Free The Price of Freedom by Jenny Schwartz Page A

in the barren landscape while Ilias took up his translating and interpreting post.
    He was exhausted and it was long after dark before he and the captain were sure of what they had already suspected: this rough bunch weren’t terrorists. They had followed one man’s hatred, but their own attitudes were less vicious, more the minor feelings of disgruntlement. They were men without property or purpose.
    The local village didn’t want them.
    “Can’t blame them,” the captain said.
    With soldiers still stationed at the compound, sorting through its devastation and the hill tunnels, the ragtag militia was without arms.
    “Drive them off,” said the village elder. “Bullies and cowards.” He spat his disgust. “Without guns they’ll not trouble us.”
    Looking at the straight backs of the villagers and their scorn for the would-be terrorists, Ilias agreed. The village knew the desert ways. Let them control their own fate.
    “Are you sure?” The lieutenant was incredulous at such haphazard ways. He came from a world of prisons and courtroom-measured action.
    “There are laws out here too,” said Ilias.
    The captain nodded. He’d been briefed. “Let ’em loose. They know we’ll be around a while. They’ll leave.”
    The village made sure of it, letting loose their dogs.
     
    In the helicopter flying out, Ilias closed his eyes. The death he’d seen today was not a good thing, but the villagers had no taint of the terrorists’ hatred. They had offered the soldiers clean water, and they had met his eyes and his questions directly. Good enough.
    On the other hand, waiting at the military base would be the terrorists’ commander and the other two men the captain had selected for detailed questioning. Ilias had been on another such expedition with the captain and knew the man had a gift for picking the leaders of any group.
    Questioning the terrorist commander would be revolting. Tired as he was, Ilias’s skin crawled at the thought of doing his job, not only translating but understanding the man’s thinking. The man’s hatred, his love of dealing death.
    The major who met the helicopter acknowledged Ilias’s exhaustion by stopping first at the mess. Ilias ate and drank the hot, strong coffee.
    “We’ll start with the commander,” said the major. “The bastard won’t even give his name. Oh, he’s awake,” he added in answer to the questioning jerk of Ilias’s head. “I had a medic check him. Probably has a killer headache, but he’s fit to answer questions. If he’ll answer them.”
    “We can only try.” Ilias set down his coffee mug and pushed back his chair.
    The major stood. “This way.”
     
    The terrorist commander was shackled in an interrogation room. An armed guard stood outside it. The major nodded to him, and the guard opened the door.
    “Ilias Aboud.” The name sounded like a curse on the terrorist’s lips.
    “You know me?” Ilias stopped in the doorway.
    “I tried to kill you, peace-whore. Wasted wishes on it.” The man’s hatred and concussion slurred his words. “Damn djinni.”
    Djinni. Ilias fumbled the unexpected word. Djinni.
    His eyes widened. A djinni bottle.
    Suddenly the old glass bottle was heavy in his pocket. But the man had to be raving.
    “What is your name?”
    “Umar Haya.”

Chapter Nine
    “Ilias has Rafe’s bottle. Ilias.” The twist of fate stunned Mischa. She had followed Ilias from the terrorist compound to the temporary camp under the trees, to the village, back to the compound and finally, to the military base. In the interrogation room she stood against the back wall.
    Umar Haya’s hatred was almost visible, the miasma of despair and loathing as thick as demon excrement.
    Mischa felt sick. This man, this failed excuse for a human being, had controlled Rafe. The unfairness of it clenched her fists. She wanted to scream and pound the walls. She wanted to unsheathe her sword and kill. Umar Haya belonged with the demons.
    Instead, bound by her