Proud Collector of 10,000 Heads
THROUGHOUT THE MORNING AND THE AFTERNOON of their first day on the roof of the three-story building, the four members of the SEAL team used periscopic cameras with nonreflective zoom lenses to scan the dead village without much risk that sunlight, flaring off the glass, would betray their presence. The images transmitted to the display screens were crisp, clear, and tedious. When the sun moved west but not directly behind Paxton and his men, they were bold enough to poke just their heads above the parapet to study the townscape: a drab gray-and-sand-brown hodgepodge of characterless structures, bullet-pocked stucco, cracked and crumbling concrete, and iron security gates hanging useless from broken hinges, strewn through with rubble.
Their target, the Ghost, whose name was Abdullah al-Ghazali, was holed up somewhere in these grim ruins, and he had with him six acolytes, all true believers, two of them possibly women. He had chosen to hide in this town, whose population he had slaughtered seventeen months earlier, perhaps because he thought it was the last place anyone would look for him, but perhaps because the atmosphere of an abattoir appealed to the bastard, surrounded as he was with memories of vicious cruelties and abhorrent violence, which he found delectable. Paxton had studied the culture that produced such men, but a lifetime of study would not help him understand why they became death-loving haters of everything the rest of humanity held dear.
An equal-opportunity terrorist who murdered not only Jews and Christians and Hindus and those who had no faith, Abdullah al-Ghazali also butchered Arab tribes other than his own, Muslims he considered less than pure. He claimed to have taken—or ordered taken—the lives of ten thousand people, and most experts thought he had undercounted.
He usually moved with impunity through countries impressed by his barbarism, but not since the past October. In spite of Homeland Security and no-fly lists and surveillance of every transportation system coast to coast, he had gotten into the States, activated ten sleeper cells, planned two attacks—led one—on shopping malls, and murdered 317 people. Most of his associates had been killed or arrested, but he had escaped the United States, only to find that he was now too hot to be welcomed in those kingdoms and fake democracies that had once provided him with rent-free villas when he needed them.
Pax, Danny, Gibb, and Perry had been sent to provide justice, which in this case did not require a judge and jury. Now that they were in town, they were eager to do the job and go home, impatient with the need to conceal their presence until the targets revealed themselves, instead of boldly going on the search.
Later in the afternoon, only half a block away, a man appeared on the flat, railed roof of a two-story building on the farther side of the street. Although he was dressed in gray to match the concrete around him, his camouflage was pathetic. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck. The SEALs at once put down their field glasses and ducked out of sight.
Perry raised a camera on its stick, so that it barely cleared the parapet wall. The instrument was so small, there was little danger that the watchman would spot it. Perry and Pax lay with the display between them, watching an enhanced image of the terrorist. Not Abdullah. One of his butt-kissers. The guy lit a cigarette and took two draws before raising his binoculars to survey this jumping-off place that he and his companions used as their rats’ nest.
Having put up a second camera, Gibb and Danny huddled over that display. Four men scoping the scene, analyzing the smoker’s behavior, were better than two. Each might see a crucial detail that the others missed. For starters, Pax figured the six targets must feel safe if one surfaced only periodically to perform a cursory surveillance of the town. Maybe their edge had worn off because they were doing good dope, which, among their teetotaling kind, was a common indulgence. Mass murder was stressful. They had to chill out somehow, after all.
Three hundred seventeen shoppers. Ten thousand victims. Back when Muammar Qadhafi had ruled Libya, the Ghost had done an American-TV interview from a villa there, in which he’d said—in addition to the usual propagandist rant—that he possessed a small collection of severed heads in one of his residences. The heads, he declared in his taunting manner, were much like books on a shelf, each one a story. He wished that he had a library large enough to hold ten thousand.
Throughout the day, Pax had thought often about Bibi, worried about her, wondered about the vivid image of her that had thrust into his mind the night before. Now she receded to a back corner of his thoughts.
A job needed to be done. He and his guys would do it as well as it could be done and with considerable satisfaction.
Crazy When You Least Expect It
NANCY AND MURPHY DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER to laugh or cry, and as usual when torn by conflicting emotions, they succumbed to both, switching back and forth, and back again, from tears of joy to tears that watered a large garden of what-might-have-happened fears. They made such a spectacle of themselves in the hospital room that a nurse stepped in and politely asked them to remember, please, that the other patients needed peace and quiet.
As soon as Bibi had the discharge papers, her parents shepherded her along the corridor, into the elevator, down to the lobby, out to the parking lot, both of them often talking at the same time. They had a thousand questions, and they wanted to hear everything that had happened, but they weren’t able to stop themselves from interrupting her with hugs and kisses and exclamations of relief, some in surfer lingo—“epic, foffing, totally sacred, just a pure glasshouse pipe of a day, stylin’”—which for the first time sounded wrong coming from them, as though their daughter’s flirtation with Death had made them desperate to be young again.
Dinner had to be special, celebratory, a night to be remembered forever, an amped-up commemoration of the impossible become possible. Bibi knew too well what that meant: the best combination Mexican-and-burger joint in town, where cheese came on everything and the spices were hot hot hot, too many bottles of icy Corona, too many shots of tequila. But she went along with the plan because she was hungry, happy, still afloat on wonder, and because she loved her mom and dad. They were always sweet, always amusing, and they weren’t alcoholics, only special-occasion drunks once a month or so.
During the dinner, Nancy whispered in Murphy’s ear and left the table for ten minutes. When she returned, giggling, Murphy whispered in Nancy’s ear. Then he went away for ten minutes. They were clearly conspiring at something, and Bibi half dreaded what it might be. They were generous and thoughtful, but a surfeit of emotion and too much booze could be a wicked combination that motivated them every so often to drop upon their daughter a wildly inappropriate gift.
To observe the publication of Bibi’s first novel, they had presented her with an illegal tiger cub, which seemed reasonable to them because one of the big cats was a featured player in the book. Of course, she’d contacted animal-welfare authorities, pretended to have found the cub in the park, and made sure that the little fellow went to a first-rate refuge for exotic animals.
She didn’t want another tiger or, God forbid, an elephant, but she said nothing because nothing she said would stop them once they had agreed on a “perfect gift.” Her parents could hit you with crazy when you least expected it.
Bibi
