“Uh-huh. Well, you’re on your own, then. I’m going back to the Da-hab.” That was the name of the apartment building where they both lived, where most of the Americans who didn’t live in the bachelor quarters on base lived. It was outside the base, in Juffair, a new quarter being built on reclaimed land.
“You go on. I’m going to keep on a little longer.”
He shrugged and went on down the corridor, rolling with that elephant-like gait he had, the combination of a seaman’s walk and the lurch of a too-heavy old man whose joints were starting to give him trouble. Looking after him, she felt compassion. Still mixed, though, with her annoyance at his interference, at his jokes, his cigars, his sour looks when she wore hijab, his bad breath when he leaned close and explained in intimate and patronizing detail something she already knew.
When she went back in to Childers, he was standing by the window. Looking at the barbed wire outside.
“Brother Jaleel.” She stepped up next to him. His eyes shifted away. “I’m worried you’re going to really hurt yourself here. And not just you. Those grenades could end up getting thrown at your shipmates. Or some innocent tourist family. I know what you think, we’re all one big family, it doesn’t matter where we’re from or what color we are. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, but not all Muslims think that way. There’s enough C-4 and grenades missing from your inventory to kill a lot of people.”
She waited, then went on when he didn’t respond. “I don’t know what these people told you. Maybe they said they were going to use it somewhere else. But where could they take it from here? We need to know who has it. You’re the only one who can tell us.”
She figured this for her last shot, she’d done everything she could think of, but he still sat unresponding. So she said, even quieter, “I know you must not feel good about how this is turning out. Do you know what
“No.” He barely moved his lips.
“Tauba is sincere repentance. Do you want to know what I think? If you are really seeking God?” He shook his head, not looking at her.
“Brother Jaleel, al-Islam’s not about stealing or lying. None of that has any place in our lives. I think you need to make sincere repentance and ask forgiveness for what you’ve done. You fell into error. But God has given you a great favor: a second chance, to do the right thing this time. Don’t deny His blessing.” She nodded to the paper.
He kept looking out the window. Not saying anything. And she’d pretty well accepted she’d lost, was turning away, when he grunted, “An honorable.”
“What?”
“I put in six good years. I ought to get an honorable discharge.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Brother Jaleel. I’ll see what I can do.”
The chief opened the locker and pulled out a wadded set of oil-smeared coveralls. Underneath them was a rusty toolbox. Aisha slid it out into the light. It was locked.
This presented a problem. Her search specified lockers, but not locked toolboxes. She couldn’t open it without going back and getting another warrant. She shared her problem with the chief. Who said that was a bullshit rule, and he had a pry bar back in the shop.
It was nestled under the lift-out upper tray, wrapped in a rag. The olive-drab tangerine-sized sphere of an M67 fragmentation grenade.
Aisha straightened slowly from unwrapping it, suddenly tense, realizing she should have had the explosive ordnance disposal guys in on this search. Bob would have thought of that. But Bob wasn’t here. Probably hunched over a martini recovering from his stressful day. Pete Garfield, the other agent, was coming in, though. But all this Shawki would have had to do was wire the lid to pull the pin when she opened it, and he’d have gotten both her and the chief in charge of the fuel pier.
But then, a lot had happened in the couple of hours since she’d left the armory. From a dead stop the case, as cases often did, had assumed velocity. When that happened there were a few golden hours where you were the only one who knew what was going on. You could take people by surprise. Then it turned from nine-to-five into twenty-four-seven. She had to keep pushing, before word got out and everyone on the other side clammed up or went underground. If she could get her hands on the guns and grenades and explosives, she could close the case. And maybe save some people from getting killed.
Childers, or Jaleel, had finally come out with it. Though not before seeing a lawyer. The office sent Palzkill over, the lieutenant she’d run into on the pier. He confirmed the revised letter of agreement would do everything Aisha said it would. Childers was free and clear, he’d get an honorable discharge and be exempt from prosecution.
Then, and only then, he’d started talking. As soon as he did, she’d called Pete in to help her.
