Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,14

Pakistani sun. “Think about it and let me know.”

But Gabriel didn’t need to think about it. He’d pretend to for a few days, just to negotiate the price a little. But why should he even do that? This mission was a dream come true, a gigantic victory in the cause of justice.

For goodness sakes, he should just do it for free!

Gabriel’s brain was doing cartwheels by the time they stopped for a bite to eat in a one-horse town along the road back to Peshawar. Absolutely everyone along the village’s single road stopped to gawk as Mateen pulled the black Hummer over next to a ditch of raw sewage, then ducked after the Khan into the village’s only eating establishment. The bodyguards were talking loudly about some TV show, but Alejo was lost in a world of his own, ever since they had left the Tribal Area.

He got like that sometimes. Gabriel had found if you just left him alone, he would come out of the funk before you knew it. He tried to catch Alejo’s eye with a smile as they entered the restaurant.

Grimy aquamarine walls dominated the small eating place with their shocking color, and cheap plastic mats spread across the floor. Several groups of men were already eating their lunch, one leg folded up to support their right arm, the other bent cross-legged on the woven mat. With their right hand, the Pashtun men scooped up cooked spinach with torn pieces of oven-roasted naan bread. Along one wall lay a scattered pile of black plastic sandals in varying states of muddiness. Several of the men’s blackened, bare feet twitched only a few inches away from the food.

Bon apetit.

Before digging in, Gabriel slipped his cell phone out of one pocket to check the time. Yep. Time for prayers.

Around twenty other men in the room began to unroll tattered prayer mats from a special corner of the restaurant, working as one man to spread them out in rows in the middle of the uneven concrete floor, facing Mecca. The town’s mosque must have been very near by, judging by the volume of the haunting call to prayer that suddenly cut through the air over a loudspeaker. The customers who were already here for lunch would simply pray together here.

A small spigot of water just outside the door in a concrete courtyard provided a place for the men to perform wudu, ritual washing for prayers. Gabriel waited his turn at the trickle of water and began to focus his mind on Allah as he washed all the parts required by the Prophet.

Alejo took Gabriel’s place at the faucet and began washing, quiet and morose. Gabriel’s bare, wet feet made a sucking sound as he padded back inside across the now muddy concrete, his large, moist footprints mingling with the others to create a mosaic of darkened patches on the restaurant floor. Frigid rivulets of water formed crystal drops like sweat down Gabriel’s face, from his wet, spiky hair to his chin.

Kneeling down next to Alejo, Gabriel prostrated himself on his mat and began to pray to the one who, alone, could reward him with eternal life.

He had to wait another week, but Gabriel finally got some time off. The rest of his team had flown back to Bolivia the day after that legendary trip to the Tribal Area, the one where Gabriel’s dreams of Ambrin began to come true.

Since then, Gabriel had been back, training a new group of recruits in the Tribal Area. He knew how to make stuff: Molotov cocktails, pretty good bombs, electronic bugs for picking up conversations. And he was a really good sniper.

He’d had to learn this stuff when Hezbollah trained him in Iran, along with Alejo, Benjamin, Stalin, and a bunch of other guys. He'd gotten a scholarship in Bolivia to go to university in Iran, and been recruited into the Prism there. The training had been excellent.

And now Gabriel was just passing it all on.

Hard work, but today I get a reminder that in the end it all pays off.

Literally. Sitting in the middle of one of the Khan’s gilded apartments, Gabriel flushed, glancing at the fat pile of cash gripped tightly in his hand. His salary for the next few months.

Gabriel, it’s not about the money! he scolded himself.

It was all about doing what Allah wanted.

A knock thudded against the apartment door, and Gabriel opened to find Ishmael’s employee Mateen. The huge Pashtun guard was clad in a cotton candy pink shalwar