The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(2)

The first prisoner was led forward. Al-Bosni watched the elderly man shuffle along, shaking and murmuring, worry beads taut in his hands. He stood on the edge of the trench, a dark patch spreading over the crotch of his tattered beige trousers.

The firing squad took aim. The moment he had been captured al-Bosni knew he was a dead man. This, at least, would be quick.

The leader of the firing squad looked at the cameraman. He peered through the viewfinder, then glanced at the gunman and nodded. Shots echoed over the water. The old man jerked sideways, tumbled forward, still holding his worry beads.

Younis jabbed his AK-47 into al-Bosni’s back. “Not yet. Schoolhouse.”

He pushed al-Bosni toward a single-story building. The walls, once painted white, were now a dirty gray. The windows were covered with black cloth. Two jihadists sat outside on either side of the door, their assault rifles resting on their legs. Banana clips of ammunition were piled up on a small chair nearby. The lid of a long wooden box lay open, showing a stack of Kalashnikov assault rifles, still shiny with grease. Somewhere a generator sputtered, spewing petrol fumes.

The fighters looked at al-Bosni with curiosity. Both were Americans. Al-Bosni had heard them talking in a Florida twang.

He walked into the room. The desks and chairs had been shunted to the side. Another black rayah was draped against the back wall. Two large standing halogen lamps stood in either corner. A fighter stood behind a video camera mounted on a tripod, making tiny adjustments to the controls. Bottles of Turkish mineral water stood on a small table nearby. A long, curved scimitar lay on a chair in front of the camera.

An older man with close-cropped hair leaned against the wall, watching as he methodically ate an apple down to the core. Al-Bosni had never seen him before at the camp. He was in his midsixties, tanned and fit-looking, wearing a light brown North Face jacket and Timberland desert boots.

Al-Bosni looked at the chair, the scimitar, the cameraman.

Not like this.

He forced himself to control his fear. A plan began to form in his mind.

“Water,” he pleaded.

Younis slung his weapon over his shoulder, took a bottle, twisted it open, and tipped it over al-Bosni’s head.

Al-Bosni leaned back, trying to send a trickle of water into his mouth. His right foot flew up between Younis’s legs. The blow was, at most, half strength. But it connected.

Younis grunted, in both pain and amazement. Al-Bosni flicked his foot forward again and swiftly kicked Younis in the groin, harder this time. Younis’s face twisted and he lurched backward, his gun clattering to the floor.

Al-Bosni sprinted for the door. He would not make it out of the camp. And even if he did there was nowhere to run. But he would die on his feet, in his own clothes, not in an orange jumpsuit, sedated and dragged before a camera.

The fighters outside the entrance jumped up and spun around to block the door, their assault rifles pointing straight at al-Bosni. He stood still and closed his eyes. Water trickled down his head, along his nose.

*

The stream flows clear and bright in the morning sunshine. His finger rests against the trigger of the hunting rifle. His father lies next to him, his breathing steady and slow as he points across the water.

*

He tensed, focusing hard on the memory.

What felt like a sledgehammer hit him in the side. He flipped around, landed on his back, felt the weight of his body pressing down on his arms and cuffed wrists.

*

The deer raises its head. The air smells of spring. The sound of the shot thunders through the trees. The deer crumples. Pride fills his father’s face.

*

Al-Bosni opened his eyes.

Younis stood above him, the butt of his gun raised like a hammer. He whirled the weapon around, held it against his shoulder, and aimed at Al-Bosni’s head.

Al-Bosni smiled, nodded. “Do it.”

Tata, I’m coming.

The visitor took a last bite of the apple, flicked the core away with his thumb, and stepped forward. He placed his hand under the barrel of Younis’s gun and lifted it upward. Younis’s face was a mask of fury. But he did not resist.

The visitor leaned over al-Bosni, helped him to stand, opened a bottle of water, and handed it to him. He took out a pocketknife and sliced through the plastic handcuffs. Al-Bosni clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the blood returning to his fingers. His right leg shook uncontrollably. Then the visitor took out a small, light blue booklet the size of a passport from his jacket pocket. He looked at al-Bosni, then down at the identification page.

“Rifaat al-Bosni. Is that your real name?” he asked, his voice curious.

Al-Bosni gulped the water too fast, coughed, violent spasms that convulsed his body. He was angry and scared, relieved and, yes, disappointed all at once. “Does it matter? Who are you?”

“I ask the questions. How did you obtain a UN laissez-passer?”

Al-Bosni stared at the visitor, his leg slowly stilling. The man’s eyes were hypnotic: one pale blue, the other dark brown. His manner was casual but there was steel underneath.

Al-Bosni replied, “I work for the UN. I am an aid worker.”

“Meaning?”

“I help people.”

The visitor flicked through the pages of the laissez-passer, looking at the entry and exit stamps. “People in Kosovo, Chechnya, Afghanistan, Iraq …”

“I serve where I am needed.”