‘Just do it.’
The man was stubborn. He wanted to strike awe into the students’ hearts with a display of mastery. Abdul did not want to spoil his plan, but he would have to.
Abdul said: ‘Look, let’s talk about this,’ then he kicked the trainer in the stomach, threw him to the ground, and got him in a chokehold.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, ‘but you insisted.’ Then he released his hold and stood up.
The trainer struggled to his feet. His only visible injury was a bloody nose. He said: ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
On the other hand, Fouzen and Haydar might have knives.
They left at around midnight, and Abdul lay down to sleep on a straw mattress. He woke at first light, thanked Anand and his wives, and said he was setting off immediately.
‘Have some breakfast,’ Anand urged him. ‘Coffee, a little bread with honey, some figs. Hakim’s garage is only a few minutes’ walk from here.’
Anand’s enthusiasm made Abdul suspect that they planned to rob him here in the house. The children could be got out of the way and the wives would say nothing. There would be no other witnesses.
He declined firmly, picked up his small leather bag, and set off, hoping he had foiled their plans.
The dusty streets of the little town were silent. Soon the shutters would be thrown open, the cooking fires would send up smoke from the courtyards, and the women would come out with their jars and plastic bottles to fetch water. The little mopeds and scooters would snarl irritably as they were woken up. But now it was quiet, so Abdul clearly heard the footsteps behind him, two men running to catch up.
He studied the ground, looking for a weapon. The street was littered with cigarette packets, vegetable peelings, small stones and odd bits of wood. A fallen roof tile with a sharp edge would be perfect, but most of these roofs were made of palm leaves. He contemplated a rusty spark plug from a car engine, but it was too small to do much damage. In the end he settled for a stone about the size of his fist and walked on.
They came closer. Abdul stopped at a crossroads, where they might be distracted by having to look in four directions. He dropped his bag then turned to face them. They wore sandals, which was useful: Abdul had boots. They both carried knives with six-inch blades, small enough to be passed off as kitchen equipment, large enough to reach the heart.
They walked towards him and stopped. Hesitation was a good sign. He said: ‘You’re about to commit suicide. Don’t you know that’s a sin?’
He wanted them to turn around and go back, but they held their nerve, and he knew he would have to fight.
Raising the stone, he ran at Haydar, the smaller one, who backed away; but out of the corner of his eye Abdul saw Fouzen coming, and swivelled and threw the stone hard and accurately at near-point-blank range. It hit the man in the face. He cried out, one hand flew to his eye, and he dropped to his knees.
Abdul swivelled again and kicked Haydar in the balls with a booted foot. He had learned, in martial arts training, to make his kicks count, and Haydar howled with pain and bent over, staggering backwards.
Abdul’s instinct was to move in and hammer each of them as he would have in the ring, jumping on a fallen man and smashing punches into his face and body until the referee stopped the match. But there was no referee and he had to restrain himself.
He stared at them, looking from one to the other, daring them to move; but neither did.
He said: ‘If ever I see either of you again, I will kill you.’
Then he picked up his bag, turned around, and walked on.
He felt exultant, and was ashamed of the feeling. It was a familiar emotion. When in the ring he had taken a profound secret satisfaction in the aggression and violence it permitted, and afterwards he always thought: What kind of man am I? He was like the fox in the henhouse, killing every bird, more than he could eat, more than he could ever carry back to his hole, biting and slashing for the sheer joy of it.
But I didn’t kill Fouzen and Haydar, he thought; and they’re not chickens.
A crowd of people filled the café next to the gas station. He saw Kiah, the woman who had questioned him last time he was here. She had the child with her. She was brave, he thought.
There was no sign of Hakim.
Kiah smiled at Abdul and waved, but he turned away and sat alone. He did not want to make friends with her or anyone else. An undercover operative had no friends.
He ordered coffee and bread. The men around him seemed both scared and eager. Some talked loudly, perhaps to mask their fear; some fidgeted impatiently; some sat silent, smoking and brooding. The older men and tearful women in the crowd seemed like relatives come to say farewell, knowing they would probably never see their loved ones again.