“Is this because I’m a Brit?” he asked, turning to follow. “What, a Brit can’t earn a few dollars from America? I mean come on, you already took all our rock and rollers, and Beckham. Why can’t I hop across the pond? I could be huge there.”
“Keegan,” Hawker said, “look at this place. The big government pension you’re talking about wouldn’t cover your cleaning bill.”
“Sure,” he said, pushing between them and putting one arm over Hawker’s shoulder and the other over Danielle’s. “But I could lose all this in one bad week at the tables. And then what would I have to fall back on? There’s my good looks and charm, of course. I’ll always ’ave those. But that only goes so far.”
They reached the door and stopped.
“Where did you get him?” Danielle asked Hawker.
Hawker shrugged. “Apparently I pick up strays.”
Somehow she felt like the one who picked up strays. Looking at Hawker and now Keegan, she suddenly felt the tribe growing.
“Who else is going to have your back?” Keegan said. “Did you see how I swooped in with that boat?”
“It was damn good to see you,” Hawker admitted.
“Exactly,” Keegan said. “And that’s exactly how you’re going to feel every time you see my smiling mug from here on out.”
Hawker looked over at Danielle. She felt like she was being conned, but there was no resisting at this point. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
With that Keegan opened the door and the three of them went inside.
EPILOGUE
The crowd swirled around him in white and tan. Pilgrims numbering in the tens of thousands pressed forward, moving toward the three walls known collectively as the Jamarat. Most were eager, even emotionally overcome at the chance to complete this part of the hajj, the holy pilgrimage of Islam.
As soon as the noon prayers ended, they’d rushed toward a small bridge and toward the other entry points that would take them in front of the walls. In their ardor, few noticed or paid attention to a figure moving slowly, reluctantly. A man whose shoulders remained hunched, his head scarf pulled forward, hiding his neck and face.
Yousef Kazim had come on the pilgrimage not knowing what to expect. After the American woman let him go, he’d found his way back to France, to let his mother know he was alive, and then to Saudi Arabia.
Most poor Muslims had a hard time making the pilgrimage, but all were expected to do it at least once in their lives. Now, standing on this ground, Yousef felt a sense of nervousness, a heartsickness that he found hard to explain.
He had rejected Allah and then betrayed those who took him in.
He thought often about the conversation with the American woman, trying to hate her, trying to blame her for tricking him, but he realized she’d handed him a chance to redeem himself. In not giving in to him, she’d saved him somehow.
But now, standing only yards away from one of the holiest shrines in Islam, he did not feel any right to go inside. He tried to hold back, but the crowd flowed like a river, and despite his efforts Yousef was slowly swept along until he stood in front of largest of the walls, the most important of the three.
This was the tenth day of Dhu al-Hijjah, the last month of the Islamic calendar. On this day the pilgrims would throw stones at the large wall, the Jamrah al-Aqabah, which represented the devil. The ritual was meant to recreate the time when Abraham had thrown stones at the devil to chase him away.
On the following days, the pilgrims would throw stones at all three walls, the others representing the devil’s temptation of Abraham’s son and of Abraham’s wife. But today was only for the large wall.
As hundreds of others stood and threw their stones, Yousef hesitated. The noise, the heat, the sound of stones ricocheting off the wall were foreign to him. He felt out of place, not only among the people and the noise, but among Allah’s holiest sites.
He braced against the crowd, trying at least to remain in the back, but inexorably he was pushed toward the front. Long before he was ready, Yousef found himself facing the wall.
The words coursed through his head.
He had no right. He was the worst kind of heretic. If the others knew the truth they would stone him instead, he was certain of it.
He wanted to run away and escape this place, as if he could hide from his shame. He twisted his body in hopes of sliding through the surging crowd. But then the American woman’s voice came to him. He remembered its unexpected kindness and strength. He remembered her words.
He was Yousef Kazim. Who in his darkest moment had resisted the devil and given the world a chance at life.
He knew it to be true. He knew of the explosions on the Iranian island. He knew the Americans had destroyed the laboratory and the cult and the biological weapon they were building. He had played a part in that, as much as he’d had a part in all the evil that had been done before.
He was Yousef Kazim.
He held the first of seven stones in his hand as a sensation of fire built inside him. He felt a type of anger that was very familiar, a mix of bitterness and guilt, but he also felt a sense of peace that he had never known.
He thought of the woman who had saved him. He thought of his mother crying when she saw him again, and he thought of the people who had lured him away, Cruor, the man of blood, and Draco, the serpent, and what they had made him do. The anger grew as these images flashed through his mind.
Yousef Kazim raised his arm slowly, gripping the stone so tightly his knuckles turned ashen. And then, with all his might, he began to hurl his stones at the devil.