Pandemic

Lost in his thoughts, Kabaal didn't notice the woman until she was standing in front of them. At first, he didn't recognize her in the dwindling light. He had only ever seen Khalila Jahal wearing a haik, the loosely fitted one-piece Moroccan robe that covers the head and body. Now, as instructed, she wore jeans, sandals, and a tightly fitted white blouse.

Large brown eyes, perfect tawny skin, and long shiny black hair complemented Jahal's hourglass figure. Most of the devout at the complex would have found her dress intolerably immodest, but Kabaal had spent enough time in the West to appreciate her sexiness without condoning her attire. In spite of his reinvigorated faith, his old habits died hard and he couldn't resist a compliment: "Ah, Khalila, in the privacy of your home you would please a husband with your exquisiteness."

She met his eyes confidendy. "My husband is dead, Abu Lahab."

"He is in paradise, now," Kabaal said, knowing that the twenty-three-year-old's husband had died in the caves of Afghanistan, fighting alongside the Taliban.

Abdul Sabri eyed Jahal with clinical detachment. "You will draw the attention of many Western men dressed that way."

"Even better," Kabaal said. "More importantly, she will pass for a Western woman dressed like that."

"I will," Jahal said with certainty.

Kabaal nodded at her solemnly. "Khalila, you do not have to go, you know that?"

"I will go," Jahal said.

"There are others," Kabaal said. "You do not have to."

Jahal shook her head defiantly. "I will go, Abu Lahab. My husband would want this. I want this. It is my duty." She bit her lip, and then smiled sadly. "It is my opportunity to serve."

Kabaal felt a pang of melancholic nostalgia. She had such obvious intelligence behind her alluring brown eyes. And her confidence and selfless faith only enhanced her attractiveness. Under different circumstances, he gladly would have done the honorable thing and married this widow.

"Are you familiar with the plan?" Sabri asked of her, his pale blue eyes seemingly indifferent to the loveliness of the woman.

"Yes, Major." Jahal nodded, showing the first hint of intimidation in his presence. "I will be inoculated in the morning. The truck will pick me up immediately following. I will fly out from Tangiers. I will pick up my new papers in Paris."

"Do you know all the rendezvous points?" Sabri's eyes narrowed, still not convinced.

"Yes, Major," Jahal said. "I once spent several months in Paris. My French is impeccable. I could pass for a local," she said without a trace of conceit.

"And from there?" Sabri pressed.

"My transit is all arranged," she said "I will wait for the fever and cough to develop before I go out. I have gone through the routine a thousand times in my head."

Again, Kabaal was struck by her confident poise in the presence of two men; a rare trait for a young female Islamist. Had she grown up in the West, Kabaal decided she would have been a feminist. He was struck by another wave of nostalgia. He had bedded a few self-described feminists in London in the seventies, happily discovering that their passion wasn't limited to gender politics.

Major Sabri studied the Moroccan woman for a long while. "Good." He finally exhaled, appearing satisfied but not pleased.

"You understand what is at stake?" Kabaal asked her.

"As I said, Abu Lahab, I know the plan to—"

Kabaal cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No. No. No. Do you understand why we must do this?"

She nodded calmly.

"We are under siege, Khalila," Kabaal went on though Jahal did not appear the least doubtful. "They have all the conventional weapons. Their army is camped at the gates of the Tigris. Their tanks and planes are within miles of Mecca. You understand, Khalila?"

"I do," Jahal said.

"I am not a madman." Kabaal looked away from her, pained by her lovely resolute face. "If there was another way." His shoulders sagged and his head drooped. "I don't want you to die. I don't want others to die."

She reached out as if she might touch Kabaal's shoulder, but her hand stopped short. Instead, she ran her hand through her hair like she meant to brush it all along. "It is what must be done," she said.

"It is the only way." Kabaal cleared his throat. "We cannot let them take our holy sites… take our way of life… take our God." He held his head up higher. "They will learn His vengeance for trying. They will learn it from you, Khalila."

He looked from the expressionless Sabri to the nodding Jahal.

"And there will be no mercy for those who stand in His way," Kabaal predicted.

CHAPTER 9

JIAYUGUAN REGIONAL HOSPITAL GANSU PROVINCE CHINA

Dr. Kai Huang sat silently at his desk and trembled with rage.

At thirty-two, Kai Huang was one of the youngest medical directors in all of China, and he had no intention of stopping there. But now his career teetered on the brink of ruin. All thanks to the now-deceased associate director.