Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Hunting for Tamara
I. J. Sarfeh's latest medical thriller.
Chapter 1.
Sweating under the midday sun, Jamal Najib peered over the doghouse, a dead Doberman sprawled at his side. The deafening gunfire had ceased, and he crouched back down. He removed his backpack and lifted up his shirt to inspect the bullet wound. Thanks to Allah, it was only a graze.
His life was spared for a reason, he thought. He must inform the world of the horrifying events he had just witnessed.
Sensing a movement to his right, he twisted around to see Tamara crawling toward him. She carried an infant under her arm, and her clothes were splattered with blood. He crept to her, took the infant, and whispered, “Allah has spared your life too, my dearest cousin.”
She did not respond.
He examined the infant boy. Drenched in blood, the body was lifeless.
Gently he lay the dead infant on the ground. “I pray for your eternal happiness in the afterlife.”
He turned to Tamara. “Are we the only ones alive?”
Her moist eyes were fixed on the tiny corpse, and she seemed in a daze.
Jamal shook her by the shoulders. “Tamara, the child will be much happier where he is going. We must think of our own survival now. We must live to serve as Allah’s instruments of vengeance.”
He slipped on his backpack, came to his knees, and looked about. An eerie silence enveloped the garden. Scattered all over the terrace were bloodied bodies. His gaze shifted to the reflecting pool in front of the terrace. Riddled with bullet wounds, two men lay face down in the shallow water. Next to them a little girl floated on her back, her terrified features frozen in death. Jamal groaned at recognizing his three-year-old niece.
After breathing a few profanities, he whispered to Tamara, “As God is my witness, dear cousin, we must take an oath to die rather than let the murderers escape justice.”
Seeing no signs of the masked gunmen, Jamal crept out on the terrace to inspect the bodies, hoping some were still alive. He looked for movement. Any movement.
All were dead.
He ran inside the mansion and into his uncle’s office. Rummaging through a file cabinet, he found the three-page document he had prepared a few weeks earlier. After folding it, he placed it inside a canvas-wrapped package in his backpack. He then retrieved his uncle’s car keys from the middle drawer of the desk and hurried back to Tamara. Grasping her hand, he led her to the Mercedes sedan parked on the cement driveway. He dropped his backpack on the rear seat, and they climbed into the car. Taking a final look at the carnage, he offered a silent prayer then drove off.
Two gunmen were crouched at the sides of the open gate, apparently lying in wait. They opened fire as Jamal drove onto the deserted side street. Pushing Tamara down, he thumped the accelerator to the floor. A spray of bullets smacked into metal. He lowered his head and kept driving. At the next intersection he glanced in his rearview mirror. The gunmen were jumping into a gray sedan.
Then the chase began.
Ten minutes later he was on Al Mansur Street, which had a few pedestrians braving the midday heat. With the gray sedan out of sight for the moment, he swerved the Mercedes to the curb and jammed on the brakes. He reached over, flung open the passenger door, and shouted, “Get out Tamara! It is best we separate.”
“But . . .”
“One of us must survive. Go, for the love of God!”
He pushed her out, and she stumbled onto the pavement. As he fishtailed the car away, he noticed Tamara’s gold bracelet on the passenger seat. If ever they should meet again, he would return it to her. But deep inside he sensed they had just parted for ever.
Racing the Mercedes onto the highway north to Baqubah, Jamal glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted the gray sedan not far behind. But he was confident that on the open road his uncle’s powerful Mercedes could outrun most other vehicles. He was right. Within a few minutes the gray sedan was a mere speck in his rearview mirror.
The city of Baqubah was only forty kilometers ahead, and he had friends there to help him. He passed two checkpoints without having to slow down. Until curfew time, most checkpoints were open to traffic heading away from Baghdad. He was almost halfway to his destination when he pulled in behind a line of vehicles stopped at a military barricade. He lowered the window, leaned out, and peered at the group of soldiers checking each vehicle. Upon recognizing their British uniforms, Jamal sighed in relief. He trusted the British.
After closing the window, he reset the interior temperature control to sixty-eight degrees, and waited. Five minutes passed, and the line of vehicles ahead of him had barely moved. Fearing the gray sedan was about to catch up, he jumped out and ran toward the barricade. As he neared it, the soldiers brandished their assault rifles and ordered him to stop.
Slowing his pace, he threw up his arms.
“Identify yourself," one of the soldiers shouted.
“Don’t shoot! My name is Jamal Najib, and I am a reporter.”
The soldier approached him. “Why do you have blood on your shirt?”
“Masked gunmen attacked our family home in Baghdad. Some of the blood is from a flesh wound.
The rest belonged to a dead infant.”
“Then why aren’t you in Baghdad to help with the investigation?”
“Because the killers are after me.”
“Let me see some identification.”
As Jamal reached for his wallet, from somewhere behind him a gunshot blasted. A knifelike pain exploded in his left chest. He crashed to the ground.
The soldiers returned fire. Jamal rolled over on his back and looked in the direction of the sniper. He saw a gray sedan make a screeching U-turn then speed away.
Feeling dizzy and a little sick to his stomach, he lay still.
One of the soldiers, a young man with a cherubic face, ran over to him. “Where do you hurt, sir?”
“My left chest. In the back.”
“You mustn’t move. I’ll get you help right away.”
“Are you British?”
“Yes, but you must lie quietly to preserve all your energy.”
Jamal had no recourse but to trust him. “Please do something for me. What is your name?”
“John Turnbull. I’ll call for an ambulance now.”
Knowing he was not long for this world, Jamal said, “While we wait, you must listen to what I have to say.”
The soldier spoke to one of his comrades and then knelt at Jamal’s side. “I’m afraid you don’t look too fit at the moment. If you must talk, make it brief.”
By the time the ambulance arrived, Jamal had finished his story.
His eyes bulging, the soldier gripped Jamal’s arm. “That was bloody unbelievable!”
“I swear by the Holy Koran I have told you the truth. Now please carry out my wishes..”
Jamal prayed to Allah that the soldier would comply.
Then his vision dimmed, and he closed his eyes for the last time.
Chapter 1.
Sweating under the midday sun, Jamal Najib peered over the doghouse, a dead Doberman sprawled at his side. The deafening gunfire had ceased, and he crouched back down. He removed his backpack and lifted up his shirt to inspect the bullet wound. Thanks to Allah, it was only a graze.
His life was spared for a reason, he thought. He must inform the world of the horrifying events he had just witnessed.
Sensing a movement to his right, he twisted around to see Tamara crawling toward him. She carried an infant under her arm, and her clothes were splattered with blood. He crept to her, took the infant, and whispered, “Allah has spared your life too, my dearest cousin.”
She did not respond.
He examined the infant boy. Drenched in blood, the body was lifeless.
Gently he lay the dead infant on the ground. “I pray for your eternal happiness in the afterlife.”
He turned to Tamara. “Are we the only ones alive?”
Her moist eyes were fixed on the tiny corpse, and she seemed in a daze.
Jamal shook her by the shoulders. “Tamara, the child will be much happier where he is going. We must think of our own survival now. We must live to serve as Allah’s instruments of vengeance.”
He slipped on his backpack, came to his knees, and looked about. An eerie silence enveloped the garden. Scattered all over the terrace were bloodied bodies. His gaze shifted to the reflecting pool in front of the terrace. Riddled with bullet wounds, two men lay face down in the shallow water. Next to them a little girl floated on her back, her terrified features frozen in death. Jamal groaned at recognizing his three-year-old niece.
After breathing a few profanities, he whispered to Tamara, “As God is my witness, dear cousin, we must take an oath to die rather than let the murderers escape justice.”
Seeing no signs of the masked gunmen, Jamal crept out on the terrace to inspect the bodies, hoping some were still alive. He looked for movement. Any movement.
All were dead.
He ran inside the mansion and into his uncle’s office. Rummaging through a file cabinet, he found the three-page document he had prepared a few weeks earlier. After folding it, he placed it inside a canvas-wrapped package in his backpack. He then retrieved his uncle’s car keys from the middle drawer of the desk and hurried back to Tamara. Grasping her hand, he led her to the Mercedes sedan parked on the cement driveway. He dropped his backpack on the rear seat, and they climbed into the car. Taking a final look at the carnage, he offered a silent prayer then drove off.
Two gunmen were crouched at the sides of the open gate, apparently lying in wait. They opened fire as Jamal drove onto the deserted side street. Pushing Tamara down, he thumped the accelerator to the floor. A spray of bullets smacked into metal. He lowered his head and kept driving. At the next intersection he glanced in his rearview mirror. The gunmen were jumping into a gray sedan.
Then the chase began.
Ten minutes later he was on Al Mansur Street, which had a few pedestrians braving the midday heat. With the gray sedan out of sight for the moment, he swerved the Mercedes to the curb and jammed on the brakes. He reached over, flung open the passenger door, and shouted, “Get out Tamara! It is best we separate.”
“But . . .”
“One of us must survive. Go, for the love of God!”
He pushed her out, and she stumbled onto the pavement. As he fishtailed the car away, he noticed Tamara’s gold bracelet on the passenger seat. If ever they should meet again, he would return it to her. But deep inside he sensed they had just parted for ever.
Racing the Mercedes onto the highway north to Baqubah, Jamal glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted the gray sedan not far behind. But he was confident that on the open road his uncle’s powerful Mercedes could outrun most other vehicles. He was right. Within a few minutes the gray sedan was a mere speck in his rearview mirror.
The city of Baqubah was only forty kilometers ahead, and he had friends there to help him. He passed two checkpoints without having to slow down. Until curfew time, most checkpoints were open to traffic heading away from Baghdad. He was almost halfway to his destination when he pulled in behind a line of vehicles stopped at a military barricade. He lowered the window, leaned out, and peered at the group of soldiers checking each vehicle. Upon recognizing their British uniforms, Jamal sighed in relief. He trusted the British.
After closing the window, he reset the interior temperature control to sixty-eight degrees, and waited. Five minutes passed, and the line of vehicles ahead of him had barely moved. Fearing the gray sedan was about to catch up, he jumped out and ran toward the barricade. As he neared it, the soldiers brandished their assault rifles and ordered him to stop.
Slowing his pace, he threw up his arms.
“Identify yourself," one of the soldiers shouted.
“Don’t shoot! My name is Jamal Najib, and I am a reporter.”
The soldier approached him. “Why do you have blood on your shirt?”
“Masked gunmen attacked our family home in Baghdad. Some of the blood is from a flesh wound.
The rest belonged to a dead infant.”
“Then why aren’t you in Baghdad to help with the investigation?”
“Because the killers are after me.”
“Let me see some identification.”
As Jamal reached for his wallet, from somewhere behind him a gunshot blasted. A knifelike pain exploded in his left chest. He crashed to the ground.
The soldiers returned fire. Jamal rolled over on his back and looked in the direction of the sniper. He saw a gray sedan make a screeching U-turn then speed away.
Feeling dizzy and a little sick to his stomach, he lay still.
One of the soldiers, a young man with a cherubic face, ran over to him. “Where do you hurt, sir?”
“My left chest. In the back.”
“You mustn’t move. I’ll get you help right away.”
“Are you British?”
“Yes, but you must lie quietly to preserve all your energy.”
Jamal had no recourse but to trust him. “Please do something for me. What is your name?”
“John Turnbull. I’ll call for an ambulance now.”
Knowing he was not long for this world, Jamal said, “While we wait, you must listen to what I have to say.”
The soldier spoke to one of his comrades and then knelt at Jamal’s side. “I’m afraid you don’t look too fit at the moment. If you must talk, make it brief.”
By the time the ambulance arrived, Jamal had finished his story.
His eyes bulging, the soldier gripped Jamal’s arm. “That was bloody unbelievable!”
“I swear by the Holy Koran I have told you the truth. Now please carry out my wishes..”
Jamal prayed to Allah that the soldier would comply.
Then his vision dimmed, and he closed his eyes for the last time.
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