McKean 01 The Jihad Virus

by Thomas Hopp

  And I realized another thing. Old Chief Seattle had it right. Faced with catastrophe, he dealt fairly with the very people who had brought disease to his shores. He saw that the best chance for his people to survive and recover was understanding, not hate and war.

  “Maybe that applies to both sides in this conflict,” I murmured. “I see what McKean meant. If the world is to be destroyed, it will be at the hands of hateful strongmen like the Sheik. But if the world is to be saved, it will be by women who finally speak with their own voices, expressing their loving, caring nature. Maybe you knew that, too, huh Chief? Maybe your wife counseled your heart.”

  Sunshine glinted on Seattle’s bronze brow, convincing me that, among those not-so-powerless dead, he was nodding his head and smiling.

  I continued to my office, grabbed my laptop and a few other essentials, locked up, and then went back to fetch my car from the lot. I drove to my apartment building and, leaving the Mustang in a three minute loading zone, raced up the stairs and into my apartment, stuffed an armload of clothes into a duffel bag, locked up, left a sticky note on Penny Worthe’s door entrusting my peace lilies to her, charged back down the stairs two-at-a-time, and fired the ignition before three minutes were up. I raced to the northbound freeway entrance with a patch of corrugated cardboard flapping over the missing side window and the X of silver duct tape still covering the hole in my front windshield. I drove north nearly as fast as when I escaped the Sheriff, and crossed the North Cascades in less than four hours.

  I arrived at the ranch as the sun sank toward the mountains. The wrought-iron spans of the Sheik’s main gate were open and the police tape was gone, so I drove up the drive past the empty guard kiosk and the bullet-riddled pickup. I pulled up in front of the house and shut off my engine. As I got out, I suddenly wondered if I were a colossal fool to come so far without asking Jameela if I was welcome.

  “Hey there!” a cheerful feminine voice called from behind me. I turned and spotted Jameela at the horse barn, dressed in her English riding jacket, khaki jodhpurs, and black jackboots, which fit her as gloriously as on the first day I had seen her. I hurried across the fifty yards between us, and then stopped several paces from her, drinking in the dazzling Cleopatran charm of her face, the glint of sunlight on her dark hair, and the poise of her straight shoulders - while doubting such perfection was attainable by the likes of me.

  “Hello, Fin Morton!” she said fondly.

  A soft noise from behind made her turn. The pink muzzle of a white horse had been thrust between the fence rails.

  “Zahirah!” Jameela cooed. “Perhaps you need more oats.”

  She turned to me and smiled. “They have been breeding off and on all day, for hours at a time.”

  My imagination went on a wild ramble with the horses, as Majid put his head over the top rail and chuggared at me. As Jameela petted the mare’s muzzle, I held my hand out to the stallion. Majid nuzzled and sniffed my hand, but tossed his head, refusing to let me pet him. Jameela said, “He remembers you fed him sugar, Fin.”

  “I wonder if he remembers that crazy ride through a hail of bullets?”

  “I do.”

  The time had come to say something more important, but my mind blanked.

  She looked at me expectantly. I felt a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. Her huge dark eyes unnerved me. Suddenly I felt as dumb as the stallion, craving her touch. A smile tugged at her lips, as if she had read my mind. She put a hand on my arm. An amused, sphinx-like expression came over her face.

  “I am alone here,” she said. “A dozen FBI agents went through every nook of the house and every scrap of paper. But they are gone now. Before they left, they gave me good news. My mother and father were rescued by American soldiers in Kharifa. They are safe at home in Cairo.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. My mind whirred with unspoken thoughts. Above all else, I couldn’t let her think my visit was just a friendly one.

  “Jameela - ” I said abruptly, and too loudly.

  Her chin went up. She looked along the fine line of her nose at me with pharaonic solemnity. “Yes, Fin? What is it?”

  Thoughts chased themselves around my brain. My heart pounded until I felt dizzy. After an eternity of wordless hesitation, I had no choice but to act. I stepped near and put an arm around her waist. I pulled her gently to me. She resisted for a moment, and then yielded.

  I kissed her. She held back at first, but warmed and put her arms around my shoulders. We shared a tender, delicate first kiss of mixed curiosity and fulfillment, long overdue. She drew me tightly to her. We hugged for a long time, as the mare wandered off and the stallion followed her.

  Jameela pulled back slightly and looked into my face. A new joy danced in her beautiful Cleopatran eyes. “Will you stay here with me, Fin?”

  “If you’d like me to.”

  She smiled. “You are welcome here as long as you like.”

  A thought came back from fevered memories. “What did I say, when I was talking in my sleep?”

  She disengaged herself from my arms.

  “What was it?” I asked again.

  “Just one kiss, Fin. You asked for just one kiss. And now you have had it.”

  “Wait!” I protested. “I didn’t mean just one…forever.”

  “Oh?” A sparkle came into her eyes. “Perhaps you would like one more?”

  “More than that,” I said.

  She didn’t respond immediately. “You said many things to me, in your fever. What you wanted did not stop at a kiss.”

  “What else did I want?”

  A smug little smile crept across her face. “Let’s go inside,” she said.

  Starting for the house, she motioned for me to come along.

  I followed her, the way Majid followed Zahirah.