die. There are people who love you, who will always love you. People like me.”
His soft hands—the result of a life spent paging through books and writing densely analytical papers about coral reefs and encroaching tide lines—rose to her face. He held her cheeks in a cool clasp.
“I have to go back to my mosque and talk to God.”
Jenna nodded. It’s what we do when we’re grieving, she thought. We hold on to whatever we can.
Rafan continued, “I can’t let them hijack the faith of my father and mother and sister the way they took that ship, with guns and rockets and murder.” His voice staggered under the pressing weight of that final word.
He sounded like the Christians she knew who stood up to the fanatics in their churches—the deniers of science in all its forms, who’d begun by denying evolution, moved on to denying climate change, and would, if left unchecked, denounce the very core of reason itself.
“I will pray,” Rafan said, “and maybe I will hear God. But even if I am still deaf to Him, I need to talk to others. Maybe we can stop this madness, one mosque at a time.”
Nicci stood a few feet away with a porter and their bags.
“Do you have a car with you, or can we drive you back home?” Jenna asked. “We’ll be going close by, to the Golden Crescent.”
“Thank you. I can walk home from your hotel.”
All of them, including Alicia and Chris and the camera crew, piled into an airport van. They rode in silence.
* * *
Parvez felt numb, sitting in the Internet café watching more Westerners climb out of a big, white airport van. He was still reeling from the news that he, a humble cleric, a wise man, a great strategist for jihad, had been picked to be a … suicide bomber? He could scarcely use the world “martyr.” Not for himself. That was for others—pathetic men like Adnan.
The two Mohammeds had told him to continue his surveillance of the hotel and to report back to the squat little house by nightfall. Then he would get all dressed up for the big party in paradise.
Parvez scolded himself for his impiety as he watched the grand entrance to the Golden Crescent. He’d been doing this since noon, and only minutes ago had learned from a jihadist at the reception desk that every room had been booked by reporters and crews. By tonight, the place would be packed. The young man sounded so excited.
Great, Parvez said to himself bitterly.
How could he tell the Mohammeds that using him as a martyr would be a waste, a supreme waste. Weren’t thousands of poor Pakis lining up to be martyrs? Of course they were: young men, boys even, living miserable lives with so little to look forward to. One of them should have this chance—Parvez would step aside. He’d even be gracious about giving up his place in paradise.
Parvez moaned, almost silently. He knew the Mohammeds would not give him this choice. They wanted him to wear the vest.
He forced himself to return to his task. The Waziristanis’ contacts in America had e-mailed Parvez photographs of many network news people. Now the Islamist scrolled through the images and found a picture of the new arrival: Chris Randall, “special terrorism correspondent.” Yes, yes, him. The African-American.
But who is she? Parvez was staring at a beautiful woman whose hair looked almost white, though it could have been because of the sun’s glare. He scrolled through the file once more, but couldn’t find her. He could tell she was a star, though—no matter their skin color, their bright, shiny faces made them look like they’d landed from another planet. She’d never have to be a suicide bomber, he thought peevishly.
He knew Alicia Gant immediately, having seen her face next to Randall’s photo. “The terrorism team,” the file said. They think they know something about terrorism? Parvez shook his head. They know nothing. They come like lemmings. Isn’t that what they say in the West? Lemmings? There, he was feeling more like himself again, but then a little voice inside his head said, What about you, oh great cleric? Are you a lemming, too? His only answer was another moan.
He saw bellmen unpacking bags from the big passenger van, and he almost shut off the computer because he could not stop thinking of the windowless van that would soon arrive. It would pull right up to the front door, like an ordinary vehicle, and then