Pandemic

Her heart ripped in two by her husband's death in an Afghani cave and her nearly simultaneous miscarriage, Khalila accepted the path God had chosen for her. She would never bear Zamil's or anyone else's children, but she pledged to make herself useful to Him. She dedicated her life to Zamil's cause. And she sought out the guidance of one of his teachers, Sheikh Hassan. Through the Sheikh, she met Hazzir Kabaal and his people.

During all the training and planning that followed, she never once questioned the mission. Not until she grew feverish to the point of delusional in her dank London hotel room did the doubts of whether the means justified the end creep into her conscience.

Zamil's hovering face vanished. Without her husband around to explain it, everything seemed unclear. The room darkened. She fell back to sleep.

Six hours later, she awoke trembling with vicious shivers. The fever was spiking again. She felt as if a heavy rock had been lowered onto her chest. She had to breathe twice as fast to avoid suffocating. The coughing spells grew longer and more frequent. But at least her arms and legs responded to her commands. She looked at the clock. which read 4:28 P.M. Time was running out.

Without allowing herself a chance to reconsider, she dragged herself out of bed. As per the plan, she didn't shower, but instead changed into the provocative Western clothing that she had debuted for Kabaal and his henchman in the Somali desert. She staggered to the mirror. Her tawny complexion had whitened, and what was once alluring now came across as sickly. With a shaky hand, she applied extra blush and lipstick in an attempt to mask the pallor.

She forced down two glasses of bottled water followed by two glasses of orange juice, convinced she might vomit with each sip, but knowing she needed the fluid and sugar to give her enough strength to make the trip. She didn't vomit, but a coughing fit overcame her. She kneeled over the toilet and gasped for air, until she coughed up a wad of bloody sputum. Finally she caught her breath and pulled herself to her feet.

She was relieved to see a row of taxicabs waiting in front of the hotel. She hobbled over to the first one, mumbled her destination to the driver, and collapsed across the backseat.

The driver didn't say a word to her, but she caught his concerned glances in the rearview mirror. By sheer will, she propped herself upright, scared that otherwise he might drop her off at a hospital. She forced her lips into what she hoped was a flirtatious smile for the sweaty, smelly cabdriver as she breathed heavily but quietly through her nose.

The taxi pulled up in front of the lobby of the Park Tower Plaza. A recently constructed five-star hotel, the Park Tower Plaza was a favorite among affluent businessmen, especially Americans.

Jahal paid the driver with a twenty-pound note. Clutching the door with two hands, she pulled herself out of the car. She had to pause for another coughing fit to pass. A tall, heavyset man in a cowboy hat, waiting for her cab, leaned forward and offered his arm, but she refused him with a shake of her head. She caught her breath and headed for the entrance.

Inside the hotel, her staggering gait drew a few glances from the people in the crowded lobby. She smiled and waved away anyone who offered his or her assistance.

According to the original plan, Jahal was supposed to have been at the hotel before 8:00 A.M., waiting for the morning exodus. But inadvertently her timing had worked out even better. At 5:00 P.M. on the nose, the bankers, lawyers, and other businesspeople were returning to their rooms from meetings and conferences all over London.

Standing amid a group of American businessmen, she swayed on her feet waiting for the elevator with them. She let the throng of people carry her into the spacious elevator. Unsteadily, she elbowed her way to the buttons and pressed the top floor. As instructed, she ran her germ-filled hands along the surfaces of the buttons and surrounding walls.

When a wave of coughs began, she covered her mouth but deliberately left a hole between her thumb and index finger, which allowed the now-bloody mucus to spray free into the air and onto the men surrounding her. Most of the men paid little attention to her, but a few of the ones nearest her stepped backward in an attempt to put as much distance between them and her coughs.

Khalila rode the elevator to the top floor and disembarked with the few people remaining on the ride. As they headed for their rooms, she pressed the "down" call button and waited. She felt so weak. She had to rest against the closed elevator doors to stop from collapsing. When the doors opened, she staggered back into the empty elevator. She smeared her hands over all the buttons. She descended with the elevator, as more unsuspecting people boarded on their way down to dinners, shows, sightseeing, and for a few of them, a relatively imminent death.