But Jones, being an A, seemed to understand this well enough and had sorted matters out accordingly. Their first few hours at the camp had been so quiet that Zula had actually dozed off on her camp pad for a little while; swathed in four layers of cheap fleece, she could sleep practically anywhere without the need for blankets or sleeping bag. She had awakened to find Zakir eyeing her in a manner that, at any time in her life prior to the advent of Wallace and Ivanov, she’d have found creepy. As it was, she found herself wondering whether Zakir could maintain that state of arousal once she had gotten her chain wrapped around his throat and her knee on his spine. During her confinement in the back of the RV, she had done many push-ups and many squats.
Anyway, the thing that had awakened her had been the advent in camp of a sizable contingent of jihadists, something like ten in addition to the three who had been left here to hold the fort. It seemed that several of the cars had arrived at the turnaround point at about the same time, disgorged this cast of characters, and then been driven away by persons who had been deemed redundant by Jones: Cs, or perhaps even Ds. So all of them were now literally at the end of the road, bereft of wheeled transportation (for the RV had been taken away) and supplied with much more in the way of camping equipment, weaponry, and ammunition than they could plausibly carry. The light was growing dim. Zula pulled the hood of her fleece over her head to hide the movements of her eyes and tried to carry on an inventory without being obvious. She did not see any weapons beyond what they had brought on the bizjet and acquired from the bear hunters. That, she reckoned, made sense; much easier to get weapons where they were going, and less weight to carry across the border.
Probably it was more useful to inventory the men than the gear.
All of the original five were now present: Jones, Abdul-Wahaab, Ershut, and the lovers. The A-team, as it were. Of the Vancouver contingent there were still weaselly Sharjeel and podgy Zakir. The third member of that group, whose name she had forgotten, seemed to have been sloughed off; perhaps he was one of the bit players whose job had been to drive a vehicle away from this place and make himself scarce. So that was seven. But the total number of jihadists now present was thirteen—a figure she was not able to pin down, exactly, until she was made to serve them all dinner.
The additional half dozen were mostly men she had glimpsed or heard at least once during the interminable wanderings of the RV as they had all zeroed in from, she guessed, diverse parts of North America. Two of them were completely new to her. She gathered from the way these were greeted that they had only just managed to join up with the caravan. Most of those present either hadn’t seen them in years or had no idea who they were. She pegged them as As. Partly this was because Jones treated them with special respect. But only partly. She could just tell. Erasto was from the Horn of Africa, probably Somalia. He spoke perfect midwestern-accented English and enjoyed looking at her slyly as he was doing so, glorying in her reaction: he must be an adoptee like her, someone who had been raised in some place like Minneapolis but who unlike her had decided to go back to his homeland and dedicate his life to the cause of global jihad. He was six foot four, built like a greyhound, baby-faced, didn’t need to shave. A Benetton model.
Abdul-Ghaffar (“Servant of the Forgiver”—she had remembered that much Arabic by this point)—was a blond, blue-eyed American man of perhaps forty-five, though he might have been ten years older than that and in good shape. He had close-cropped hair, was burly but trim, and appeared to work out a lot. A soccer player or a wrestler—a practitioner of some sport, anyway, that didn’t require height, for he was maybe five seven. His native language was of course English, and he followed the others’ conversations even more poorly than Zula, who could catch perhaps a third of what they were saying. The obvious question that was posed by his choice of name—what was he seeking forgiveness for?—would go unanswered for now. But it seemed clear that he had converted to Islam late in life and was eager to make up for lost time. She got a clue when he turned his head to expose a skin graft on the top of his head, about the size of a postage stamp. She had seen similar damage on her fair-skinned, farm-dwelling relatives. He was under treatment for malignant melanoma, and he probably had less than a year to live. Until she’d seen that, she’d wondered why a man like Jones would look upon this all-American newbie as anything other than an FBI plant.
The power of laziness was a continual wonder to her. Not that jihadists had any monopoly on that. But with so much manpower up in this camp, could they really not cook their own food? Not set up a little buffet line, pile it on their plates without feminine assistance? All the while leaving Zula chained to some other tree, out of earshot. But it seemed huge to them that their captive female perform this work for them. She was being put on display, she decided, like Cleopatra being towed through Rome. Jones wanted the others to see how the infidel girl had submitted to his mastery.
Which she hadn’t, of course. But for purposes of this one meal she was happy to act that way. She even kept her hood up over her head like a sort of chador. And she listened to what they were saying, astonishing herself by how much of their conversation she could now understand.
They ate together for a while, satisfying their appetites, chatting and joking. And then Jones began to address them in a now-let’s-get-down-to-business tone. And what he said was that he would be hitting the sack very soon, since he needed to rise long before sunrise to begin the next phase of the operation. He would not see them again for several hours after that. In the meantime, they needed to sleep well but rise in good time and make all ready to divide into two camps: the base camp and the expedition. The latter group would be larger than the former and would be moving out on a great adventure. But this in no way diminished the importance of the base camp crew or detracted from the glory that they would achieve and the heavenly reward that they would reap …