors . . .

So you’ve said. Rabie motioned at the trolley again. The guest asked not to be disturbed, said he’d clean the place himself. Evangeline had to leave the cleaning trolley and new linen at the door. He said he was sick, being treated by the doctor, medication made him sleepy. Evangeline said the trolley’d been standing at the door for three days untouched, so this morning she knocked. Thought he might have died, being so sick and everything. Didn’t want a corpse lying in the room. That’s why she came in.

And she didn’t touch anything? What time was that?

Seven. I took one look and phoned the police.

Because you think it’s a murder? Without a body?

Rabie looked at the sergeant, who was picking at a pimple or ingrown hair on a cheek that quivered with fat. How should I know where the body is? It doesn’t look like a murder to you? You think he nicked himself shaving? Then bled all over the floor, inside the bath, on the walls? And what about the hair, hey? Black hair. His is thin and mousy, as far as I remember.

A beard, maybe?

Er . . .

You don’t remember, Rabie? Didn’t you ever see your guest?

Not often. He kept to himself, didn’t mingle. I think he was growing a beard.

He didn’t drink at the bar, watch the bare bums on the poles?

No. He asked for a room far from the music and the noise. Said he wanted peace and quiet because he wasn’t feeling so great.

A room near the fire escape, to come and go unnoticed, said the constable.

Could you describe him for an Identikit? asked the sergeant. In case Forensics find something that points to a crime?

How about all the blood? Rabie replied wryly.

Well, suicide isn’t a crime. Slashing your wrists in the bath. The sergeant inspected the tiles again. That could explain the blood on the walls. Maybe he came looking for a quiet place to end his life. Debt, divorce, terminal disease, who knows?

So where’s his body?

Maybe halfway through he decided he didn’t want to end it after all. It’s not unusual for people with suicidal tendencies to have second thoughts. The sergeant turned to the constable. Forensics on their way?

I phoned. They said they’d be an hour or two – when they’re done with the scene at Judith’s Paarl.

Rabie threw his hands in the air. He could be in Timbuktu by then!

Hey, Rabie, do you know how many murders take place in this country every day? How overworked the police are? Get the crime-scene tape in the car, Constable, seal off this door.

The sergeant turned back to Rabie. Don’t let anyone in here. It could be a few days before Forensics get the results back. Until then it’s a crime scene. It’s after twelve – what’s on your menu? How about some lunch while the constable does his job? You can tell me about your guest, Mr Formal . . .

Fomalhaut.

Dutchman?

Afrikaans.

And you, Rabie? What’s that accent?

South African. Born at the old Marymount in Kensington. My father came to this country after the Battle of al-Malkiyya in 1948. Lost a leg against the Israelis. He opened this hotel. We speak Lebanese at home. That’s where my father’s from, Baalbek.

So you’re an Arab?

What the hell does it matter, Sergeant? What are you?

Sgt. Mfundisi – amaZulu. And my colleague is Const. Xala, amaXhosa. What did you say is on your menu today?

This isn’t the Ritz, Sergeant – it’s the Sleep Inn in Bez Valley. We have a pub lunch and cold draught.

And this Mr Formalhaut, did he look sick to you when he rented the room? I mean, was he pale, feverish . . . or did he just say he was sick and you believed him?

How was I supposed to know whether he was feverish? Should I have stuck a thermometer up his arse? He had injuries from an accident. He looked sick.

What kind of injuries?

"Cuts all over his hands and face, lots of plasters, one eye swollen almost shut. I told him he looked like he’d been in a train smash. He said: ‘Funny you should say that. It was an accident with a train – that level crossing near Magaliesburg. Car stalled, right on the tracks.’ Said he was looking for a room for two months; he’d pay in advance."

Plus the deposit.

Plus the deposit.

How old did you take him to be?

Fifty, maybe. Said he’s from the Cape. In the antiques business, drives around buying old furniture. Strange surname of Fomalhaut. That’s how he wrote it in the register.

And you verified it in his ID book, checked his photo?

Er . . . not exactly.

Not exactly? What do you mean?

Sergeant, I don’t look at every guest’s ID. How can I ask every guest, ‘Show me your ID’? The guests who rent my rooms are . . .

You mean the escorts and pole dancers – Candi, Mandi, Randi and Sandi . . . who don’t want their customers to know they’re actually Barendiena or Fransiena. Who wants to watch Fransiena swinging from a pole, exposing her Koekemoer arse to the world? Yes, I get your drift. So, how did Mr Fomalhaut manage to stick plasters on his face if he was growing a beard?

He didn’t have a beard the night he arrived. He grew the beard while he was here.

So you did see him sometimes? I’ll have a hamburger, by the way, with cheese and chips. And lots of onions, well fried.

Rabie phoned the cook, then followed the sergeant out to the passage. He watched as Const. Xala shut the door and sealed the lock and doorknob with yellow crime-scene tape. He watched Sgt. Mfundisi roll back his big head, fat neck bulging over his shirt collar, his eyes on the camera mounted high on the wall next to the fire escape. The camera had a view of the entire passage, right up to the lift door.

Constable, bring a chair, the sergeant called over his shoulder.

I’ve just sealed the door, Sarge.

Open it again and bring me a chair. You can seal it again, or are you paying for the tape yourself?

I had the CCTV installed last year, said Rabie. After a guest was molested in her room. One on every floor, and one in the bar. You never know what a drunk will get up to. Tomorrow he denies everything, says he never visited the Sleep Inn last night. You know what it’s like, Sergeant. Now I have it on camera.

Get up, Constable, said Sgt. Mfundisi. Can you reach that lens?

The constable stood on his toes, stretched his fingers. Yes. Looks like old paint, Sarge. Lens is covered with black spray paint, the graffiti kind.

Thought so, said the sergeant. You want a burger too, Constable? He turned to Rabie. Another burger. When last did you look at this camera’s footage on your monitor?

Er . . . last week?

And the camera was working then? Could you see this passage – guests going in and out of your escorts’ rooms – so you could claim your commission?

It was working.

It was working? Constable, come here. Rabie, look at the man’s finger – it’s covered in dust and old fly shit. That paint has been there a long time, long before last week. Maybe since shortly after Mr Fomalhaut moved in. Now I ask myself: What’s going on here? Why is Mr Fomalhaut hiding at the end of the passage, near the fire escape? Could he have been the one who spray-painted the camera? What luggage did he have, do you remember?

Two bags, one in each hand, when I showed him the room and how everything works. One looked like a violin case, I remember I asked if he was a musician. No, he said it was just an old violin case he’d found somewhere – he was still looking for a buyer. Hardly a scratch on it, could fetch a good price.

He’s injured after colliding with a train, but his violin case doesn’t have a scratch on it?

Rabie rubbed the back of his neck. Strange, now you put it like that.

I’m hungry. Come, Constable, Rabie has offered us a meal on the house.

Drawing the beer behind the bar counter, Rabie looked at the two law enforcement officers at their table. Especially the big one, Sgt. Mfundisi, inspecting the contents of the burger roll, pouring tomato sauce and mustard onto the slap chips, stuffing four large ones into his mouth.

In the background he could hear Evangeline’s vacuum cleaner. Rabie looked at the stage with the two poles and the DJ equipment, the Roto-Sphere against the ceiling that bathed the exotic dancers’ bodies in rainbow colours. The bar was dark now, and the only other people besides the cops were two decrepit old bar flies in the corner who’d been manning their post since opening time, brandy and Coke in hand.

Rabie took the beer glasses to the table, getting no thanks when he put them down.

Sgt. Mfundisi looked up, tomato sauce on his lips and chin, cheeks bulging. Where’re your guests?

Asleep.

Night shift, hey? Sgt. Mfundisi took another bite of his burger, used his fingers to work the fried onions in at the corner of his mouth.

What the Sergeant means is we’ll have to speak to them, said the constable, about the missing guest in room 110. About his movements, seeing that we have nothing on CCTV.

I told you: no one ever ever saw him. He didn’t mix.

Never made small talk? asked the sergeant. Just wrote his name in your register and spray-painted the camera lens? What about asking for his address and phone number, as the law requires of a law-abiding citizen like yourself?

Yes, I have that: his address in Cape Town.

When Forensics have finished, if they suspect foul play, we’ll need that. And we’ll interview your permanent guests and look at your CCTV footage. Perhaps there’s something from earlier, before the lens was sprayed. Then we’ll –

Rabie turned, following Sgt. Mfundisi’s gaze to the doorway, where a young woman had appeared. It was Jewel. Leggings like a second skin, loose T-shirt, no bra. She looked as if she’d just woken up and pulled her fingers through her hair.

Rabie, Mitzi’s still missing, she whined. I’m going crazy. Where can she be? She wouldn’t just run away. Something must have happened.

Maybe she couldn’t stand your whining – have you considered that, hey? I would have hit the road long ago.

Her boobs bounced as she turned to him, offended. You’re not very nice to me, Rabie. What have I done to you? I’m just worried about Mitzi, that’s all. She glanced inquisitively at the two munching cops.

Jewel is an exotic dancer, Rabie explained. She also eats fire.

Const. Xala, he noticed, didn’t raise his eyes any higher than Jewel’s bosom. Sgt. Mfundisi looked her in the eye.

Fire, hey? And who’s the missing Mitzi? the sergeant asked.

Jewel stuck out a hip and fluttered her long lashes, still caked with the previous night’s mascara. Mitzi’s been missing a week.

Jesus, Rabie thought, drama queen. He took her by the elbow and steered her away. Mitzi is her cat, he said over his shoulder.

Black? asked Sgt. Mfundisi.

Rabie turned. It took a moment for it to sink in. God, Sergeant, is that what he did? Killed Mitzi in his bath?

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2.

Jake was watching the news on TV, his supper on his lap. Spaghetti bolognese with meatballs from Checkers, still in the polystyrene container, only the plastic cover removed.

The news was depressing: earthquakes, floods, an asteroid the size of an aircraft carrier shaving past the earth, missing it by just two hundred thousand kilometres. Images of emaciated women and children covered in dust, having travelled on foot for hundreds of kilometres to a miserable North African refugee camp; skeletal people, hunched, pecking like vultures among rubbish for anything edible; black flies in the eyes, noses and mouths of mute children, skin and bone, pot-bellied.

Jake wiped the sauce dribbling down his chin, switched to another news channel, watched an insert from the BBC’s correspondent in Islamabad. Got up to fetch another beer.

Pakistani soldiers fighting the Taliban in South Waziristan have surrounded a key stronghold of Uzbek fighters in the town of Kanigoram, the correspondent was saying. Up to a thousand Uzbek insurgents are thought to be hiding in a maze of tunnels in the mountains surrounding the civilian population. According to a spokesman for the Pakistani security forces, there is heavy fighting in Kanigoram and a large number of casualties are expected, especially among civilians caught in the crossfire. In the past the town gave shelter to supporters of Hakimullah Mehsud, leader of the Pakistani Taliban, before his death in a CIA drone strike . . .

Jake’s cellphone rang. He put down his fork, turned down the volume and said: Diamond.

Jake Diamond?

That’s right.

The journalist?

Who’s this?

Listen, Jake. I have a story for you, if you’re interested.

I’m interested. It’s my job. Who are you?

Doesn’t matter, said the male voice. You wrote a story – that’s where I saw your name. About those five officials arrested for corruption.

Jake switched on the digital recorder attached to his phone. It was a SAPA report from Durban, he said. I just added some local opinion.

The man read a paragraph from the report: "During a police raid on a regional office of the Department of Home Affairs in Umgeni, KwaZulu-Natal, five officials were arrested on suspicion of corruption after allegedly issuing marriage cer­ti­ficates for so-called marriages of convenience between South African citizens and foreigners. These marriages enable foreigners to obtain South African citizenship, identity docu­ments and passports. A spokesperson for the Department of Home Affairs told the Record that the arrest was an isolated case and the Department was cooperating with the police. The spokesperson denied allegations of widespread corruption in the Department."

So, said Jake, what’s the story?

Do you believe her? This spokesperson who says it’s an isolated case?

If that’s what she says.

I worked there, my friend, before I was given the boot. Read the other article – the one that was published in June. It was in all the papers, TV as well. Read it and ask yourself: is it an isolated case, or what?

Which article are you talking about?

Google it.

What should I google?

Daniel Robinson. And after you’ve read it, phone a certain Mr Heilbron at the Home Affairs regional office in Joburg. Number’s in the directory.

There was a click and a buzz. Jake switched off the recorder, stuffed a meatball into his mouth and reached for his laptop. A search for Daniel Robinson in the electronic archives of the Record yielded thirty-seven results.

An article by Associated Press drew his attention:

Terrorists exploit SA corruption

Associated Press: Pretoria – The alleged mastermind behind al-Qaeda raids on US embassies who was killed in East Africa was carrying a fake South African passport, according to officials, thus focusing attention on warnings that corruption in South Africa is being exploited by terrorists.

Security experts have previously warned that corruption in South Africa could allow terrorists to obtain documents in order to hide their identity.

In 2004, then Home Affairs Director General Barry Gilder told Associated Press that South African passports had been found in the hands of al-Qaeda suspects and associates ‘in a number of instances’. The Police Commissioner at the time, Jackie Selebi, reportedly said an al-Qaeda suspect in London had been found in possession of ‘boxes and boxes’ of South African passports.

The Department of Home Affairs said on Monday that it was investigating reports that the alleged head of al-Qaeda in East Africa, Fazul Abdullah Muhammad, who was killed in Mogadishu, had a South African passport in his possession.

According to a report, Muhammad had been in possession of a South African passport in the name of Daniel Robinson. US officials suspected him of planning the August 7, 1998 embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania, during which 224 people were killed, and offered a $5m reward for his capture.

Scott Stewart, former intelligence agent with the US State Department, said in a telephone interview that in South Africa ‘you could show up, give the right guy a few hundred dollars, and walk away with a passport. Terrorists will take advantage of corruption.’

Stewart, now with the US-based global intelligence company Stratfor, said terrorists who planned to blow up transatlantic airliners leaving London’s Heathrow airport in 2006 had used fake South African passports to enter Britain from Pakistan. These passports had allowed them to conceal trips to Pakistan that might have raised suspicion.

Since 2009 the United Kingdom has required visas from South Africans, maintaining that terrorists and criminals ex­ploited the easy availability of stolen or forged South African passports. Anneli Botha, counterterrorism researcher with South Africa’s independent Institute for Security Studies, says, ‘You can have the most sophisticated measures in place, but you’re only as strong as your weakest link. Corruption is our weakest link.’

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3.

The two young women strolling through a large, busy shopping mall in Islamabad were attractive, but unlike their Western counterparts, who were clad in smocked shirts and bleached and tattered designer jeans, these two wore traditional outfits: knee-length shalwar kameez, dupatta scarves draped over their heads.

The one with eyes as green as emeralds paused in front of a store. She grabbed her friend’s arm and pointed at the mehndi designs.

Let’s take a look inside, Sajida said.

She pushed open the door and Nida had no choice but to follow her. At the counter Sajida began to page through a ring folder of designs for decorating hands, arms, feet and legs with turmeric or henna, the patterns complicated and delicate.

Is there something I don’t know? asked Nida. Wedding plans? Is Nasir back?

No, he’s not back. Nasir had been gone for a year. Fighting in Afghanistan, Sajida had been told.

She studied the designs. With Nasir away, there was little chance of her getting mehndi any time soon. She thought briefly about the mehndi ceremony, the rasm-e-henna, two days before a wedding, when the bride’s friends massaged aromatic henna oil into her hands and feet as a prelude to a long and happy married life. If the bride wished, she would also decorate her hands, arms, feet and legs with mehndi for the wedding.

Sajida wondered what it would feel like to get mehndi on her stomach, where only she could see it. And not for a wedding, Eid or any other special occasion either. It was what hip young girls and women did, she thought, and Bollywood actresses like Priyanka Chopra, the sexy seductress in Aitraaz. It challenged the traditions, shifted the boundaries. In Lahore the Lollywood actresses were not quite as decadent and permissive, though they did use make-up and dress stylishly. Women like Aaminah Haq and Veena Malik. But the devil and all his djinns were on the loose about Veena, because of those naked photographs published in an Indian magazine. With a real tattoo on her upper arm, not mehndi.

Nida peered over her shoulder. What will your father say?

My father won’t know. He was at home in Kanigoram – she saw him maybe twice, three times a year.

And your brothers?

Her brothers were also in Kanigoram. They didn’t watch TV or movies – they were more interested in politics. They wanted to go to Afghanistan, like Nasir.

I like this design. Sajida pointed at a flying bird. Free as a bird. How does that sound?

Nida sat down next to her and began to page. Perhaps I should also do this. How about this floral design? More importantly, I wonder what your groom would think: would he kiss it, or would he force you to wash it off?

"Depends where my mehndi is," said Sajida, and the two girls giggled behind their hands.

I’d let my bridegroom kiss mine, said Nida. I’m not afraid of the angels.

Sajida knew what her friend meant. They’d learnt about it at the madrasa, in the exposition of the Hadith. Nida was referring to a Bukhari Hadith: When a man calls his wife to bed and she will not come, and he spends the night angry with her, the angels curse her until morning.

From behind her hand, Nida recited: Whoever guarantees me the chastity of what is between his legs and what is between his jaws, I guarantee him Paradise.

They burst into giggles again at this reference in the Hadith to sex and food.

Sajida nudged her friend with her elbow and whispered in her ear: That one about the virgin, I think the narrator is Jabir . . .

In which the Prophet asks Jabir why he didn’t marry a young virgin he could play with and who could play with him?

That’s the one. He told Jabir not to hurry home on his camel, but to give his wife a chance to comb her hair . . .

. . . and shave her pubic hair!

Bent over the mehndi designs, they snorted behind their hands. Then they paged on in silence. Sajida imagined that Nida was thinking what she was thinking: who could explain Hadith number 16 in Book 62? What exactly did it mean? Were Muslim women expected to shave down below?

* * *

Sajida went first. In a cubicle the mehndi artist began to draw the bird on the soft skin of her stomach. The woman’s hands, even her palms, were covered with beautiful floral designs.

She told Sajida how popular henna tattoos had become, even in the West, among women who didn’t want permanent markings. What was more, there were no needles, only the red henna of Lawsonia inermis. Never the dangerous black henna of Indigofera tinctoria, which left permanent scars and could infect the skin. For more colour, one could use yellow pigment from the rhizome of the turmeric plant, Curcuma longa, known as Indian saffron.

The artist mixed the henna paste with essential oils. It’s an excellent natural remedy against ageing, she said, applying the design with delicate brushstrokes, and using the tip of the jacquard bottle for the fine outlining.

When she had finished, she said: Keep it covered with tissue paper, plastic or a medical bandage for five hours. You want to retain the body heat so that the henna can interact with the keratin in the epidermis. After that, keep it moist with a mixture of lemon juice and sugar so that the paste doesn’t dry out before the dye has fixed on your skin. After three weeks, daily use of soap and water will have caused it to fade. Then you can come back for a new one. Are you trying it out for your wedding?

No, said Sajida, I have no wedding plans.

Her father, as far as she knew, had no such plans for her either. There had been a possibility a few years ago, when her father had mentioned Nasir Raza’s name. He’d told Sajida she was eligible for marriage, and a second cousin would be a good choice. The Razas had camels and goats, and a herd of sheep, shorn every year by Nasir and his brothers, the wool sold to textile merchants in Lahore, Islamabad and Peshawar. But she had soon discovered that Nasir didn’t see his future as a shepherd of goats and sheep in the valleys and on the slopes of the Pre Ghal mountains of South Waziristan. His fundamentalist streak had been fuelled in Mullah Wada’s madrasa in Kanigoram. The mullah had suggested that Nasir further his studies at a famous madrasa in Karachi.

Chatting in the kitchen around pots on the stove, Sajida’s mother had told her about Nasir’s grandfather, who years ago had left with a big group of men from the tribal areas, crossing the Toba Kakar mountain range to Kandahar, for jihad against the Soviets, who had wanted to lay claim to their Pashtun land. Like other, greater Mongol empires over the centuries, the Russians had also been unsuccessful. Sajida’s mother was proud of the history of the Pashtuns, and had taught Sajida the myths and legends of their warrior nation. It was all just speculation though, because such matters were discussed among the men, in the privacy of the hujra.

But the young man who’d returned from Karachi after his studies at the madrasa Dar ul-Ifta ul-Irshad was no longer the Nasir she knew. He was a mujahid, speaking in battle cries: "Inqilab inqilab, Islami inqilab!"

She thought of him often, of his gentle voice and fiery eyes. She wondered how it might have been with him. They’d treated each other with respect. If he hadn’t left for Karachi, they would have been married. She would have been a good wife, she would have been submissive, borne him children, not tried to silence him when he wanted to talk about politics.

But when he returned, it was in the company of the Uzbeks, and it was with them that he’d fled ahead of the choppers armed with machine guns and the aeroplanes loaded with bombs and ahead of the Jeeps and trucks of the Pakistani security forces, who were like clay in the hands of the American infidels, intent upon wiping out the Pashtun nation in Afghanistan and Waziristan.

Nasir had been her father’s choice, and she would not have gone against his wishes. She would have agreed to marry Nasir. It was the way it had always been; it was the way it would always be. She and Nasir were both born in Kanigoram, had played together, grown up together, and it had been a good life. Not easy, but good.

Now he was gone. And during her last visit home her mother had told her in the kitchen of Nasir’s heroic exploits against the infidels.

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4.

On his way back from the strat session, cyber-warrior Danny Hatt remarked: It’s going to be a long shift.

What does Jill say – are you coming over for the Steelers game on Sunday? asked Frank. It’s going to be a bloodbath.

Steelers? I thought it was the Giants.

Giants is the week after.

"I’ll ask her – I don’t think she has anything planned, she didn’t mention going to her mother. Did you see yesterday’s Post?"

Yes, said Frank. Called us cowards again.

"Anonymous cowards," said Danny.

Fuck those liberals.

Coward was becoming a popular handle. Danny Hatt had read about it in the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal, and listened to the talking heads on TV: liberals and Muslim activists calling the UAV attacks on Taliban, al-Qaeda and al-Shabaab targets in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen and Somalia cowardly. Human rights activists calling the drone strikes illegal, calling it murder authorised by the White House – the president in the role of prosecutor, judge and executioner.

Danny, techno-savant in the CIA’s S&T directorate, with degrees in computer science and information technology, had been a student at the CIA’s Sherman Kent School for Intelligence Analysis, along with Frank. They’d completed a course in terrorism analysis at the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, and had graduated together from the CIA’s Political Islam Strategic Analysis Program (PISAP), focusing on movements and organisations that use religion for political purposes and use religious ideology to attempt to change the existing political, social, or economic order.

On paper, Danny’s qualifications were good, though he’d never trained as a soldier or a fighter pilot. He’d never been deployed in battle. He’d been at Baghdad’s Abu Ghraib for PISAP orientation, in Building 59 at Bagram, at Camps Delta, Echo, Iguana and X-ray at Guantánamo. He’d gone to them all, and come face to face with the enemy and his ideology.

Danny was thirty-five. He and Frank now manned an office at the George H.W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence, an enormous complex on 258 acres of land on the riverbank in McLean, a suburb of Langley, Virginia. On the opposite side of the Potomac lay Washington DC, seat of American power.

At just after six in the morning, Danny and Frank were in the lift on their way down, having been on night shift for the past ten hours. They knew the end was nowhere in sight, that it would be at least another ten hours, but the adrenaline was pumping, as always when an operation had been given the green light.

The final strat session had begun at five and lasted an hour – topographical maps and satellite images against the walls, real-time video streaming from an unarmed RQ-170 Sentinel spotter drone five thousand metres above the target area.

It was early morning in Washington, three o’clock in the afternoon in South Waziristan, one of the lawless tribal areas in Pakistan. Just after midnight the go-ahead had been given by the director of the National Clandestine Service, or NCS, and finally by the new CIA director himself.

Morale was high, though it had been some time since the spectacularly successful CIA operations of 2011, beginning with the big one, Operation Neptune Spear in Abbottabad, and followed some months later by other high-profile targets. But Danny and Frank had not been at the helm of those Predators. They wished they had, especially the one that had finally silenced the big mouths of Anwar al-Awlaki and Samir Khan, defectors from the American bosom that had nurtured them at Khashef in Yemen. The worst kind of treachery, Danny thought.

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5.

The first impulse of a man on the run, Abel thought, was to create the greatest possible distance between himself and his pursuers in the shortest possible time. Fight or flight: that was how the primitive brain of man and beast worked. Even if your pursuer is just a young woman, attractive and slim, weighing