Scindo stared. He seemed to be drifting toward anger. Whether it was at her or the feeling that she might be speaking the truth, she couldn’t guess. She had to push.
“There’s no rescue for you here,” she said. “They left you out there once they had what they wanted. You’re expendable, whatever your name is.”
“I’m Scindo.”
She shook her head.
“They must’ve thought I was dead,” he stated.
“They could have checked,” she said. “They could have killed all of us with ease and then checked on you. But they didn’t — they left. I’m telling you; you’re alone now.”
This seemed to bother him more than anything so far. “You shot your friend,” he said. “Maybe you’re alone, too.”
She certainly felt alone, sick to her stomach at the turn of events, but she couldn’t show it, not until there was no other hope.
“I did the right thing,” she said proudly. “If you don’t agree, I could take you back to him.”
Scindo did not reply. He seemed to be studying her, trying to figure her out. Obviously he didn’t want to be back in Hawker’s clutches.
“So what will you do with me?”
“I’m not letting you go, if that’s what you mean.”
Other than that, she wasn’t sure. There was no script for this. But at least he was talking. Maybe the madness could have some value, if she could coax even a little bit of intel out of him.
“Did you kill the policemen?” she asked.
“No,” he said defiantly. “I’m not a killer, either.”
He seemed proud of that, adamant, in fact. “Then why do you stand by while the people who left you plan to butcher half the world?”
Finally she seemed to be reaching him. He seemed moved by her statement, somewhat off balance. “I know your tricks,” he said defensively.
She ignored him. There was a crack in his armor and she had to exploit it.
“They’re going to release a virus that will cause misery everywhere. Do you understand that? Millions will end up starving, maybe billions. There’ll be wars and hatred and violence. You can stop it.”
“I live in it every day,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“And for that matter what’s your real name?” she added. “I know my Latin. You weren’t born with the name Scindo.”
“What does it matter what name I was born with?” he said. “They don’t call me by it. They call me dirty Arab. They spit at me. I’m French but the French hate me. If we fight they beat us; if we don’t they ignore us. If we would just die and go away they would be happier.”
“We?”
“All of us,” he said, growing more agitated.
“Like the friends this cult of yours killed?”
“I didn’t … they …”
He was agitated, straining at his cuffs, nostrils flaring. He was talking freely now. He was shouting.
“Where are you from?” she asked softly. “What can it hurt?”
It was a question she’d asked a hundred times before, only now she realized she already knew the answer. She needed him to say it first. A little crack, a trickle of truth, and then the flood. Or so she hoped.
“La Courneuve,” he said finally.
“And your name,” she said, speaking as kindly as possible. “Your real name.”
His eyes darted around but he said nothing.
“You should really tell me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if your friends find us before mine do, I’ll probably be the last person to ever hear it.”
“The Master named me Scindo,” he said.
“What does your mother call you?”
He hesitated, a kind of sad pause.
“It’s just a name,” she said. “Mine is Danielle.”
He looked around. He seemed to be thinking. His eyes fell for a moment and then he looked at her again. She could only guess at the war going on inside him.
“My mother named me Yousef,” he said as his eyes found the floor. “Yousef Kazim. It was her father’s name.”
“Do you love her?” she asked.
“Of course. I love all my family.” His voice rose. “That is why I fight.”
This was the opening. This was her chance.
“Don’t you understand what will happen if these people get what they want? Don’t you realize that everyone you know will be harmed; everyone you care for will be worse off than before. They will suffer.”
“It will be equal,” he said defensively.
“No,” she said. “It’ll never be equal. Not on earth, not at the hands of men. The rich will still prosper but the poor will be worse off. They will see more misery and starvation, more destruction and pain.”
“The rich will fear them,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And when they fear them they will pay armies to attack. Your family’s lives will go from tough to miserable. It will happen everywhere. It will be a nightmare. And whatever chance they had once had, whatever hope you thought any of them had, will burn up like paper in the fire. And what will you have accomplished, but to seal their fate forever?”
“This is not true,” he said, growing angry.
“It is,” she said softly. “You know it is.”
“And how will it be any different if I help you?” he said. The question was spat at her with venom, but she sensed there was at least a hint of honesty in it. How would it be different?
“Lives will be spared,” she said. “Millions of lives. Maybe billions.”
“And my family in La Courneuve?”
“I can’t promise you it will be better,” she said. “But it won’t be worse. At least your mother will still have a son.”
“I will not tell you,” he insisted.
She sensed it slipping away.
“There’s nothing to be gained from this,” she said, feeling desperate now. “No riches, immortality, or fame. Only punishment.”
“There is no God to punish me,” he said.
“Maybe some believe that,” she said, “but you don’t. You have to believe in God to be angry with Him. You hate Him for what He’s given you, but you believe He’s out there.”
“I don’t,” he insisted.
Now he looked away and Danielle knew this was the moment. She had to make him speak or he would retreat back into the shell of Scindo, the false persona that protected him, and they’d never break him in time, no matter what they did.
“Even if that’s the case, you’re still at the end,” she said. “My friends will find us. They’ll take me in chains and they’ll take you somewhere that will seem like the darkest pit of hell. And I promise you, Yousef, they will not stop until they have made you speak every last secret you hold.”
“I will not talk.”
“You will,” she said, pitifully. “If not to me, to them. They’ll break you and you’ll hate yourself for being broken. And you will have nothing left.”
He looked up at her.
“And what do you have left?” He finally sounded as sad as her.
“I have myself, Yousef. I did what was right in trying to save you.”
She saw him quiver and look down. The drugs, the lack of sleep, the mental strain, she hoped it had weakened him enough.
“Please,” she asked quietly.
He gazed at the floor.
“Please.”
He did not look up, but staring at the ground, as if in a trance, he finally spoke.
“There’s an island,” he said.
“Where?”
“Out there,” he said, still looking at the ground but nodding toward the south and the Persian Gulf. “There are buildings there, bombed and full of holes. A ship, a freighter I think, it sits on the rocks. That is where they took me.”