Fahad stumbled forward, and Naseer dragged him in farther. “Yes, this is Fahad. He is honored to meet you. You must forgive him, he is in much pain.” Both Naseer and Fahad stooped to shake his hand, then sat cross-legged on the tattered rug.
Abdullah gazed thoughtfully at Fahad. The dying man looked thin and papery, as if he could blow away in a strong wind. His clothes were one step up from rags, and his sandals were so worn they offered little protection for his feet. His glassy eyes focused momentarily, then rolled away.
“Sit, please,” he said to the dying man. “Would you like some tea?”
Fahad’s eyes found him. “Sir, I would like that very much.”
Abdullah nodded. “That is good. A sick man must drink tea. It helps the disposition.” He took the worn teapot, held together with brass tacks, and poured three cups of black tea. He added a small spoon of brownish-white sugar to each, stirred, and handed Naseer and Fahad their tea, then gave them a piece of dried apricot from a cloth sack. While they drank the tea and nibbled the fruit, Abdullah questioned Fahad. “Tell me, Fahad, what sickness consumes you?”
“It is cancer,” Fahad said, warmth returning to his face. “I have been to many doctors. They say the cancer will kill me. Perhaps if I had money, they could give me medicine. I had to wait on a cot for two days to see the doctor in Kandahar. The cancer is in my stomach and now my lungs. He said that if I had money, there might be medicine that could help, but I don’t have any money.”
“Money is scarce these days,” Abdullah agreed. He refilled the teacups, delicately pouring so as not to spill a drop. “Do you have children? A wife?”
“Yes, I have a wife and many children. I used to sell wares in the street, but I became sick. I heard the Americans were offering much money, and I begged them for a job. I am sorry, Sir. I know I should not work for them—”
“Do not apologize, Fahad. Your family is important. How many children?”
“Five children, all boys.”
“Five? That is good. You work for the Americans in the base?”
“I clean their kitchen,” Fahad said. “I barely make enough to feed my children….”
Abdullah refilled the teacups yet again. “I’m sorry to hear that. I would like very much to help you with your sickness, but I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. I can provide money, but I must also prepare Jihad. You understand?”
Naseer nodded wisely, urging Fahad to nod as well.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Fahad said. “Naseer told me you could provide a small sum of money to my wife. To feed my boys.” Tears streamed down his face, glistening against the pale skin.
“Fahad! Do not do this! You must not show such weakness in his presence,” Naseer practically shouted.
“Please, Naseer,” Abdullah said, gently taking Fahad’s hand. “There is no reason to be upset. He is only worried about his family.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fahad said, gripping his hand tightly. “Yes, I only care about my family.”
“Tell me, Fahad. You never made Hajj?”
Fahd shook his head. “No, and now I never will.”
“It is all right. You are not able-bodied. Naseer tells me that you are a good Muslim. I believe him. This thing I will ask you to do, this thing will be a great thing. Can you do it?”
“Naseer told me what you want. I can do it, Allah willing.”
“I must ask you, Fahad. I want a truthful answer. Have you been smoking opium?”
Fahad’s eyes darted to Naseer, who sat quietly, then back to Abdullah. “I have been, sir. I have been. Only to help dull the pain. I am so shameful.” He sobbed, interrupted only by a racking cough.
Abdullah nodded his head. “I thought so. There is no reason to feel shame. You work hard for your family. The opium was to help the pain. I can see that. But, I must ask you to stop. To complete this task for me, your mind must not be clouded with opium. Can you promise?”
Fahad nodded, the sobs trailing off. “Yes, sir, I promise. No matter how great the pain, I will never smoke opium.”
“Very good. Naseer, please show Fahad where to wait.”
Naseer rose and led Fahad away, returning soon after.
“Did you see the way I talked to him?” Abdullah asked.
Naseer nodded.
“It’s not enough to learn to make bombs. You must learn to plan. You must learn to inspire.”
Naseer frowned. “I must lie to people?”
Abdullah clucked his tongue. “I did not lie to him. I comforted him. I will ask him to lay down his life and a few kind words will ensure that he does. He is a man. He has a wife and children that he loves. Every man should wish for that. Now he will perform his part, now that I have met him and talked to him. He will do it for Allah, and for the money to care for his family, and he will do it because I treated him with kindness and respect.”
Realization dawned upon Naseer. “So, a kindness will motivate them?”
“Yes, a kindness will motivate them. Kindness motivates better than bullets, sometimes. And, a bomb is no good unless someone is willing to deliver it.”
Eric watched Dr. Elliot and Dr. Oshensker through the observation window as they carefully sutured the incision on Frist’s abdomen.
“The Implant was successfully inserted,” Elliot’s voice rattled from the overhead speakers. “The main feed is connected to the abdominal aorta. The Implant can now inject payloads directly to the blood stream.”
Eric pushed the talk button on the wall. “How does this help?”
Without looking up, Dr. Elliot answered, “The Implant is smaller than a deck of playing cards. It can be remotely triggered, and carries several compounds that Dr. Oshensker and I have developed. What do you know of sea snails?”
Eric pushed the talk button again. “Not a damn thing, Doc.”
Elliot stopped suturing and looked up through the window. “I’m not surprised. Sea snails are wonderful creatures, the cone snail in particular. They’re found throughout the world. They have the largest pharmacopeia of any genus in nature. Their venom contains a chain of amino acids called conotoxins. It forms the basis for a pain killer a thousand times more powerful than morphine. In an emergency, this will allow the subject to continue his mission rather than being incapacitated. Another will allow us to increase or decrease the subject’s heart rate, attention span and combat readiness. You can imagine how useful this will be.”
“I can see that.”
“Dr. Oshensker, if you will finish?” Dr. Elliot turned to face Eric, lifting the magnifying visor over his head. “Another series of compounds will interact with the subject’s brain chemistry during the Wipe. They will alter the subject’s short and long term memory. During the memory implant, we’ll inject another compound that will alter the subject’s emotional well-being.” He smiled at Eric. “The effect will be to create a bond between the subject and his handler, a sense of trust and kinship. Also, we can alter the subject’s aggressiveness.”
“His aggression? Do I need to remind you what he did?”
“I’m well aware. Dr. Barnwell has worked up a full psych evaluation, and between his research and our own, the subject will perform within parameters. This is all in your briefing materials. Did you read them?”
Eric rolled his eyes. “I’m a little fuzzy on this memory and personality mumbo-jumbo, and I don’t remember reading anything about altering his aggression.”
“You’ve been in a one-on-one, fight for your life situation?”
Eric remembered Afghanistan, his NVG’s on the fritz, the darkness lit with machine gun fire, a Taliban fighter dragging him to the ground, grappling, trying to choke him while he desperately reached for his knife. “Yeah,” he said dryly, “I’ve been in a few.”