Nano by Sam Fisher Read Free Book Online Page B

tears. When, after several minutes, he could cry no more, he simply sat in silence staring at the wall opposite, the sound of the muezzin beginning to draw to the conclusion of the prayers. Barely breathing, he picked up his school books, stuffed them into his bag, pulled it over his shoulders and headed out into the narrow corridor.
    Abu saw his mother at the sink in the tiny kitchen. Father was nowhere in sight. He would be arranging the carpets and rugs outside the doorway of the shop, ready for the day’s meagre trade and would have hidden the laptop. The boy gave his mother a sullen wave.
    ‘Abu? What about breakfast?’ she said.
    ‘I’m not hungry.’
    ‘Oh, my son.’ She had obviously learned of the computer.
    He struggled to hold back the tears. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he repeated. Turning, he gave his 18-month-old sister, Ghayda, a peck on the cheek and headed for the door, feeling his eyes welling up. Outside in the courtyard, he rubbed at his eyes. The last thing he needed was someone to see him cry.
    Along the road, sunlight burst between the abra, the boats that took people across the Creek from the souk district to the modern suburbs of Downtown Dubai. He walked along the wharf, found a seat on the nearest abra and gave the few dirham fare to the collector just before the boat pulled away from the shore.
    Five minutes later, Abu was stepping onto the quay in Bur Dubai. He saw Pierre, one of the boys from his class and waved to him. The boy came over. Pierre was French and only in Dubai for a year. He could not speak Arabic but he and Abu were both fluent English-speakers so they met on common ground there.
    ‘Looking forwards to the maths test?’ the kid asked.
    Abu looked at him, his expression vacant. He snapped out of his reverie. ‘Of course!’
    ‘See ya later then,’ the other boy said and ran off towards the main road where a school bus waited for the kids to disembark from the abra and make their way over.
    Abu stared after his friend and then around at the Creek, the sunlight glazing the rippling water red. He suddenly felt a wave of rage pass through him. He had harboured so many resentments during his short lifetime. He loved his father but sometimes he also hated him and this was one of those times.
    What weird twist of fate was it that had landed him this existence? He knew he was talented with computers, that he had a natural affinity with them and yet here he was, the son of a man whose head was stuck in a previous era, opposed to progress and new technology. Wasn’t that just such bitter irony? He felt like screaming.
    Instead, he simply sat down on the pavement, the backpack with his school books and bits and pieces pulling down on his shoulders. He looked around, feeling the morning warmth, watching gulls swoop to the Creek, squawking. He jumped up.
    ‘I will not take this,’ he said to himself. ‘I am a free individual. I will not be,’ he searched for the right word, ‘repressed.’
    Turning, he walked away from the school bus. If his father refused to understand him, then he had no choice. He would leave home.

13
    30 kilometres southwest of Dubai, 12 December
    He had crossed the border between Saudi Arabia and the UAE completely unnoticed. This was not surprising, because he was passing between the states some 50 kilometres south of the tiny coastal outpost of Silah. There were few more remote spots on earth.
    He liked isolation. In fact, he thrived on it. He was a professional assassin who travelled under the name of Azrael, the English translation of the Arabic Azra’eil , the Angel of Death and he cared for no one.
    Fifty kilometres inside the border, Azrael picked up a tarmac road. It was covered with sand and dust – a desolate strip laid down only a couple of years ago, a road that led from nowhere to a slightly more purposeful stretch of highway. This longer road went in one direction: towards Dubai, some 80 kilometres to the northwest. On the road, Azrael saw