EIGHT
In addition to his greatly amplified motor neuron
transmission, subject’s IQ, particularly in strategic and
problem-solving functions, ranges from exceptionally gifted to
genius level (161 to 174, Stanford-Binet scale). MRI and CAT scans
suggest his neural function has become more efficient over
time—with greater and greater communication throughout his cortex
enabled by increased folds and wrinkles through the brain matter,
causing more connectivity between neurons. It has been theorized
that this enables the subject to “parallel-process,” which is to
say, work several angles of a problem at once, greatly reducing the
time required for a solution.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET
Dylan had no trouble clearing Customs. His
shipment remained one of the 97 percent of freight containers not
inspected on their way into the U.S.
Dylan only knew this because Khaled knew this and
repeated it endlessly to reassure him.
It didn’t work. Dylan picked up his cargo and
soaked through his shirt with flop sweat. Once he’d cleared the
gates of the shipyard, he took the truck out on the highway in a
blind panic. Every five seconds, he checked his rearview for Delta
Force commandos about to drop out of the sky and shoot him
dead.
He was a hundred miles away from the port by the
time he realized that no one was looking for him. No one
cared.
Khaled would have said this was God’s way of
testing him, of preparing him for the holy mission they were about
to undertake.
Dylan was sick of hearing it. He had already done
way too much work for Khaled’s science project. He wanted to get
paid. But there was always just one more thing, just one more
thing.
At first, it was nothing too demanding. Khaled had
him make a little trip. A short hop on a plane to Dubai. During a
weekend stay at a super-luxury hotel, Dylan delivered a briefcase
full of cash to some other Arab guys. No big deal. When he got
back, he found out the money was for the widows and orphans of the
“brave warriors killed in the struggle against the Zionist
occupation,” but Dylan wasn’t stupid. He knew what that meant: the
cash went to pay guys to strap on suicide belts and blow themselves
up.
Dylan had no real problem with that. It was like a
video game, in some ways. Pick a character, send him out to do
battle, and once he dies, pick another one. Simple.
But Dylan increasingly resented risking his ass to
do grunt work. The trips grew more frequent. Pretty soon he was
going to Dubai or Riyadh or Tel Aviv every other week. Dylan knew
why he was chosen. Khaled was on too many watch lists. Dylan was a
perfect, blank face.
A perfect, white, American face.
It didn’t seem like hero’s work. And he still
hadn’t been paid.
Then, a month ago, Khaled had called him over to
the apartment. He gave Dylan another plane ticket.
Dylan unloaded his list of complaints on Khaled. He
was sick of the stink of dead bodies. He was tired of using his
free time to run Khaled’s errands.
Dylan gave his ultimatum. He was ready to get out.
He wanted his money. He was done being Khaled’s flunky.
Khaled had listened patiently. Then he asked, “Are
you finished?”
Dylan nodded.
Khaled hit him.
Dylan found himself flat on his back, bleeding from
his nose. He’d never been struck in his life. Not even as a
child.
Khaled stood above him. He tried to sit up, but
Khaled put his foot on Dylan’s throat and forced him back down.
Dylan started choking. Khaled didn’t lessen the pressure a
bit.
“There’s only one way out of Zulfiqar,” Khaled told
him. “And that is either to a martyr’s Heaven or to a traitor’s
Hell.”
Dylan wanted to ask, You’re serious about that?
Then all he wanted to do was breathe.
“What do you want? Do you want out?” Khaled
asked.
Dylan shook his head. Unh-uh. No sir. Team player,
right here.
“You’re prepared to continue your mission?” Khaled
asked.
Dylan nodded like a bobble-head doll.
Khaled lifted his foot, a big smile back on his
face. He embraced Dylan like a brother. And he gave him the ticket
again.
Dylan decided he’d stick with Khaled’s plan for a
while. Until he could figure out a way to quit that wouldn’t make
Khaled quite so mad.
So he took the trip to Los Angeles.
He met with a guy with a German name and great
hair, who explained what the corpses would be used for.
Dylan didn’t quite believe it, but Khaled did. That
was all that mattered.
He went back to Kuwait. There were more errands,
more trips to the U.S. to check the progress of the German guy.
Each time, Dylan wondered if he would finally get his money and get
out.
Then Khaled had told him they were ready. The plan
was almost finished.
There was just one more thing Dylan had to do. Of
course.
He had to pick up a cargo shipment and drive it to
a new destination. It couldn’t arrive at the target site—that would
be taking too much of a chance.
But then, as soon as he made the delivery, Khaled
promised, Dylan would get his reward.
The night before he flew to the States, Dylan met
with Khaled and his friends at the apartment. They drank and
toasted Dylan’s courage—even the hard-line Muslim guys, who never
drank anything but grape juice.
Things were getting pretty rowdy, but right before
the prostitutes showed up, Khaled called for silence.
“You have renounced your country to do what is
right,” Khaled said to Dylan. The others nodded. “You must have a
new name, to signify your new life as a warrior.”
He appeared to think hard, then beamed at Dylan.
“From now on, you are Ayir al-Kelba.”
Khaled’s friends smiled just as widely at him.
Dylan felt pride swelling inside him. “Ayir . . . What does that
mean?”
“It means ‘great leader,”’ Khaled said.
Maybe it was the booze, but Dylan got a little
choked up. Even the stone-faced Saudis looked like they were
struggling to contain themselves.
That was when Dylan decided he was doing the right
thing. The world had to change. Khaled was right about that. And
he’d chosen Dylan to help.
It all became clear: those guys really understood
his potential. For the first time, he felt like someone had given
him a name to match his inner greatness. They believed in him. So
he would believe in them.
Dylan hung on to that moment, and to the promises
Khaled made.
It helped him forget what was in the back of the
truck, as he drove into the night.