Revenge was simpler, but this wasn’t about revenge. This was about war, and a difficult one at that.
War required moments of moral clarity and public demonstration of those morals. Killing Ghadab in secrecy — as the U.S. had done with a number of other terrorists — would do neither. The nihilist cancer had to be exposed, and not just to Americans. Too many people saw the conflict as just a reaction by medievalists against modernity, or a civil war in Islam. But ISIS aimed at the complete annihilation of mankind. The Daesh leadership aimed to establish a “caliphate” not because they wanted to dominate the Middle East, but because they saw it as the necessary step to the end days.
That had to be exposed. Because sooner or later, the cancer would spread far enough to infect someone with access to nuclear weapons.
The cancer had to be attacked very violently, and the world needed to understand why. It needed to see what it was up against.
People didn’t want to know, Johansen realized. They didn’t want to face it. But if he brought Ghadab back, put him on trial, got him to spit out his vile wishes: at that point, there would be no avoiding the truth.
Taking Ghadab alive was a long shot. Johansen hadn’t decided he would even try. But maybe he would. Maybe.
When the briefing ended, Chelsea went outside to get some air. Johnny surprised her, calling to her from below just as she reached the top of the steps. “Where you going?”
“Just walking.”
“Want company?”
“Sure.”
The temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees from the middle of the day, and while that still left it well over seventy, Chelsea felt a little cold. She folded her arms across her chest, stretching as she walked.
The darkness around the bunker was complete; rubble and bomb craters notwithstanding, there was no way of knowing there was a war on.
“Think that’s him?” asked Johnny. “The guy at that inn.”
“Absolutely. Forty percent is very conservative.”
“He didn’t go to the bunker.”
“Not yet. Or maybe that’s not where it is.”
“The inn?”
“No computers.”
“How are you holding up?” Johnny asked.
Surprised by the question, Chelsea examined Johnny’s face. Did he think she was falling apart?
I’m not scared.
I don’t even think about what happened to me in Boston now.
“I’m good. My job’s easy,” she said. “How about you? How are your legs?”
“Bionic.”
Chelsea sensed that Johnny wanted to talk, but she wasn’t sure how to prompt him. Maybe he was having trouble with the mission.
Just because they’re men, doesn’t mean they have no emotions. Johnny lost his legs — talk about a traumatic event. How is he dealing with it?
Can he deal with it?
“I saw you jump up on that roof the other day,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m pretty good at jumping.”
The back of her hand brushed his.
I know you’ve been through a lot…
Do you dream of having your legs?
Is this all too much some days?
Do you have hope for the future?
Do you miss your legs?
Before Chelsea could think of a way to ask Johnny how he really was, they were interrupted by Krista Weather.
“Chelsea, Johansen wants to see you,” she called, walking toward them. “Some sort of com problem they hope you can fix.”
“And on my day off,” joked Chelsea.
For a moment she thought Johnny might grab her hand — she hoped he would — but he just stood perfectly still as she pivoted and began to trot back to the bunker.
51
“Why are they persecuting me? Have they become concerned with worldly power? It’s the only explanation. The operatives we need are ready to strike — they have been there for years, recruited, bred, raised, trained. If we don’t use them, why are they there? The council — they’re blind. No. No, they’ve fallen away from the true belief. They have been seduced by power. They’ve forgotten prophecy. They’re apostates. Very close. Very, very close.”
Ghadab continued to rant. Nominally, he was talking to Shadaa, who was walking a few feet behind him, but in reality his only audience was himself and the sand around him. He’d driven out to the barbarians’ ruins to be alone with his thoughts — to rant, really, to rail against the idiocy and venality of the council.
They had turned against him. Not all of them, but several. He didn’t know exactly who, though he had theories.
Even the African was wavering. No one could be trusted.
Upon taking control of Palmyra, the Islamic State had destroyed many of the ancient buildings outside the modern city, toppling monuments that blasphemed against the one true God. Piles of rubble and swatches of a few structures remained, a reminder of how slowly history crawled, even toward the inevitable.
Ghadab walked to the columns of the tetrapylon. The sun was low on the horizon, sinking toward night; its rays burned red in the frames of bleached columns.
A sign: the apocalypse was close.
Ghadab glanced at Shadaa, struggling amid the huge stones to climb near him. As the sun highlighted the curves of her body, he realized how great her beauty was.
A revelation from God, surely, a hint of the glory that awaited him in Paradise.
“Come,” he told her, turning back. “It is time to return.”
Up in his room, Ghadab brooded. If the council was against him, there was little he could do besides appealing to the Caliph.
Allow me to carry out an attack against one of the plants, destroy one of their cities, and grant me the honor of martyrdom.
Surely the Caliph could not refuse.
The jealousy of the council was detestable, and surely fueled by an informer.
The African?
No. They went back too far.
Ghadab took the khanjar from the dresser. It felt solid in his hand, an extension of his arm.
What should he do with the woman?
She stared at him, unmoving.
“Are you a spy?” he asked.
She said nothing.
He stepped toward her, knife first. “Why have you spied on me?”
“I am not a spy. I am yours.”
He put the blade to her neck. A trickle of blood appeared.
“Beg for your life!” he demanded.
“My life is your life,” she said, her voice soft but her tone firm. “It is yours to do with as you please. This is written. This is what must be done. My fate.”
“Your fate!”
But even as he screamed the words, Ghadab pulled back his knife. He knew she was not capable of betraying him. And he was not capable of killing her.
Hours later, after he had lain with her, Ghadab rose and swiftly dressed. He was ready to go to Raqqa and restore the Caliph’s favor.
“Good night,” he whispered at the door. “Do not despair. I will return.”
Shadaa stirred but did not wake. Ghadab paused, tempted to linger, but duty won out.
“I will be back,” he whispered, closing the door.
52
The bunker was easy to watch and relatively easy to hit; Johansen had no trouble mapping out a plan. The only problem: Ghadab wasn’t there.