“I am simply on an innocent walk for my health,” Zawr said.
“Then a little more walk to the palace gate should be beneficial,” the sergeant with the radio said. It seemed to Zawr that the sergeant’s smile was a bit too grim and smug at the same time.
They knew he had fired the RPG.
Someone had seen him walking away.
They would find the launcher and get his fingerprints off it.
Why didn’t he wear gloves as the others in his group had suggested?
“I would like to go with you, but my wife is waiting for me. She’ll worry if I’m late.”
“We’ll worry if you don’t come with us,” the sergeant said. “I’m sure it will only take a few minutes to clear you, and you’ll be on your way.”
No, no. The man’s smile was too smug. They knew. They must know. Zwar nodded and took two steps toward the soldiers. Then he changed directions, sprinted toward the edge of the road and the drop-off to the canyon below.
The soldiers fired.
The three automatic rifles chattered off five-round bursts. Eight of the slugs hit his body. The first ones hurt terribly. The next two hit so quickly he didn’t have time to scream. The last three ripped up his spine and into the back of his head.
He dove down the embankment, dead before he hit the dirt. The three Syrian soldiers stood above, looking down. The sergeant took out his radio.
“We had a runner here, Captain. It may have been the man with the RPG. Send out a vehicle, and we’ll bring him back to the guard room for fingerprinting.”
Marilyn Kabariti lounged in the second waiting room of the newly crowned young king, Hussein II. The young man was popular, only twenty-eight, had studied in America, and had many Western ways that irritated many of his advisers and top aides. He brushed them all away and did exactly what he wanted to do.
Marilyn wasn’t her real name. She was slender, seductively curved, with breasts that enticed and thrilled the young king. She knew he was power driven, knew that he had a tremendous ego, and that was what also triggered his continual need for sexual conquest. The first time he met her, he said she would be his little blond kitten. He had made her bleach her hair and eyebrows.
Marilyn knew she wouldn’t be around the king long. He would tire of her as he had every other woman he kept in the palace. The four and half million Jordanians never knew of his women. He was scheduled to be married in another six months to a proper woman who would be queen. Marilyn knew that after his marriage, he would continue to gather in women the way he did now.
Marilyn was a native of Jordan, and she loved it dearly. She would do almost anything to bring about change for the better. People had made lavish promises to her. She knew most of it was just talk, but the chance that some of it could come true made her take the risk. They had learned of her intimacy with the king. They sought her out and provided her secretly with plans and ideas. Then they gave her a great deal of money.
Realistically, she knew that there would be little chance for her to escape alive. She had planned it carefully and would do her best. It didn’t matter. She was committed. She had accepted a great deal of money and left it with her mother in Tul Karm in the north part of the country.
It wasn’t the money. It was for the good of Jordan. The kingdom was holding the country back. She stood and walked around the room.
Then the door behind her opened and the king came in. He was bare to the waist and had been sweating. He had just come from his heated pool. He loved sex after a swim.
“My little blond bombshell, you’re looking good today,” the king said. “Only you are wearing too many clothes.”
He pulled her to him, kissed her mouth hungrily, then stripped off the flowing white robe of silk he had given her to wear. She let it drop on the floor and stood erect, thrusting out her breasts and pulling in her stomach.
“My god, but you’re beautiful. Three times tonight. Yes, that sounds about right. I don’t want to wear myself out.” He picked her up and carried her to the soft bed.
After they made love, he turned on his back and closed his eyes, resting. She knew his habits.
“I brought my pencil and pad so I can sketch you,” she said, her voice soft and gentle.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said.
She left the bed, went to the small stand, and took out all the guards would let her bring in: one wooden lead pencil, sharpened to a point, and a small sketch pad. She took both to the bed and stood over him. Quickly, Marilyn took the lead pencil, pushed the eraser against her palm, and let the wooden shaft extend between the second and third closed fingers. It made a deadly weapon.
She hovered over him for a moment. He was sleeping. She gauged the spot carefully; then, keeping the pencil straight out from her hand and in a line with her forearm, she rammed the sharp point of the pencil downward, slanting off a rib and plunging four inches into the king’s chest, stabbing directly through his heart.
King Hussein II cried out from the sharp pain, tried to sit up, but already his heart had failed. He looked at her as his brain raced, then he lost his power of speech and slumped back on the bed.
Sweat beaded her forehead. She dropped the paper she had brought. For a moment, she thought she would throw up; then she bit her lip and bent for the paper.
She waited a moment longer to be sure he was dead. Then she gripped the pencil and pulled it out of the wound. The body moved slightly, then lay still.
Marilyn slipped back into the robe, pushed the bloody pencil into her pocket, and walked out the door that led to the room where she had changed. She found her clothes in the second anteroom, dressed quickly, and pushed the bloody pencil deep into a mattress in the room so it vanished completely. Then she walked out of the room as she had done so many times.
The guards turned away as she passed them. They were not supposed to know that she had been there. It was the same at the gate. She walked down a block, found the small car the king had given her, and drove quickly north out of Amman.
It took her four hours to travel the forty miles over back roads, angling to the northwest until she came to her mother’s home in Tul Karm. It was all arranged. Her mother had the twenty thousand dollars in American currency. They would take one suitcase each, drive her car, and be across the border before daylight. Then they would be in Israel and free to watch the great changes that would take place in Jordan.
Marilyn would change her name back to the one her mother had given her. They would build a new life in the democratic state of Israel, where Arabs were at least tolerated if they minded their own business and did not make trouble.
She eased to a stop outside her mother’s house, turned off the lights, and started up the walk to the door. Yes, the lights were on inside. Her mother was expecting her.
Marilyn opened the door and stopped. Her mother lay on the floor, spread-eagled and held down by three men. Her skirts were around her waist and her breasts were bare. A fourth man with his pants down knelt between her legs.
“Yes, Marilyn,” a sergeant said, holding an automatic rifle aimed at her. “We were expecting you. Don’t worry, we found the American money. Your mother has been most helpful.”
She ran at him, screaming. He fired seven rounds into her chest, and Marilyn cried out in terror, then slammed backward from the force of the heavy rounds and sprawled against the door. She looked up at the soldiers, gave one small cry, and died.
The sergeant’s expression didn’t change. “Enough,” he said. “Let her go.” The four soldiers stood away from the woman, who moaned and sat up, her glance riveted on her daughter, who lay against the wall.