by Marc Cameron
The old man took a dented square tin from his pocket and held it toward Farooq. It was naswar, Afghan snuff-a potent mixture of pulverized tobacco, lime, and indigo. Farooq raised his hand, feeling a little sick at the thought of putting such a mixture in his mouth. He bowed his head to politely decline. Grunting, the old man opened the tin and tucked a pinch of the dark powder inside his bottom lip behind rotten teeth.
The computer finally connected with a familiar ping. Farooq settled in as comfortably as he could on a flat boulder with the computer in his lap and began to type. Reflections from the screen flashed across his face as he searched every database he could think of. He only needed to find out who this Jericho was. After that, he could go to him and exact a proper revenge for Zafir’s death-for ruining everything. Farooq still had money. Not as much as he would have liked, but there would be enough for his purposes, stashed in a safe deposit box in Pakistan along with an Uzbek passport no one knew about but him.
Farooq knew little about the man he hunted. Iraqi insurgents had placed a price on his head early in the conflict. According to his informants, they dubbed him the Ifrit — what the Americans would call a genie-because of his ability to appear out of nowhere and inflict so much harm on them. His given name was Jericho and he was thought to be a member of the U.S. Air Force.
Farooq searched every military website he found but none of them were useful-until he happened on a link to an Air Force Academy alumni page. He clicked through dozens of years of graduation lists, checking seven different cadets named Jericho before he found one who had graduated with high athletic honors with a degree in foreign languages-Chinese and Arabic.
His name was Jericho Quinn.
Farooq’s fingers trembled with bottled rage as he continued to type. He followed link after link and came up with nothing. He had a name, he even had the state where the infidel grew up-Alaska-but he could find nothing more than a few swimming scores from secondary school. There seemed to be nothing about the man once he’d left the university.
Clicking through the pages, Farooq suddenly stopped. A smile spread slowly across the bones of his narrow face as he read an article from an Alaska newspaper dated just weeks before.
Madeline Quinn, daughter of Kimberly and Jericho Quinn, won a prestigious seat in the Anchorage Junior Youth Symphony…
Jericho Quinn had a little girl and now Farooq knew where to find her.
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