The Faithful Spy

“Nam,” Mazen said, and hung up. “One of our brothers is watching the main road, in case the Americans come this way,” he said to Farouk and Zayd. “But they never do. They fear Ghazalia at night.”

“So?” Zayd said to Farouk. “What do you think?”

But Farouk wasn’t quite ready to share his exhilaration. “Show me the yellow metal.”

Mazen handed him a canvas bag, surprisingly heavy and filled with yellow pellets. Farouk waved the wand over them, and again the Geiger counter woke up, clicking loud and fast. The pellets were uranium oxide, he thought. Yellowcake. Slightly enriched, 2 or 3 percent, though nowhere near weapons-grade. Farouk held up the bag.

“You found these in a barrel.”

“Nam,” Mazen said. “It was very heavy. We could hardly move it.”

“It was the only barrel?”

“There were four, Doctor.”

Four barrels of yellowcake? Farouk tried to contain his excitement. This was only the start, he reminded himself. They needed to gather the material and then get it to the United States. But there were ways. They would truck the uranium and the cobalt capsules into Jordan. Then to Dubai, or Turkey. East to Pakistan and then Singapore. West to Nigeria and then across the Atlantic to Brazil. He didn’t know the details; Khadri would handle that. But he knew there were ways.

“My brothers,” Farouk said. “You have answered our prayers.”

“Allahu akbar!” Mazen screamed. Then his cell phone trilled again.

a few seconds earlier the Mad Dogs’ Humvees had swung west off Dodge, flicked off their lights, and accelerated toward the barbershop. The Humvees didn’t have jet turbine engines like the tanks, but then again they didn’t weigh seventy tons. They swept down the dark silent avenue at seventy-five miles an hour, the wind pushing back J.C.’s face. He stared down the road through his goggles, looking for movement, but he didn’t notice the small man frantically dialing his cell phone from an Opel sedan. As they closed in, J.C. wondered what they might find. Probably nothing. He hoped that anyone inside would be smart enough not to fight. The first seconds of a raid were the most dangerous. The Mad Dogs had to hold their fire as they sorted out friends and foes.

but tonight that wouldn’t be a problem. Qusay’s alert backfired. By the time his call went through, the Mad Dogs had nearly reached the store. The guerrillas — eight in all, including Farouk and Zayd — could only grab their guns and run for their cars. the humvee thumped over a curb and into the narrow parking lot. J.C. saw three guys with AKs running from the shop. He covered them with his machine gun. “Stop!” he yelled. They turned and fired wildly. Rounds thumped into the Humvee, and another seared by J.C.’s head. Hostile fire, he thought automatically. Rules of engagement permit lethal force. Even before the words were complete in his mind he had put the.50-caliber on target and squeezed its trigger. Fire flashed out of the weapon’s muzzle. At close range a largecaliber machine gun has unfortunate effects on the human body. One man’s head exploded like an overripe pumpkin; the other two were cut nearly in half. Before their bodies had hit the ground J.C. had already turned his gun on the shop’s front door, where two more men stood, firing hopelessly. This time one survived his initial burst. But not the second.

Five kills. J.C. felt no emotion at all. The mission wasn’t over yet. m a z e n r a n i n t o the storage room, his shirt drenched with blood. “You told them,” he yelled at Farouk. “Spy. Jew spy.” Mazen swung his rifle at Farouk, who hunched down, catching the blow in his right shoulder. A dull pain spread down his arm. “I swear to Allah—” Farouk croaked out the words, feeling his bowels loosen.

“Idiot,” Zayd said to Mazen. “Look at him. He’s more frightened than you.”

Zayd pulled a grenade from his belt, ran to the door, and tossed the grenade into the barbershop without looking out. “Inshallah, that will give us time,” he said. The building shuddered as the grenade exploded in the front room.

“Stay here,” Zayd said to Mazen. “Kill as many as you can. Farouk, come.”

Farouk reached for his Geiger counter.

“Leave it.”

Farouk shook his head. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

“Fat fool,” Zayd said. “It won’t help you anymore.” But Farouk held on to the counter like a charm. He would not die in here tonight. Allah would not permit it. Not after what he had found. Zayd turned away and trotted up the staircase. Farouk followed, huffing with each step up. But at the top of the stairs Zayd cursed wildly. A cheap steel lock held the door closed. anyplace else, captain Jackson would have taken his time, brought up his tanks and reduced the barbershop to rubble, then let the Iraqi cops sort through the pieces. But not Ghazalia, not tonight. Already men were on the street, pointing at the store and his Humvees.