The Third Target by Joel C Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

happened?”
    I nodded toward the smartphone in his hand. He read the e-mail and I watched as the enthusiasm drained from his face.
    Omar Fayez and I had been through a great deal together, and we had lost more than our share of friends and colleagues over the years. Though he was only thirty-two, he had always treated me like I was his younger brother, looking out for me, watching my back. Six feet five inches tall, at least 275 pounds, and in remarkably good shape for his size, Omar looked like an NFL linebacker. But he had a master’s from Harvard and a PhD from Oxford in Middle Eastern studies and spoke four languages   —Arabic, French, Farsi, and English. Born and raised in Jordan, he’d been a reporter, interpreter, and “fixer” for the Times in Jordan and Baghdad for the last six years, much of that time working at my side.
    “Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I can’t process this right now.”
    Omar nodded.
    “How’s Hadiya?” I asked, going straight to his favorite topic.
    “Like always, my friend, a gift from heaven,” Omar replied, his voice now more subdued.
    “Glad to hear it.”
    “She sends you a kiss,” he said.
    “Give her my love.”
    “I will.”
    Then he paused.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “Well, I was going to save this for later, but maybe you need to hear it now.”
    “I can’t handle any more bad news just yet,” I said.
    “No, no, it’s good news.”
    “Oh?”
    “Hadiya and I are expecting in March.”
    I couldn’t help but grin. This was good news. They had been trying to have children for years without any success, and their marriage had struggled for a time because of it. I gave him a hug and congratulated him. “Good for you, Omar   —when we get back, we must celebrate.”
    “We would like that very much,” Omar replied. “God has been so good to us. Hadiya is happier than I have ever seen her.”
    I had no doubt. But I couldn’t help but notice that as he said this, the tone of Omar’s voice and his body language changed ever so slightly. He was worried about the task ahead of us, and for the first time, I felt a pang of guilt for taking him into harm’s way.

8

    “Where’s Abdel?” I asked as I scanned the faces in the crowd.
    “He’s bringing the car,” Omar said. “Come; we must hurry. A storm is rolling in. We need to get moving. We don’t have any time to spare.”
    As we exited the airport, what struck me first was the chill in the air. The sun had long since set. It was mid-November. The winter rains were coming. Dark thunderheads were rolling in over the city. The winds were picking up. Omar was right   —a storm was coming, and I needed something warmer than a T-shirt and khakis. I stopped for a moment, dug out a black wool crewneck sweater from my backpack, and put it on along with my leather jacket.
    Just then, a silver four-door Renault pulled up to the curb and stopped in front of us. As the trunk popped up, the driver’s door opened too, and out jumped a lanky young man with a touch of acne and long, curly, unkempt hair. He wore tattered blue jeans, a dark-green hoodie, and black running shoes. “Mr. Collins, I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said with a genuine air of anxiety in his voice. “Please forgive me, sir.”
    “Don’t worry, Abdel; you’re not late,” I assured him, shaking hishand. “We’re a bit early. My flight was on time for once, and I didn’t check any bags.”
    “You are very kind, sir, very kind,” he said as he took my backpack and put it in the trunk alongside Omar’s luggage and his own. “Please, get inside and get warm, Mr. Collins. I have the heat on for you, plus hot coffee and baklava.”
    I didn’t know Abdel Hamid particularly well. We had worked together just one time, and only briefly at that, but everyone said he was a good kid. I knew for certain he was a phenomenal photographer, and I had asked for him by name to be assigned to me on this project. A Palestinian by