Final Winter

A pause, and Adrianna waited expectantly, knowing that whatever counter-argument or point the general would raise she was ready, ready for anything. She had an answer for anything that Bocks would bring up, and she waited.

And in two seconds, she was proven wrong.

The general’s voice softened. ‘Miss Scott, you’ve made the start of a compelling argument, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Why?’

Bocks looked at his watch. ‘Because in ninety minutes, my machinists’ union will be going on strike, and my air-fleet will be grounded. That’s why.’

Adrianna couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

Oh mama, she thought. Oh papa. How I’ve failed you.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In the small village of Goresh, about fifty miles away from Lahore, Pakistan, nineteen-year-old Amil Zahrain leafed through a copy of the Karachi Daily Jang, the country’s largest newspaper, feeling that little knot of anger and depression grow inside of his chest. Since his meeting with the Sudanese weeks ago and his visit to the Internet cafe in Lahore — which still gave him the shakes sometimes at night, thinking how close it had seemed, when the two policemen had entered the place — he had scanned the newspapers and had listened to the BBC and watched al-Jazeera at his uncle’s store and…

Nothing!

Nothing at all!

The Sudanese had promised him that something would happen, something dramatic, something that he, Amil, would have helped along through his dangerous journey to Lahore. He couldn’t sleep at night that first week, knowing the news would come out, like that glorious day when New York and the Pentagon were attacked, and that he could take praise from his family for having taken part in such greatness.

But the papers had been silent. Al-Jazeera had said nothing. All had been quiet, save for the usual gunplay and atrocities in Palestine and Jordan and Iraq and other places.

And there had been no death in America. Nothing.

Had the Sudanese been lying?

Amil crushed the newspaper in his hands, stood up from the stone bench where he had first met the Sudanese all those months ago, the Sudanese who had promised him everything: fame, pride, and at last, a sense of belonging, of being part of a jihad, of something that would make his club-foot irrelevant. He walked awkwardly out of the village center, past the stores and booths and stone buildings with the loud radios playing immoral music, knowing that nothing really awaited him when he got home, save for his mother and his sister, and they would argue with him and demand that he find work, even with a clubfoot, he should do something for the family, and even though he was the sole male he knew he deserved better, and—

A man’s whisper caught his ear, coming from a narrow alleyway. He turned.

The whisper was louder. ‘Amil?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who wants me?’

‘Come here, my friend. You’ll know me when you see me.’

He turned, saw a man standing there in the shadows, barely lit by the gas lamps from the dirt street he had been walking on. The voice did seem familiar… he walked into the shadows and then the man stepped forward, and Amil’s heart started thumping. It was the Sudanese!

‘Amil,’ the man said, smiling. .’You do remember me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, of course I do…tell me, what has happened? Why are you here? What news?’

The Sudanese smiled. ‘So many questions from such a brave young warrior. I do have so much to tell you, but we need to go to a place that is private, out of sight. There are Jews and Americans out here, even in a place like this, who seek to halt what work we have done.’

Amil nodded in excitement. ‘Yes, yes, I know of a place. Follow me. It’s not far.’

They exited the alleyway. Amil had spoken the truth, but he wished that he hadn’t, for the place was indeed nearby, but he would have rather walked a distance with the Sudanese, with hopes that he could meet friends or cousins or aunts or uncles, and say to them later, that black man, the Sudanese, he is truly a holy warrior, and he has asked for my help.

A short distance away — Amil walked as fast as possible with his poor foot — there was a home that was being built. The home had a view of the Hindu Kush and it was said that the rich man who was building it for one of his wives had run out of money, so the place was only half-built. A wire fence surrounded the property but Amil and others knew how to get in, and long ago the place had been stripped of its wiring, windows and piping. There was a gap near an old pine tree and though it was dark there was light enough from the other buildings to light their way. Amil led and the Sudanese followed until they were on the property, near a half-built brick wall.

Amil turned to his friend. ‘Sir — please tell me what is going on.’

The Sudanese clasped Amil’s shoulder. ‘Yes, all is going to plan.’

‘But…nothing has happened! You promised that I would strike a mighty blow against the Jews and infidels, but I’ve not seen a thing!’