Dead Boy Walking

  *

  HAMZA checked the bones to make sure none were broken then applied ice and a spray for the swelling before bandaging Ali's hand carefully and giving him a shot in his left arm and a fistful of Panadols. The bandage was tight and pain throbbed in waves.

  ''Lie down,'' Hamza instructed. ''Try to sleep.''

  ''The data,'' said Ali, ''I need to see the data.'' He felt feverish and sweaty.

  ''No you don't,'' said Hamza, wishing the shot would take effect immediately, but it took the whole of Friends and fifteen minutes of So You Think You Can Dance before Ali passed out on the sofa so that Hamza could carry him to the big double-bed.

  The data was so good Hamza called Ahmed Ahmed excitedly on a scrambled phone to tell him Ali had succeeded where others had failed. He had, on the hard-drive and in the papers, compiled all the evidence required to shut down the madrassa and arrest Talal Hafez. There were bills of passage for deliveries from Dar El-Tawhid to places in Amman, Baghdad and Alexandria, though it was unclear what exactly these were. There were receipts for bags of nails. There were instructions on making bomb-vests. There were downloaded maps of areas where bombings had occurred. There were bills from Al-Houri for transporting bombers across various borders. There were emails to and from Hands across the Sands and Moustapha Al-Sekem, one promising another delivery in time for July's Jerash Festival. It seemed Hamza was right. They were planning to assassinate the Crown Prince.

  There was also a video of Mokhtar's murder. Hamza watched, revoltedly fascinated as a thin, shabbily dressed boy pissed on the man's battered, bloodied face, saw the biscuit-tin placed over the head, heard cruel laughter ringing round the desert-dunes, but he didn't see either Talal or Moussa and he was unable to identify the location.

  They had tortured and murdered Mokhtar. He had always suspected, but now he knew. How would he tell Alana?

  Slapping the lid of the lap-top shut, he went to the balcony and lit a Gitane. Mokhtar had only joined the Service to impress him, his future brother-in-law. What a way to die. Pissed on by a kid. He called Ahmed Ahmed again and pleaded to be returned to the front line.

  ''I know how close you and Mokhtar were.'' Hamza could imagine Ahmed Ahmed perspiring freely as he tried to weasel out of his promise. ''I know he was engaged to your sister but revenge is not a sound motive for action.''

  ''I'm sitting here waiting for what? The kid? He's finished.''

  ''We might need him to go in again,'' said Ahmed Ahmed. ''Keep him at home. Make him a lentil broth.'' Hamza could hear his fellow agents sniggering in the background. ''A fever is a plausible cover. Hopefully he got enough evidence and can return to Jordan next week. We shall pass on your concerns about the Festival to Colonel Ibrahim. Meantime, relax. Stay home. Watch TV. The operation's almost over.'' Ahmed Ahmed seemed uncharacteristically jolly.

  Hamza stood by the bed he had shared with this strange Iraqi boy for the last eight days, watching him sleep, face tense, upper body bare and frail, bandaged hand resting on the sheet. Damnation.

  He lit another Gitane. The video had changed the game. His sister's fiancé had been brutally killed. He would go to Ma'aloula and break the news. Let Ali Salawa stay home alone. It would only be for a day or so. Let him cook for himself and wash his own clothes for a change. It would do him good. Let Ali take care of himself, and Hamza his family. He had decided.

  He would go tomorrow.