Hoda and Jake

by Richard Booth

  “Okay, Guy, what did we forget?” Jake asked the Frenchman.

  “I cannot say.”

  “C’mon, there’s always something more we can do.”

  “Patrols and pickets,” Caron suggested.

  “Very good!” Jake said, warming to the idea. He walked from knot to knot of FSA soldiers, negotiating and selling the idea. Tired and exhilarated from last night, nobody wanted to leave the wire on parol, but they needed to know whether the enemy had withdrawn, or was merely laying back for another strike. Jake and Caron would each lead one of the patrols in person—a skill set ideally suited to their military past.

  To Jake’s chagrin—but not his surprise—it took almost two hours to assemble the patrol forces, equip and arm them, check that equipment, and issue standing orders. Noise discipline was going to be a problem. It always was.

  The two ten-member patrol forces were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the compound, while Holman and Caron compared finale notes, synchronized watches, and went over tactical call signs. Holman issued a couple of orders on further fixing the wounded wire of the rim. Without warning, one of the Leclercs fired a seven-round burst from its coaxial-mounted .50 caliber machine gun. During the dull, heavy sound, Jake heard sound close by, and his instincts recognized the “thwup” as a bullet hitting flesh.

  He was prone in a second, and Caron dropped, too—but heavily. And never to rise again: Jake crawled to him, saw the immense exit wound in his chest, right through the heart.

  “Sniper!” Jake barked, and the patrols scattered for cover.

  Jake took a rough guess which vector the shot came from, there wasn’t anything anyone could do for Caron, and ran zig-zag toward that end of the perimeter. From nowhere the RTO showed up at his side, as a good radioman ought. Only this time he brought his language skills, together with some news.

  “Sir, that tank commander thinks he engaged the sniper team just as it fired. He’s got them in his sights still. He can vector us.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Translate for me.” And, despite the risk, he stood up. “My patrol!” He made a rotating motion with his hand, then pumped it up and down. “Assemble! Let’s go! Follow me!”

  Jake and ten Syrians headed for the wire’s edge, where other soldiers temporarily held the concertina aloft for them to roll under one by one. Upright on the other side, they fanned out and moved forward, directed over the radio from the Leclerc whose commander thought he’d fired on the snipers.

  They were still there, alright. Not that far out. That was their mistake: they wouldn’t be killing again. Seven shots from a heavy machine gun had hit each man twice, and their heavy rifle once. Not much left.

  But of all the people, Holman thought, Caron. Then he thought of Hoda as a widow.

  Jake called back through the wire on the radio, telling the other patrol to stay inside. He’d take his own on a circumnavigation of the camp about a mile out. It would take most of the day, but ensure they were alone on the hilltop.

  When they’d finished, with the sun low, they returned inside and prayed, ate, and rested. But not Jake. He filed another e-mail report. In a few minutes, as was his custom, he checked for counter-mail, and uncharacteristically found one. It was brief:

  “Establish Lima Zulu BT Report.” Make a landing zone (pause) and report back when ready.

  Unbelievable! They were landing a helo here? On Syrian territory?

  The camp center was the most logical place; Jake arranged for the AAA guns to be packed up and moved, and a couple of holes hurriedly filled in. He mailed to Langley: “Lima Zulu Ready.”

  In less than a half hour they heard it, and as it closed Jake was able to identify it, first by sound and then by sight: an HH-60 Pavehawk, all black—with no markings. Then he heard the far-off roar of jets. In all likelihood American Navy carrier jets, covering the helo. The Pavehawk circled once, getting a good look, and then landed—without ground direction. The pilot was either brave, or good.

  A soldier jumped from the open door before it landed, rolling expertly and coming up on the run. Jake walked to meet him, and the soldier picked him out and changed course to close more quickly. He was a sergeant first class of the 75th Ranger Regiment.

  “Mister Holman?” he said, without saluting.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re to come with us, sir. Mr. Robinson’s orders.”

  That was extraordinary: hearing Robinson’s name off the lips in the field like this.

  Jake had nothing he needed. “Let’s go,” he said. Then, on impulse, he walked to the nearest Syrian officer, saluted him, and offered his hand.

  Equally instinctively, every FSA fighter stood, and yelled. Allahu Akbar! God is Greatest! And it was a tribute to Jake Holman.

  In less than a minute Holman was strapped into the Pavehawk, which lifted from Jake’s Hill and sped northwestward, hugging the deck and running for its life. Jake was safe in Turkey before the sun was fully down.

  ***

  Hoda heard Jake’s car in the drive, and ran to check herself in the hall’s full-length mirror. The little black dress showed her figure to advantage, and her hair was just the way he liked it, she knew. He’d given her the earrings with a bonus check from another overseas deployment. Only Muslim husbands ever saw their wives this way, and Hoda wanted to be special for hers.

  “Hoda? Honey, I—ohhh, my!”

  Yes, Hoda thought. It was all worth it. His voice. His face. She beamed at him. Or, what she could see of him behind the enormous bouquet of roses. They were stunning.

  “I’m jealous,” she said.

  “Why ever for?”

  “They upstage me,” she said, sweeping them from his hands and offering her lips. Jake Holman encircled his wife’s slim waist with a powerful arm and gently, carefully lifted her toes nearly from the ground. Their lips tasted one another, and she crushed herself to him, wanting to give everything.

  “You are stunning,” Jake breathed, releasing her. “No flowers will ever upstage you.”

  “Honey—”

  Jake held up his hand. “No. Me first. Hoda, can you ever forgive me for the way I treated you from the field? That was rude, and I’ve been sick with guilt since.”

  “Jake, there’s enough guilt to go around. I never should have gone to Robinson. But I didn’t know what else to do. We needed you.”

  He missed it. “Your parents are both in good health. Heck, your father still practices.” Hoda’s father was a respected Boston-area anesthesiologist.

  Hoda laughed. Jake made her laugh often, and she loved it. “No, silly. Not Baba and Mama. We.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Think a minute, Jake. It’s always been just us two.”

  Jake’s face fairly came apart. “Ohhh-my-God!” he said. “Alhamdulillah?”

  “Alhamdulillah!”

  Hoda’s delighted giggle filled the condo as Jake swept her off the ground and into his arms, as he often did when excited by his love for the beautiful Muslima Allah had seen fit to grant him. He was so strong! she thought. He’ll make a wonderful father.

  He kissed her. Long, sweetly.

  “Jake, put me down. I’m heavy.”

  “Not as heavy as you will be!”

  She made a mock horror face. “James Holman!”

  He set her down, tenderly.

  “Supper’s ready, you know.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did. I’m a Muslim wife.”

  “You are a goddess.”

  “Mash’Allah!”

  “I know. Mash’Allah.” One can only do what Allah wills.

  “Come,” she led him by the hand to the dining room.

  “What’s the after supper plan?”

  “I thought we’d play it by ear.”

  “I was thinking,” Jake Holman said, “of a little more than an ear.”

  And Hoda slapped him gently with a linen napkin.

  Jailhouse Rock

  “Have you ever see
n the movie Silence of the Lambs?”

  “No.” Hoda Abdelal didn’t seen many movies.

  “Read the book?”

  “No.” She wasn’t likely to read a book made into a movie, either. Hoda’s reading, which was very heavy indeed, ran to the medical textbook line, and had ever since she started med school. Now in her psychiatry residency at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, she had a summons from Assistant Director John Robinson, of the Operations Division at the Central Intelligence Agency. It was he who plied her with strange questions at the start of their interview.

  Robinson sighed cryptically. Dr. Abdelal had a genius intellect, by actual measurement, but her social awareness and general knowledge weren’t quite as advanced. But then, her Egyptian-born physician father and his wife wouldn’t be likely to allow Hoda to see popular films like Silence, and Hoda would have been quite young when Anthony Hopkins breathed fiendish life into “Hannibal the Cannibal” Lector.

  “What we have here,” Robinson said, picking up the thick three-ring case file, “is a case of life imitating art.” He handed a duplicate binder across his desk to Hoda.

  He waited in silence for a few minutes while Hoda skimmed the top report in the folder, and looked over the photos. One was a booking picture of the central figure in the case, the perpetrator, and the others largely crime scene and victim photos.

  “His name is Anthony Campagnano. The newspapers called him the ‘Sicilian Slasher.’ Actually, he’s of Calabrese extraction, a mistake no one with any geographic knowledge would ever make. Do you remember the case?”

  “No,” Hoda admitted.

  “He eluded capture for more than three years. Killed a dozen teen girls. All by knife, and sent pieces to the authorities. One piece at a time for each victim. But he never sent whole victims, and that’s why you’re going to Terra Haute.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You’ll be on loan to the FBI analysis team trying to get closure for the families. Campagnano won’t disclose there the bodies are, and naturally the families want to know.”

  “Why me?”

  “Several reasons, Hoda. First, I want some return on my investment. You’ve been doing psychiatric residency for over a year, and we think you’re ready to use some of the knowledge. Next, there’s Congressional pressure for we in the Intelligence Community to show internal cooperation. Several things are happening to drive that, and this case is a nice, safe one to move forward on. And finally, while the FBI has plenty of behavior analysts, they don’t have many women.” Robinson paused. “And none who looks like you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pardon me for saying so, Hoda, but every one of Campagnano’s victims was beautiful. Starkly, stunningly beautiful. Dark-haired. Brown eyes. Like his own gene pool, except that his family is not particularly attractive. We’d like you to interview him and see if you can’t get somewhere the others haven’t. Up for it?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. One thing, though. You can’t interview him in hijab.”

  Robinson didn’t mean the head scarf worn by traditional Muslim women, which Hoda had on at that moment; he was referring as Hoda could infer from context to the whole modesty covering concept of Islamic women. Robinson’s meaning was clear: she wanted Hoda to dazzle this perpetrator. Use her looks to advantage.

  “Is that essential?” She was a married Muslim woman, and her religion demanded she reserve her looks for her husband—who, as it turned out, was a CIA field agent.

  “I’ll sweeten the pot, Hoda,” Robinson said. “Jake can go with you. We’ll make it a package deal. I can spare Jake, and you can use a break from the hospital for a week or so.”

  That she could, she admitted. The life of an intern or resident was always a grind. And she got tired more easily lately, what with the expected arrival of her first child in a few months.

  ***

  “Jake?” Hoda called from the hallway. The house smelled wonderful! Jake had been loose in the kitchen. Hoda was delighted. She always felt guilty when she didn’t cook, but Jake was handy with food, and a positive angel about not only making it—but leaning up. Astonishing! Not that her Egyptian parents would approve.

  “Right here, babe.” He appeared quickly, taking her coat and kissing her. Impulsively, she offered her lips for another course.

  “What’s for supper?”

  “Lemon chicken. And it’s almost ready. Wash up.”

  “Ohhh!” Jake’s lemon chicken was to die for! “Rice, I hope?”

  He looked at her askance. “Hey, we’re a full-service catering outfit.”

  She giggled. Hoda at home was not the Hoda of work. She disappeared upstairs and reappeared scant moments later completely transformed: hair brushed and makeup repaired, earrings and one of Jake’s favorite dresses. She kissed his neck where he stood at the stove, and he did a double-take when he glanced at her.

  “Alhamdulillah!” He used the Arabic expression often: Praise Be to Allah! “You are too beautiful for words.”

  Contrary to their public appearance, Arabic women adorned themselves for their husbands in private, and Hoda enjoyed pleasing Jake no end. He deserved it. He was the most loving husband she could imagine—so wonderful, he’d won over her austere, Old-World father. Of course, it took Jake’s conversion to Islam; otherwise that never could have happened. But he seemed content in his new role as a Believer.

  They put the food on the little table together, then sat across from one another. She sat first, and Jake bent, kissing the top of her head. It was as though they’d just married, instead of over a year go.

  “Mmmm, this is wonderful,” Hoda said. “You’ve got this down pat.” She glanced at the kitchen counter. “And you cleaned as you went along! Clever!”

  “Yeah, well, I had a great coach. So, what’s new in the land of American psychopaths?”

  “Funny you should ask that question that way,” Hoda said. “Because you’ll be working for me next week.”

  “No!’

  “Uh-huh. We’re taking a vacation.”

  “Where to?”

  “The federal prison at Terre Haute, Indiana.”

  “Exotic!”

  “Thought you’d be excited. All that barbed wire and guns.”

  “My kinda place. Seriously, what’s the job?”

  And Hoda told him. Or, told him as much as she knew. She hadn’t absorbed the file yet. “Have you heard of this Anthony Campagnano?”

  “Oh, sure. It was all over the media a couple or three years ago. He terrorized Boston. Picked out the best-looking girls and sent pieces back home to mother, and the local police. Took them months to catch him. Finally, a Mass trooper stopped him for a tail light one night and saw something glinting in the back seat. Turned out it was a Bowie knife. That led to the fall of the house of Campagnano.”

  They ate for a moment. Then Hoda asked, “What about The Silence of the Lambs?”

  “Book or movie?”

  “Either one. I’ve never heard of them.”

  Jake laughed a little. Like Robinson, he found Hoda’s lack of social knowledge endearing.

  “Well the movie was a Jodie Foster-Anthony Hopkins vehicle. Made tons of money, Hopkins a household name, and an icon out of Hannibal and Cannibal Lector.”

  “Can we rent it tonight?”

  “I think I’ve got it upstairs.” Jake was no videophile, but he happened to like Silence.

  Hoda spent three hours reading the file at the kitchen table, filling five legal pads with questions and notes. With what they spent on legal pads, Jake thought, they could have the new exercise bike he wanted. Naturally, he kept the idea to himself. After Hoda got done with the first read and batch of notes, she took out her laptop and consolidated the notepads in a single word processing file, and backed it up to a USB thumb drive on her keychain.

  Then it was movie time. Jake snuggled with her as they watched Jodie Foster duel with Anthony Hopkins in the classic crime-horror movie.


  “So that’s what Robinson was talking about?” Hoda said. “Doesn’t seem very real to me. And I know real psychopaths.”

  “I hope so. You’re going to analyze them. Starting, it would seem, with the Sicilian Slasher.”

  “He’s Calabrese,” Hoda corrected. “Why does everyone keep saying Sicilian just because the newspapers did?”

  “It’s an iconic reference. People recognize it, know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well, people aren’t very bright.”

  “Not measured by your yardstick, they’re not.”

  “Yours, either.”

  “True. That’s what pays my salary.”

  Hoda smiled. Then she turned serious. “No, what pays your salary is you’re willing to do crazy things.”

  “Well, you deal with crazy people.”

  “In a controlled environment. You work without a net.”

  “So, what’s the travel plan?” he said, changing the subject.

  “Andrews to HUF tomorrow afternoon.”

  “HUF?” He knew she was using the airport designator, but he didn’t recognize it.

  “Hufman Field, Terre Haute.”

  “Yikes! Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a tiny cargo field. Nothing there but a car rental agency. We’re taking an FBI jet.”

  “Wow! Must be nice!”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve got more first class air travel than anyone I know.” She tried to act cross, but she wasn’t and he knew it.

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “I can’t really have one, until I meet with the FBI people and then with Campagnano. It’s one of those play it by ear scenarios.”

  “Oh, I like those.”

  She giggled. “Play it by ear” had evolved, as these things will, into a fun code for nocturnal affairs. They enjoyed one another immensely—as the Holy Quran directed of married couples. “Business before pleasure,” she said.