The Walking Dead

As he entered, the boy lay on the bed, but started back and cringed against the headboard. He saw the terror bright in the eyes and the heavy shoulder muscles quivered. But the world of Muhammad Ajaq, the Scorpion in the files of his enemy, was both the creation of fear and the breeding of loyalty He smiled. He allowed the warmth of his smile to run on his lips and he saw confusion spread over the idiot's face…But he could not mask the contempt in his eyes, because they carried truth and the smile was a lie.

He said, 'Your life, Ramzi, was in the palm of the hand of my friend. If there had been with my friend a suspicion of betrayal then you were dead. Not a martyr's death but a traitor's. My friend says to me — and he held your life in his hand — that you were stupid…So, you live.'

The voice was hoarse, as if a fist was at the boy's throat. 'Thank you…I meant no…'

'You meant no harm. I understand. You were inquisitive. You were given to us, Ramzi, put into this cell because it was thought you could be relied on, depended on. Where I fight, a cell must be secure or it will fail, and failure comes when respect inside the cell is lost. Trust was placed in you. Should I doubt that trust?'

'No…no,' the boy stammered.

'It will not happen again…will not.' He stood over the boy, above him. He saw again the squirming movement against the pillows. He did not realize then the mistake he made, the scale of it, or the consequences. His hand rested loosely on the boy's shoulders — as it had on Ibrahim Hussein, who would die when he walked — and he felt the tension in the muscles there.

The mistake was made and he had no knowledge of it.

He left the room.

* * *

'Let's pick up where we left off, Dickie. Mistakes.'

'Would you like more coffee, Joe? I can get it made.'

'No more coffee. I'll need to relieve myself. No, thanks…How long we got this time?'

'We have a desk officer, downstairs, assigned to this. He's pulling together what strings we have — supposed to be with him ten minutes ago. Anyway…'

Joe Hegner said, 'I was at mistakes…But there is pressure on the Twentyman, the Scorpion. If we take a wider picture, over the last few months there have been in excess of sixty suicide-bombs, walking and driven, in Iraq. They are pumping them through and there is no sign that the belt is emptying. Each bomb has a diminished impact — the same happened on a lesser scale in Israel. Life has to go on, because for the living there is no alternative. Children go to school because they must have education. Families shop because they must eat to survive. Men stand in queues outside police recruiting offices because they have no other alternative of employment. Many die, atrocities are frequent, but the social fabric continues to exist, even if at Stone Age levels. I said "diminished impact". That is crucial to the mistake. The war against the Coalition demands impact. Can't find impact in that God-forsaken place. Impact requires momentum. Momentum gains headlines in newspapers and leads on the satellite channels. Bali, Madrid and your experiences a year and a half ago gain newspaper inches and television time.

'You Brits, your society is flabby and has an unprotected underbelly. You could not sustain what is the daily chore of life in Iraq. So, the son-of-a-bitch is sent here where the hazards to his safety are so much greater. In the wake of his arrival there are the growing — perhaps inevitable — chances of more minor mistakes, which, if you boys are lucky, will kill him. Why is there the probability of "minor mistakes" to add to the big one? In Iraq, on his own ground, he is among everything that is familiar, and he surrounds himself with proven men. Here, he cannot. Here, it's about who he has now to work with and—'

'It'll have to keep, Joe. I'm sure you understand.'

* * *

Through the wall of the room, Ibrahim heard the sounds of a man's weeping.

It should have been a time of joy as the day approached. He should have been able to share joy with brothers and a sister, but there had been dispute and argument, and now he heard desolate weeping.

He recited to himself from the Book, 3-169: 'You must not think that those who are slain in the cause of Allah are dead. They are alive and well provided for by their Lord.' He had thought the words would comfort him, but they did not. Despair was hooked in his mind. There was no celebration of what he would do when he walked, when he held the switch in his hand, only raised voices — and now hopeless tears were offered him through the wall. Why? Why was there no joy?

Ibrahim left his room, went down the corridor and away from the crying. He came to the living room and the curtains were drawn there. He stood in the shadows at the door. He was not seen.