Free Contract With God by Juan Gómez-Jurado Page A

hours of practice at my cousin’s slaughterhouse. You must have shot more than a thousand cows.’
    Kharouf had also been one of Nazim’s shooting instructors and one of the exercises had been firing at live cattle. On other occasions the cows were already dead, but he’d wanted Nazim to get used to firearms and to see what bullets did to flesh.
    ‘No, the practice sessions were good. I’m not afraid of firing at people. I mean, they’re not really people.’
    Kharouf didn’t answer. He leaned on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and waiting. He knew that the best way to get Nazim to speak up was to allow a few moments of uncomfortable silence. The kid always ended up spilling out whatever was bothering him.
    ‘It’s just . . . well, I feel bad about not saying goodbye to my parents,’ he said finally.
    ‘I see. You still blame yourself for what happened?’
    ‘A little. Am I wrong?’
    Kharouf smiled and placed a hand on Nazim’s shoulder.
    ‘No. You’re a sensitive and loving young man. Allah gave you those qualities, blessed be his name.’
    ‘Blessed be his name,’ Nazim repeated.
    ‘He also gave you the strength to overcome them when you need to. Now take Allah’s sword and do his will. Rejoice, Nazim.’
    The young man attempted to smile, but the result was more of a grimace. Kharouf increased the pressure on Nazim’s shoulder. His voice sounded warm, loving.
    ‘Relax, Nazim. Today Allah is not asking for our blood. He is asking for that of others. But even if something were to happen, you’ve video-taped a message to your family, haven’t you?’
    Nazim nodded.
    ‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. It could be that your parents have become slightly westernised, but deep in their souls they are good Muslims. They know the reward for a martyr. And when you reach the Next Life, Allah will allow you to intercede for them. Just think how they’ll feel.’
    Nazim imagined his parents and his sister kneeling in front of him, thanking him for their salvation, begging him to forgive them for being wrong. In the gauzy mist of his fantasy, this was the most beautiful aspect of the next life. He finally managed to smile.
    ‘That’s the way, Nazim. Your face has the bassamat al-farah , the smile of a martyr. It’s part of our promise. Part of our reward.’
    Nazim slipped a hand into his jacket and gripped the handle of the gun.
    Calmly he and Kharouf got out of the car.

13
    ON BOARD THE BEHEMOTH
    EN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF AQABA, THE RED SEA
     
    Tuesday, July 11, 2006. 5:11 p.m.
     
    ‘You!’ Andrea said again, with more anger than surprise.
    The last time they’d seen each other, Andrea had been perilously balanced thirty feet above the ground, pursued by an unlikely enemy. Back then Father Fowler had saved her life, but he had also prevented her from getting the great story of her career, the kind most reporters only dream about. Woodward and Bernstein had done it with Water-gate, and Lowell Bergman with the tobacco industry. Andrea Otero could have done the same, but this priest had got in the way. At least he got her - I’ll be damned if I know how , Andrea thought - an exclusive interview with President Bush, thanks to which she was now onboard this ship, or so she surmised. But that was water under the bridge and right now she was more concerned with the present. Andrea wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away.
    ‘I’m happy to see you too, Ms Otero. I see that the scar is barely a memory.’
    Andrea instinctively touched her forehead, the place where Fowler had caused her to have four stitches sixteen months ago. A thin pale line was all that remained.
    ‘You’re a safe pair of hands, but that’s not why you’re here. Are you spying on me? Are you aiming to screw up my work again?’
    ‘I’m on this expedition as an observer for the Vatican, nothing more.’
    The young reporter eyed him suspiciously. Due to the extreme heat the priest was wearing a short-sleeved