Djamila knew there was something wrong. She had been doing this for so many years that she had developed a sixth sense. And her sixth sense told her there was something wrong. She had been watching the man, and thinking about what she had been told to do.
She had been told of the global plan. She knew of the Great Jihad that was to come. And she knew of their plans for this man. She had been sent to kill him. Not with honour, but with a bullet from a gun and a person he would never know about until he met Allah in hell. It was not fair, she thought. It was no death for a warrior. Not even for a killer of children. But she had begun to doubt that. To kill him like this was not fair.
She was aware of the two versions of Islam. She was aware enough to know, but being a Muslim woman she also knew when to keep silent. There were those with a direct link between their tongues and their eyes. Not so with Djamila. She knew when to shut up. But still, she watched and listened. Depending on whether you believed in Mohamed of Mecca or Mohamed of Medina, Islam was a religion of peace or could be seen as a religion of war.
Heaven and Hell. Only Allah could be in two places at the one time.
And even the Koran said that the new replaced the old. Her Imam had told her this, too. So, according to this, Islam was a religion of war, needed to bring Sharia peace. She knew she was confused and should visit her Imam for instruction, but that would have to wait. For now she just had questions and a man to kill. For the first time and for the wrong reasons she had questions. There was pain in this Lucy woman. She could see it. Also in the way he was gentle with her. “Why does she have to die?” she thought.
She believed in peace. But she was an assassin. Life meant everything to her. Because she knew death she appreciated life. Because she caused death she respected life. She loved the beauty of plants. Even as she respected a cactus. She appreciated the natural forces - like a polar bear protecting her young. She had watched the force of nature. This was something you could not cheat, or deny. Was this Allah? Did he not love women, too?
Something was wrong.
She had been watching the man for over a week now. From the top of the hill two miles from his home. There was no way he knew she was there.
He was a gentle man, she had decided. She had watched him with his woman. He treated her with the greatest respect. And she knew, only a strong man can do that. So, this was a strong man. And a strong man did not commit the acts she had been told he had committed.
She had been watching him. She watched how he picked her up from the sea and carried her over the stones to the sand, careful for her feet.
She had watched as he had cooked for his woman, seafood, something he had caught in the sea, something he then put in a large pot over a fire he had made on the beach. She watched how he fed her parts of the fish from the pot, she watched him share from his plate the best parts, and put a blanket around her when she became cold. She had watched as he carried her, still wrapped in the blanket, back to their little cottage.
Something was wrong.
If this was the killer of children she had been told about then everything she was watching was a lie. But it was not a lie. Anyone could see that. She wondered what it must be like to have someone care about you like he cared about his woman. Would it take away the emptiness? Her emptiness? What must it be like to be loved by a man like that. To be held by a man like that. What was it like to be held, by a man? A man who cared?
Sometimes she could not move. She was like stone. Frozen in a moment. She could go for hours without moving. Without even the wish to move. The stillness around and within her, absolute. Frightening, even. And she found herself wanting his arms around her. She wanted to know what that felt like. She imagined him inside her. Those were the only times she moved.
She knew there were different versions of life, she knew there were relationships and the thing that people called love, that thing that so many talked about. She knew about these things but had never experienced these things. Her life had been training. Pain and hardship. The attainment of killing skills. And then, the abstract things. Readings and teaching from the Koran. Theories. Their way was the only way.
Maybe one day, she would tell herself in her weak moments of thought. She wondered what his hands would feel like. Caressing her. Inch by inch. Her finger curled tighter around the trigger and she could smell the oil on the sight as it got hotter and hotter.
But this was not one of those weak moments of thought. This was one of her strong moments. And it was wrong. Allah forgive her. She could have killed him many times. He could and should be dead by now. He would never have known about the bullet flying at 300 miles per hour through the pure Scottish air to mash his brains to pulp. He would be dead before his body even hit the ground. Would this Lucy woman cry for him?
But she had not pulled the trigger. She had watched him. Watched him with his woman. And she had felt strange feelings, watching his tenderness, watching his concern. She wondered, then, what the woman was feeling. She looked happy, secure. She wondered if she, herself, would ever have feelings like that. She watched how the women let herself be held. How she fell into his arms. How she trusted him. What was this? What woman could ever trust a man this way? What woman could ever trust a man?
The questions would not leave her. She would need to know more. This she knew. And so she would find out more. She would not kill him this day. Tomorrow she would find out more. She knew where she must go, whom she must see, and she knew what questions she would ask. She also knew that if the answers were wrong, according to her heart, that person would die.
But she should have known herself. Known that she would, in the end, follow orders. If you can’t get the man, shoot the girl. He will seek out her killers. It was the voice of Allah, she thought.
It was how she decided. She took the shot. But not the kill shot. This is how she decided. Orders. But, the moment she had pulled the trigger the girl had slipped. Merde! Life’s accidents. The man had lunged to catch her and the bullet had entered her shoulder. The girl had been the target and she was not dead. She had just collapsed as if she had no life anymore. And he had caught her. It was the will of Allah she thought as she watched. Then she had seen. The bullet had gone through the girl and into the man. How could he function? How could he be this strong? That bullet, that size, would floor anyone. His woman was out of it. Why was he still standing? And the way he had looked out for the girl? He had caught her and jumped into a shallow trench between the rocks, out of sight, now.