The Command полностью

He kicked over the chamberpot, then jumped back as a flood of shit poured across the floor. His wife screamed and fell to her knees in it. She screamed, throwing her abaya over her head, pleading for forgiveness, for God’s mercy to enter him, for him not to leave them again, for him to stay.

He strode down the hall, filled with disgust. The sound of her wailing followed him. But he did not look back.

He stopped at the store again for more soft drinks and baladi bread on the way back to the harbor. The old storekeeper served him with unspoken questions in his gaze. He didn’t greet the man, or ask his name, though his face was obscurely familiar. The boy who’d grown up here was long buried beneath other identities, other experiences. His daughter would die soon. He accepted that. It was the will of God, like her blindness, her retardation. Written in the Book before the ages had begun.

All was the will of God, and no man or devil or might of empire could change the smallest jot of what He had written.

The quay, the trawler, the burning sky were the same. The only difference was a battered pickup ticking over in the gritty heat, and in it three dark-haired, dark-skinned young men abiding with the eternal patience of Egypt.

He greeted them courteously, shaking each’s hand for a long time, holding it as the dust from the departing truck sifted out of the dry air. Three. Not overmany to crew a hundred-footer. But enough, if they were willing. They’d not need to work the nets, after all.

They squatted in the skimpy shade of the deckhouse and he shared out icy colas they accepted with childlike pleasure and nervous reserve. Their names were Ali, Antar, and Rasheed. He did not know what they’d been told about him, but they seemed respectful, even afraid. He uncapped a bottle for himself and sat questioning them, asking how long they’d spent at sea, what experience they had with engines, whether they could steer and read a chart. As he’d expected, they were quite young. Older men did not want to sacrifice. Too much bound them to this world. Antar seemed to know enough about diesels that he felt confident appointing him to their care. The others were deckhands, no more, though they swore they could steer. Not a great deficiency. It was only a hundred and forty sea miles to their destination. He could train them well enough on the way that they could make the last few miles on their own.

They sat together for some hours as the sun descended, and prayed together, when the call rang out to asr. The volunteers gradually relaxed. They spoke of their families, and what had driven them to oppose the enemies of Islam. They had no children. They were filled with hate and recklessness. This was good, he thought. The network had chosen well. These men would not even miss themselves.

For all of them, maybe even for himself, he thought with sudden insight in that drowsing heat of oncoming evening, that was the Sheikh’s wisdom: to find such hollow vessels and show them how God fit the void within them so perfectly none could doubt he had been fashioned to fulfill a greater cause. Sometimes a tool was broken. Sometimes it was lost. And sometimes left behind, when others were more suitable. When the task was truly understood, the fate of the tools did not matter.

“Teacher,” Rasheed said at last, “you will become a shaheed with us?”

“I will accompany you. But it is not written that I am to die with you.”

“You’ll sail with us? We don’t know the way.”

“I will go with you even to the gates of Paradise. From there on, you will be far above me in honor. You will be the truly firstborn sons of God. His beloved soldiers, who will purify the earth of the Zionists and restore His golden land to the Faithful. Insh’allah, and your names will be inscribed forever in the Book of Life.”

“Insh’allah,” they murmured, shyly. May it be the will of God.

“I bow down to you, and wish you the tranquility that comes before battle. I only wish I could join you at the end. But perhaps one day I will.”

This last, he thought, was not perfectly accurate. He yearned for a cool house and a young wife more than martyrdom. This would be his last work for the Sheikh. But these were young and filled with zeal, and he turned his face away that they might not see his thoughts. Might not see his contempt for them … The sun was declining. It would be best to be at sea before the night was complete.

“First we’ll pray,” he told them. Then Antar will go below and start his engines. I’ll take Ali on the wheel for the first watch. Rasheed, eat of the food below, then sleep against my waking you. And then we will see what God has written.”

Hi. Hi.” The FBI agent smiled shyly as Diehl introduced him around the table. To Aisha, Major Yousif, Commander Hooker, and a somber-suited, light-skinned Arab who had been introduced only as Mr. Hassan.