Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [126]
Abukar waved his hand, dismissing them. “Then there is no rape to be punished.”
“What?”
“The law is clear,” said Abukar. “The rapist must confess, or there must be four male witnesses.”
Samira spoke up. “The Koran requires four witnesses to prove that a woman has committed adultery, not to prove that she was raped. You are twisting things for your own purposes.”
“Quiet!”
“You’re twisting it the way Westerners do when they want to defile Islam!” she shouted, her voice shaking.
“Stop, woman!”
“I was raped!”
“Enough with your false accusations!” said Abukar. “You have brought shame on your family.”
“Shame?” said Habib. “Look at her!”
“I’ve seen how she looks at men,” said Abukar, “the way she tempts them. Her thoughts are impure. The shame is on Samira and her family!”
The Dark’s cell rang, jarring him from his memories. It took a moment to shake off the anger—the stinging memory of how, brainwashed by a cunning and convincing older woman chosen by Abukar, Samira had walked into a crowded market in Mogadishu and “cleansed herself” of her shame.
“Go ahead,” the Dark said into his cell phone.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” said Littleton. “We need a plan to recover those files that were taken.”
“That’s impossible. Even if I get the originals back, there is no way to account for every possible copy that could exist. It’s the technological version of trying to put the genie back in the bottle.”
“Damn you, Habib! How could you have been so stupid? You should have destroyed those files!”
Littleton was shouting a string of obscenities, as if that would change the fact that the videos were out there. It only made the Dark angrier. He was a young man who had believed in a cause when, years ago, he’d spent countless hours online for al-Shabaab, studying the state-of-the art encryption methods of pedophiles, trying to duplicate their methods for terrorism. It wasn’t Habib’s fault that, after viewing thousands of explicit videos, sex with underage girls didn’t just seem normal. It became a turn-on. It remained his obsession.
“I don’t understand it, Habib! What in the hell were you thinking?”
What could the Dark tell him? That the cloud had a silver lining? That if Project Round Up hadn’t led Chuck Mays to the black site torture videos that the Dark was trading on the P2P networks, the Dark might never have discovered that Jamal Wakefield was actually Abukar’s son? That this bit of good fortune was the only reason the Dark even bothered to prostrate himself in daily prayers anymore? That it had been worth all the pain and aggravation to show Abukar that he couldn’t even protect his son by harboring him on the run and turning him into Khaled al-Jawar?
It would have been perfect, in fact, had it not been for Vince Paulo and the explosion.
“No more!” he shouted into the phone.
“No more what?” asked Littleton.
“I made myself clear in the last call,” the Dark said. “I warned you that the files were out there. I didn’t need your permission to play my ace in the hole, but I asked for it anyway, which put you on notice that dead cops might be involved. Now it’s every man for himself.”
“So your ace in the hole is what—your exit strategy?”
“Yes. And I suggest you get one. Because in less than eight hours I’m playing my hand, and my ace in the hole will be a dead man.”
He ended the call, tucked away his phone, and started back to the old hotel.
Chapter Sixty-eight
Their taxi stopped in front of a tiny East End establishment with a big sign that read BANGLATOWN CURRY SHOP. Jack counted at least twenty restaurants up and down the narrow street that looked almost exactly like it. Not one was open for business.
“I told you everything would be closed,” the driver said. “If you’re hungry, I know a little place not far from here.”
“This will be fine,” Shada said.
Jack paid the fare, and when the cab left, they were the lone signs of life on the block. It wasn’t hard to imagine the street clogged with cars and delivery trucks, the sidewalks jammed with people from all walks of life from around