Never, p.49
Never, page 49
One of the women stood up and said: “Who are you? What’s happening?”
Abdul looked outside, saw that no one was stirring, and ushered Kiah out. As he did so he heard one of the others say: “Take me too!” Another said: “We can all go!”
He quickly closed the door and barred it. He would have liked to let the women escape but they might have awakened the guards and ruined everything. The door rattled as they tried to open it, but they were too late. He heard cries of despair and hoped they were not loud enough to wake anyone.
In the guards’ compound all was still. He looked into the mining area. There was no torchlight, but he made out the glow of a cigarette. The guard there appeared to be sitting down. Abdul could not tell which way he was looking. This was as safe as it would ever be, he thought. He said to Kiah: “Follow me.”
He walked quickly to the chain-link fence and climbed it to the top. He paused there in case she needed help. It was difficult to cling on, for the holes in the wire mesh were only a couple of inches square, and he was not sure he could maintain his grip and pull her up too. He need not have worried. She was agile and strong, and she climbed the fence faster than he had and jumped to the ground on the other side. He followed her down.
He led her into the slave quarters, where they would be less likely to be spotted by guards, and they hurried between the huts and tents toward their shelter.
Abdul wanted to know what had happened to her in the makhur. This was no time for questions, and they needed to remain quiet, but he had to ask. He whispered: “Did the tall man visit you?”
“No,” she said. “Thank God.”
He was not satisfied. “Did anyone . . . ?”
“No one came, except the towel woman. The other girls said that happens sometimes. When no guards visit they call it a Friday, like a day of no work.”
A weight lifted from Abdul’s mind.
A minute later they reached the shelter.
Abdul whispered: “Get blankets and water, and pick up Naji. Settle him to sleep in your arms. Then wait, but be ready to run.”
“Yes,” she said calmly. She showed no bewilderment or anxiety. She was cool and resolute. What a woman, he thought.
He heard someone speak to Kiah. The voice was that of a young woman, so it had to be Esma. Kiah shushed her and whispered a reply. The others slept on undisturbed.
Abdul looked around outside. There was no one in sight. He crossed to the parking lot and peered through the fence. He saw no movement, no sign of the guard, who was undoubtedly in the hut. He climbed over the fence.
When he hit the ground his left foot landed on something he had not seen, and it made a metallic noise. Kneeling down, he saw that it was an empty oil can. The sound had been the metal buckling under his weight.
He crouched low. He did not know whether the noise of the can could have been heard inside the hut. He waited. There was no sound from the hut, no sign of movement. He waited a minute, then stood up.
He had to sneak up on the guard here as he had with Tahaan, and silence him before he could sound the alarm, but this time it would be more difficult. The man was inside the hut, so there was no way to creep up behind him.
The hut might even have been locked from the inside. But he thought not. What would be the point?
He walked silently across the parking lot, zigzagging between the vehicles. The one-room hut had a small window, so that the guard could watch the cars from the inside, but as Abdul drew nearer he saw that there was no face in the window.
Approaching at an angle, he could see a rack of labeled keys on a wall: good organization, as he had come to expect. There was a table with a bottle of water and some thick glass tumblers, plus a full ashtray. Also on the table was the guard’s gun, a North Korean Type 68 assault rifle based on the famous Russian Kalashnikov.
Staying a couple of yards back, he moved sideways to widen his view. Right away he saw the guard, and his heart missed a beat. The man was sitting in an upholstered chair with his head thrown back and his mouth open. He was asleep. He had a bushy beard and a turban; Abdul recognized him. His name was Nasir.
Abdul took out the garotte, uncoiled it, and made a loop. He calculated that he should be able to throw open the door, enter, and overpower Nasir before the man had time to pick up his weapon—unless Nasir was very quick.
Abdul was about to move to the door when Nasir woke up and looked straight at him.
With a shout of surprise Nasir rose from his chair.
Abdul suffered a moment of shocked paralysis, then he began to improvise. “Wake up, my brother!” he called in Arabic, then he hurried to the door.
It was not locked.
He opened it, saying: “The Afghan wants a car.” He stepped inside.
Nasir stood with his rifle in his hand, staring at Abdul, momentarily confused. “In the middle of the night?” he said blearily. No one with any sense drove at night in the desert.
Abdul said: “Look lively, Nasir, you know how impatient he is. Does the Mercedes have a full tank?”
Nasir said: “Do I know you?”
That was when Abdul kicked him.
He jumped and then kicked out in midair, at the same time rolling over to land on all fours. His dropkick had won him several contests in his fighting days. Nasir flinched back but he was too slow, and anyway there was not enough room for him to dodge. Abdul’s heel smashed into Nasir’s nose and mouth.
Nasir gave a cry of shock and pain as he fell back, dropping his rifle. Abdul landed with both feet and both hands on the ground, spun around, and grabbed the gun.
He did not want to fire it. He was not sure how far away the shot might be heard, and he had to avoid waking the jihadis. As Nasir tried to get up, Abdul reversed the rifle and swung it, hitting the side of Nasir’s face, then he lifted it high and brought it down on top of the man’s head with all the strength he could muster. Nasir collapsed unconscious.
Abdul had let the garotte fall to the floor when he drop-kicked Nasir. Now he picked it up, looped it over the man’s head, and strangled him.
He listened as he waited for the silent Nasir to die. The man had cried out, but had anyone heard? It would not matter if a slave or two had been awakened: they would lie still and quiet in their beds, knowing that it was best to do nothing that brought them to the attention of the jihadis. The only other guard anywhere near was the man in the mining area, and Abdul reckoned he could not have heard. But perhaps a patroling guard might have been within earshot, by bad luck. However, there was no sound of alarm, not yet.
Nasir did not regain consciousness.
Abdul kept up the pressure for five full minutes, then removed the garotte and once more tied it around his waist.
Then he looked at the key rack.
The well-organized terrorists had labeled each key and each hook, so that it was easy to find the one required. Abdul first located the gate key. He took it off the hook, stepped over the corpse of Nasir, and left the hut.
To keep out of sight as much as possible he tried to stay behind the big trucks as he crossed the parking lot to the gate. He undid the simple padlock, then removed the chain as quietly as possible.
Then he surveyed the vehicles.
Some were badly parked, so that one could not be driven until another was moved out of the way. There were four SUVs in the compound, and one was in a place where it could easily be moved. It was covered in dust, so it had to be the one al-Farabi had arrived in a few hours ago. Abdul checked its license plate.
He returned to the hut and put the padlock key back in the rack.
It was easy to recognize the SUV keys, for they were all attached to distinctive Mercedes fobs. Each had a tag with the license number of the car. Abdul picked the right one and went outside again.
All was quiet. No one had heard Nasir cry out. No one had yet noticed Tahaan’s body on the ground up against the back wall of the makhur.
Abdul got into the Mercedes. The interior lamps came on automatically, lighting him up for anyone outside to see. Abdul did not know where the switch was and did not have time to search for it. He started the engine. That was an unusual sound in the middle of the night, but it could not be heard from the jihadi compound, which was half a mile away. What about the guard at the pit? Would he hear it? And if he did, would he feel it was something he needed to investigate?
Abdul could only hope not.
He looked at the fuel gauge. The tank was almost empty. He cursed.
He drove the car to the gasoline truck and turned the engine off.
He searched around the dashboard and found the switch that opened the filler cap. Then he jumped out. The interior lights came on again.
The tanker was fitted with a regular gas station type of hose and nozzle. Abdul put the nozzle into the fuel pipe of the car and squeezed the handle.
Nothing happened.
He squeezed repeatedly with no effect. He guessed it worked only when the tanker’s engine was turning over.
“Shit,” he said.
He noted the license plate of the tanker, returned to the hut, found the keys to the truck, and came back. He climbed into the cab, and the inside lights came on. He started the engine. It came to life with a throaty rumble.
He was no longer inconspicuous. The noise of the big engine would carry to the jihadis’ compound. It would be a distant sound, and might not wake men who were sleeping fast, but someone was sure to notice it within the next few seconds or minutes.
Their first reaction would be puzzlement: Who was starting vehicles in the middle of the night? Someone must be about to leave the camp, but why now? One man might wake another, saying: “Do you hear that?” They would not jump to the conclusion that a slave was escaping—it was too unlikely—and they might not even consider the matter urgent, but they would want to find out what was happening, and after a short discussion they would decide to follow the sound to its source.
Abdul jumped down from the cab, returned to the Mercedes, put the nozzle in the filler pipe, and squeezed. The gasoline began to flow.
He kept looking around, scanning through 360 degrees. He listened too for the kind of hubbub that might occur if the jihadis were alerted. At any second he might hear shouts and see lights.
When the tank was full the pump clicked off automatically.
Abdul replaced the filler cap, returned the nozzle to its hook, and drove the car to the gate. Still no one had reacted.
He returned to the tanker and took down the nozzle again. He removed the garotte from around his waist and wound the wire tightly around the handle, fixing it open so that the pump worked constantly and gasoline poured out onto the ground.
He dropped the nozzle. The gasoline ran under the cars, spreading left and right and toward the fence. He ran back to the car.
He opened the gate. It was impossible to do so silently: the whole thing was rusty, and it creaked and groaned as it moved on unlubricated hinges. But Abdul needed only a few more seconds.
A pool of gasoline was spreading through the parking lot and the smell filled the air.
He drove the car out through the gate. Ahead of him he could see the moonlit track through the desert.
Leaving the engine running, he raced to the shelter. Kiah was waiting, with Naji in her arms, fast asleep. By her feet was a demijohn of water and three blankets, plus the capacious canvas bag she had had with her since they left Three Palms. It contained everything Naji needed.
Abdul picked up the water and the blankets and ran back to the car, and Kiah followed.
He tossed everything in the back. Kiah put Naji down on the backseat, still wrapped in his blanket. He turned over and put his thumb in his mouth without opening his eyes.
Abdul ran back to the parking lot, now flooded with gasoline. But he was not yet confident of starting a big enough conflagration. He needed to be sure the jihadis had no way of coming after him, not a single usable vehicle. He picked up the hose and began to spray the vehicles. He soaked the SUVs and the pickup tricks and the gasoline tanker itself.
He saw Kiah leave the car and approach the fence. The gasoline was now spreading under the fence and over the path, and she trod cautiously to avoid it. In a low, urgent voice she said: “What are we waiting for?”
“One more minute.” Abdul soaked the wooden guard hut with gasoline to destroy the keys.
A male voice called out: “What’s that smell?”
It was the guard in the mining section. He had come to the fence and was shining his flashlight at the vehicles. Now it would be only a minute or so before the alarm was given. Abdul dropped the hose. It continued to spurt fuel.
The voice said: “Hey, there must be a gasoline leak!”
Abdul bent over and ripped a length of cotton from the hem of his robe. He soaked the cloth in the lake of gasoline, then retreated several yards. He took out his red plastic lighter and held the gasoline-soaked rag over it.
The pit guard called out: “What’s happening, Nasir?”
Abdul said: “I’m dealing with it.” He flicked the lighter.
Nothing happened.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Nasir, you fool.” Abdul flicked the lighter again, and again, and again. No flame appeared. He realized it had run out of fuel, or dried up.
He had no matches.
Kiah, outside the compound, could get to the shelter faster than Abdul could. He said: “Quickly, run to the shelter and get some matches. Wahed always has some. Don’t step in the gasoline. But hurry!”
She ran across the path and into the shelter.
The guard said: “You’re a liar. Nasir is my cousin. I know his voice. You’re not him.”
“Calm down. I can’t speak normally in these fumes.”
“I’m going to sound the alarm.”
Suddenly there was a new voice. “What the hell is going on here?” Abdul heard the slight lisp and realized it was Mohammed. That made sense: the slaves seemed to be his responsibility, and someone had sent him to find out what was happening. He had crept up unseen.
Abdul turned around and saw that Mohammed had drawn his gun. It was a nine-millimeter pistol and he was holding it in a professional double-handed grip. Abdul said: “I’m glad you’re here. I heard the sound of fighting and came to look, and the gates were open and gasoline leaking.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kiah come out of the shelter. He took a few steps to the right, to put Mohammed between him and Kiah, so that he would not see her.
“Don’t come any closer,” Mohammed said. “Where’s the vehicle guard?”
Kiah came to the fence behind Mohammed. Abdul saw her bend and pick something up from the ground. It looked like a discarded Cleopatra cigarette packet.
“Nasir?” he said. “He’s in the hut, but I think he’s hurt. I don’t really know, I just got here.”
Kiah struck a match and lit the cigarette packet in her hand.
The pit guard called out: “Mohammed, watch out behind you!”
Mohammed turned, his gun swiveling with him. Abdul leaped at him and kicked his legs from under him, and Mohammed fell into the pool of gasoline.
Kiah knelt down with her blazing cigarette packet and set fire to the fuel.
It flared up with terrifying speed. Abdul backed away fast. Mohammed rolled over and aimed at him, but he was off balance and shooting one-handed, and he missed. Mohammed struggled to his feet but the flames reached him before he was upright. His clothes were soaked in gasoline and they blazed instantly. Mohammed screamed in fear and agony as he turned into a human torch.
Abdul ran. He could feel the heat, and he feared he might have left it too late to escape the inferno. He heard a shot and guessed that the pit guard was firing at him. He dodged between the cars, for cover, and ran for the gate. He reached the car and leaped in.
Kiah was already there.
He put the car in gear and drove.
As he sped away he looked into his rearview mirror. The flames had spread all over the parking lot. Would all the cars be immobilized? At a minimum all their tires would be destroyed. And the keys were melting as the guard hut burned down.
He turned on the headlights. They and the moonlight helped him to locate the road. He saw the pile of stones that marked the junction and turned north. After two miles he came to the hill where he had earlier hoped to jump into the back of Yakub’s candy truck. He stopped at the top of the rise, and they both looked back.
The blaze was tremendous.
He checked his phone, but as he expected, there was no signal. From the other boot he took the tracking device, but Hakim and the cocaine were far out of range.
He opened the storage bin in the center console and found, as he’d hoped, a phone-charging connection. He plugged in the better of his two phones.
Kiah was watching him. Before now she had not seen the special compartments in his shoes and the devices hidden there. Now she gave him a cool, intelligent look and said: “Who are you?”
He looked back to the camp. As he did so there was a terrific boom and a huge gout of flame shot up into the air. He guessed the gasoline tanker had heated up and exploded. He hoped none of the slaves had been foolish enough to go close to the fire.
He drove on. The car’s heater warmed the interior. With no fear of pursuit, he could afford to go slowly and take care that he did not wander away from the track.
Kiah said: “I’m sorry I asked you that question. I don’t care who you are. You saved me.”
“You saved me too,” he said. “When Mohammed was pointing his gun at me.”
But he could not help thinking about her question. What was he going to tell her? What was he going to do with her and her child? He had to report to Tamara as soon as he got a phone signal, but he had no further plans, now that he had lost the signal from the cocaine shipment. And what would she want to do? She had paid for passage to France but she was a long way from there and out of money.
