Chapter #11Two Tariqs by: imaj   “So what do you really look like,” asks Aizhan as she hauls you up inside the abandoned school building. You scrabble over the window ledge and into a disused classroom, where the desks and chairs have been upended and smashed. In the middle a pile of charcoal and ash is all that remains of the textbooks.
“What do you mean,” you ask, prodding the pile of ash with your foot. A few half burnt pages of paper seem to have survived. Why did the cult feel the need to burn them?
“You don’t normally look like that,” explains Aizhan as she helps the imam climb in through the window. He stumbles as he crosses the window ledge and lands awkwardly inside the classroom. “You’re blending in. So what do you normally look like? Imam el-Bayoumi said your name was Will…”
You motion her to be quiet with a wave of your hand. “This isn’t the time to talk about this,” you hiss as you move across the class to the door. Aizhan tails in your wake. “How long have been doing this,” you ask with a frown. Aizhan and Zarina both seem very young, younger than you at least.
“We’ve been doing solo missions for over a year,” answers Aizhan, not betraying any hint of offense at your question. She cocks her head to the side as you check outside the door. The corridor is empty. “We met Joe last year in America. Zarina thinks he’s very cute.”
The odd change in direction of Aizhan’s conversation catches you by surprise. “He’s also very married,” you snap irritably before realising you’ve raised your voice above the hushed tones of the discussion so far. You push your anger to one side and try to calm yourself. “I said this isn’t the time,” you say through gritted teeth.
Aizhan shrugs, begins to say something then stops. She drops to the floor and gestures at the door. The sound of people walking down the corridor outside is unmistakable. Instinctively, you ready your cloak in case your outburst has attracted someone’s attention. You wait, pushing yourself flush against the wall for an agonising few seconds.
A shadow passes by the door. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief as it continues on its way without coming inside the classroom. You glance at Aizhan, who nods in the direction of the hall. You hold up your hand to halt her – you’ll take a look instead
You peek your head round the door cautiously, as you can only blind someone with your cloak if they aren’t already aware of your presence. Two men are walking down the hall away from you. Smart black suits mark them as something apart from the cultists you have seen in Amarah before. Bodyguards? You don’t know but there’s an easy to find out. You pull the pair into the folds of your cloak and run up behind them, a touch of your fingertip on the back of their necks and they fall to the floor. The only sound is the attaché case that one of them carried as it clatters to the floor.
You beckon Aizhan and the imam to come help you. They come out of the classroom hesitantly. “Help me drag them back inside,” you whisper, taking one of the men under the arms and pulling him along. Aizhan grabs the other whilst the imam takes the case.
“They look different,” says Aizhan as you pull the men inside the class.
You press your hand against one of their foreheads, absorbing his imago. His memories and knowledge settle into the constellations of your collection of faces. “al-Muqanna’s security detail,” you reply, suppressing a smile. The man’s name is Tariq al-Issawi. He has the same given name you adopted for this mission. “Take his clothes off,” you instruct Aizhan, pointing at the man who’s imago you have just copied.
“What,” she says in confusion.
“Take his clothes off,” you repeat. “You wanted the chameleon…” Aizhan wavers uncertainly as she realises your intention. Her lips quiver nervously, but she starts to remove the man’s severe black suit. You start stripping quickly, pulling off everything down to your shorts.
You close your eyes and look inward for a moment, picking out the bodyguard’s imago. It surrounds you, envelops you and you let it change you. Your body hardens and grows, becoming taller and better built. You flex new found muscles, letting your body fall into a wary stance that is both new and old and familiar. The man’s – Tariq al-Issawi’s – memories are there too, and you feel second hand his blind adoration for al-Muqanna. He is so beautiful…
“Oh,” says Aizhan, interrupting your thoughts, snapping your attention back to the classroom. “I… I didn’t expect it to be like that,” she adds, her eyes roaming all over your body looking for some sign of a trick. “Can you do that with anyone? Have you been a woman?”
“I said…” you begin, surprised that Aizhan still wants to talk about this. You sigh and take the bodyguard’s clothes from her. “I usually am,” you tell Aizhan. It’s probably easier to satisfy her curiosity.
“Oh,” she says, her jaw slack. “Oh… And you can be anyone,” she murmurs to herself, grinning. The far away look in her eyes catches your attention. Perhaps you’ll introduce Aizhan your Siobhan alter-ego when this is all finished. She says nothing more as you pull on Tariq’s clothes.
“Will, you should take a look at this,” says the imam as you finish off buttoning up your new shirt. He’s prised open the case and placed it on one of the desks. Inside the case, held in place by a foam inset is a slim looking bone. “What do you make of it?”
You pull at Tariq’s memories – he was carrying the case. They come up blank, all he knows is that the contents were important to al-Muqanna, and that he had to guard it just closely as the cult leader himself. In fact, it seems that Tariq has never seen inside the case, nor has he ever had any curiosity to look. You banish his thoughts before they turn again to al-Muqanna.
Instead you turn to what remains of Maria Vasquez’s memories. Her medical knowledge tells you that the bone is human, a femur. It’s old too, from a body long since dead.
“A soul jar,” says the imam gravely. “An efreeti.”
“al-Muqanna is a demon then,” you muse. “It fits: The devotion in his followers. The obsession with fire. What do we do,” you ask. The imam’s knowledge of local supernatural creatures should be superior to your own.
“They are cunning,” states the imam solemnly. “But they have a weakness for bargaining. Confront the demon with its vessel and threaten to break it. Force it to release its hold over these people.”
You hesitate a little. Tariq’s memories tell you that al-Muqanna is going address his followers in the auditorium. The idea of confronting a demon in a room full of it’s fanatical followers does not appeal to you. “Can’t we just destroy the soul jar here?”
The imam looks straight at you, his leaden eyes boring through you. “The results would be unpredictable,” he says stiffly, the beginnings of Lurga starting to gather round him. “At the least you must destroy the soul jar in its presence.”
You look away instantly. “I’ll do it,” you say, with forced cheer. It seems enough to satisfy the imam. The thickness in the air evaporates. “Put the bone back in the case and I’ll take it with me when I’m ready.”
“I’ll come with you,” interrupts Aizhan quickly.
“You can’t. Not directly anyway,” you explain. “I can disguise myself, but not anybody else. Not without some prep time.”
“Can’t you make me invisible,” she asks hopefully.
“It doesn’t work like that either,” you continue. “I don’t make myself invisible, I stop other people from seeing me. It only works on a limited number of people.” Aizhan frowns. “I guess Imam el-Bayoumi could try to get into the other bodyguard’s suit, but that won’t pass any kind of inspection. Then I would get awkward questions about why I didn’t notice. So it has to be alone.” You sigh unhappily, frustrated that your best chance of success leaves you the most exposed.
“We could follow you at a distance,” offers Aizhan. “So we can help you if you need it.”
You have no intention of exposing yourself so badly that you need rescuing, but you won’t turn down the offer of help either. You smile at Aizhan with as much sincerity as you can muster. “Thank you.”
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