Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [98]
“He will,” Sara said.
Jack didn’t know whether she was alluding to the flirtatious stick or ballistic carrot approach. Not that it mattered.
Right now, nothing mattered but stopping Zuabi.
28
London, England
It was a cardinal rule of intelligence work that Sara had learned: if your cover has been compromised, either go deep undercover or hide in plain sight.
Going to ground was not an option.
Fortunately, Sara and Jack looked a mess and stank of perspiration from the torture, their flight, days without a shower. Any description MI6 might have sent out barely applied to the dirty, disheveled couple who showed up for the train ride back to London. They had taken the precaution of having a drink so their breath suggested a night of heavy partying. And they acted the part as they purchased tickets with the cash Jack had been carrying.
They reached London without a hitch and cabbed to the school.
The young man’s name was Faisal al-Jubeir.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six years old, and was an inch taller than Jack, with dark skin and a thick black beard. He seemed a bit irritated as he opened the door at nearly one in the morning. The moment he saw Sara his annoyance evaporated. He didn’t even seem to see Jack, not at first.
“Ms. Ghadah,” he said in surprise. “Sara. What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry if we woke you, Faisal.”
“Actually, no. I was studying for—” He paused, frowning at her. Like everyone else, he saw and was mesmerized by Sara’s face in those first moments. “Your clothes, your hijab … where are they? Why are you dressed like that?”
“It’s a long story,” she told him.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but I desperately need your help.”
He looked confused. “My help?”
“May we come in?”
He hesitated, glancing at Jack as though seeing him for the first time. Then he stepped back and opened the door wide. “Of course,” he said. “Come in.”
“Thank you, Faisal.”
They stepped into a clean but modest flat full of furniture that looked as if it had come with the rental. Cheap but functional. There was a small kitchenette with a dining table in front of it, the table cluttered with books and spiral binders, illuminated by a reading lamp. It was like being in a neat version of Max’s hacker friend Dave Karras’s place, with one exception: among the books was Fundamentals of Islamic Philosophy. Jack felt his gut tighten ever so slightly.
Amid the clutter was a laptop computer with a screensaver showing photographs of an attractive Arab woman and a small boy.
“Faisal, this is my friend Jack.”
“Assalamu alaikum,” Faisal said, and they shook hands, each man assessing the other, Jack wanting to trust him and fighting the sense that he shouldn’t. He supposed it all boiled down to whether or not this young man’s idea of Islamic philosophy was similar to al-Fida’s and included killing in the name of Allah.
Sara had assured Jack that Faisal wasn’t a radical, but then Sara herself had spent nearly a year pretending to be something she wasn’t, as had Abdal and God knew how many others. Jack was still trying to adjust to the fact that there was a president of the United States with a middle name Hussein. Who was to say this guy wasn’t pretending as well?
Faisal gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Please.”
They sat and Faisal took a chair opposite them.
Sara leaned forward. “I know it’s late. And I know you’re not used to seeing me like this. I could probably give you some excuse as to why we’re here and look the way we do, but you’ve always struck me as a man of principle so I think it’s best to be truthful.”
“Yes, of course. Islam teaches us to strive always to excel in virtue and truth. But you’re starting to frighten me.”
“It’s a frightening world,” Jack said unhelpfully. But it had to be said. Everyone was a soldier for one side or the other, whether they liked it or not.
Sara reached into her pocket and pulled out the USB key. “This,” she told him. “There are some encrypted e-mails on it that I’m hoping you can crack.”
“Me?