Quinn had slept until just after noon, and was just starting to stir, when one of the Zayd's lieutenants shoved his way back into Hussein's bedroom.
"Come with me," the man directed Quinn, who had just sat up groggily on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt closed.
"He's too sick to go anywhere," protested Hussein.
"He was walking in the hall."
"And now, his stitches are bleeding," the doctor said, affronted.
"He's not as sick as you say," the man insisted, and gestured towards Quinn again.
Quinn knew he'd have to deal with a confrontation, now or later. It might take pressure off Hussein if he was compliant in some way. Besides, he might learn something.
"It's alright," Quinn said, and followed the man down the hall and down the stairs, Hussein anxiously trailing him in case he should lose his balance.
Zayd was seated at the head of a table, and didn't rise when Quinn entered. His soldiers surrounded him like an honor guard. He eyed Quinn suspiciously, and stated, "You are an American." When this didn't elicit a response, Zayd tried again. "A spy," he suggested.
"He's my patient, and a guest in my home," Hussein said, flustered.
"A spy is not a guest," Zayd pointed out, his limited patience already raveling thin.
"He's not a spy! He asked me to tell you, you were talking too loud!" Hussein avowed.
"This kuffar heard our plans of attack, here," Zayd said, looking around to his men for approval.
Quinn finally spoke up. "I only heard a few words," he said. "It didn't make sense." He let a moment go by, and decided to go with his gut and push it a bit further. "Now that I know, it really doesn't make sense."
Quinn was betting on that the lieutenant who had retrieved him still had half a brain functioning, under all the jihadist fervor. A moment later Quinn was proven right, when the guy spoke up and asked, "What doesn't make sense?"
"He's just out of prison," Quinn answered, pointing to Zayd. "You think they're not gonna have him under surveillance? You try another attack now, you'll all be arrested or imprisoned, this time for life."
Quinn had his back to the wall, Hussein at his side, near the open door to Zayd's chamber. With his peripheral vision, he saw a blue glow in the hallway, and turned his head just enough to see that a figure in head-to-foot blue fabric was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching the confrontation. Carrie. Listening. Had to be, because the neighbor lady would have known to keep moving and keep her nose out of this. Fuck. But now, he was on the carpet in front of these guys, the confrontation was about to blow and there was no derailing it. Quinn needed to finish what he'd started. In his mind, he silently ordered to her stay put, watch, not move, go upstairs, anything but blow her cover and walk into this shithole trying to save him. He turned back to Zayd. There was no way to de-escalate the situation, so Quinn stepped up and goaded him.
"Unless getting arrested is the point. The real jihad is in Syria. But there, you'd have to fight."
Quinn expected this implication of cowardice would enrage the terrorist leader, and he wasn't disappointed. Zayd approached Quinn belted him across the face hard enough to drive him into the wall, knocking the wind out of him, and send his mind spinning.
Too weak, I'm too weak, and there are too many of them… stay the fuck back, Carrie, I got this…He knew she'd still be watching, just hoped to God that she'd control herself and not come charging to the rescue. Hussein grabbed Quinn's shoulders, and helped him to stand. Quinn turned his head again to check to see if the figure in blue was still there, had approached, or left. She hadn't moved at all. He gave her the slightest shake of his head, made it look as if he was shaking off the punch in the face. But he looked directly at the eye cover, wordlessly signaling as best he could, "No, stay put."
Quinn wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and did his level best to close the discussion. He had to get the fuck out of there before Carrie lost her cool. "Look, I understand you not wanting to go, is all I'm saying. I've seen enough of Syria to know." Zayd and his men stared at him. He stumbled a little, and the doctor caught him under the arms.
"I'm a walking staph infection. I need to go. So follow me, kill me, do whatever you need to do. Just make sure the police aren't watching. Don't make a mess," he advised. Turning to leave he emphasized, "I'm a guest here." He breathed a sigh of relief when no one followed.
Hobbling to the hallway, he saw that the figure in blue was gone. Maybe I imagined it, Quinn thought crazily.
But he was right, it had been Carrie. When Hussein and Quinn returned to the bedroom, she was there, pacing, the burqa a puddle of blue fabric on the floor where she had flung it. She walked right to Quinn, touching his cheek and his lip where the guy had punched him.
"Quinn, what the fuck? Are you alright?" she murmured. Quinn pitched forward and collapsed right into her arms, only Hussein's support keeping his weight from taking both of them to the floor. The doctor and Carrie got their arms around under his shoulders, and helped Quinn back to the bed, one on either side. Blood was already soaking through the back of his shirt. With a grimace, he lay back down.
"I saw what you did. Why are you antagonizing those guys? We need to get you healthy and get out of here. No offense to your hospitality, Hussein," she said.
"No offense," Hussein agreed, with a scowl on his face. "They are bad men." He helped Quinn open his shirt. Sure enough, the violent motion had broken the healing stitches. "I must suture again some of these," Hussein said apologetically. "No lidocaine, I am sorry. It is gone last month."
"Don't be sorry," Quinn said. "I'd be dead without your help."
Carrie sat in a chair on one side of the bed, near Quinn's head, while Hussein gathered what he needed, and stitched up the exit wound again .
"You don't have to hover," he said, seemingly annoyed at her nurturing. "Fuck me," Quinn hissed, as the doctor sterilized an open spot and began to stitch the wound closed again. She grabbed Quinn's hand.
"No, you're right," Carrie said, her eyes filling. "You don't need me, or anybody else. But I want to be here. So let me." Quinn didn't answer, but clutched her hand hard in reply.
His eyes were squeezed shut at the sharp pain of stitches without anesthetic, for which Hussein apologized profusely. When he finished, cleaned Quinn up, administered antibiotics and painkillers, and bandaged him. Carrie felt like she could finally relax and tell him what happened during the day. His grip on her hand lessened, but he didn't let go.
Hussein went out into the sitting room to wash his hands. Before he shut the door, he cautioned Quinn and Carrie. "I will guard this door," he said. "You will rest now. Miss, you must not be seen. Those men, they come back in? You must hide," he said, indicating the closet. Carrie nodded. Who knew what she would actually do, should that happen? But there was no point in arguing with the kind doctor.
The pain must have been decreasing, because Quinn took a deep shaky breath, and let it out. He opened his eyes, and finally let go of her hand. "So, honey," he said sarcastically. "How was your day?"
"Fuck, Quinn," Carrie said. "I was on the stairs. You know I saw it all. How did they know you were here? I was getting worried I'd have to do something drastic."
"Like?" Quinn inquired, eyeing her.
"Like shoot somebody." she said, opening her jacket to reveal her sidearm.
"Christ. I'm glad you didn't. We'd have been in the shit. But I do wish I had my sidearm," he said softly. Carrie opened her purse, and pulled out Quinn's smaller Smith and Wesson. Then she pulled the canvas bag over to the bed, rummaged around for a minute, and pulled Quinn's Beretta out, which she had collected from a case at the hideout. She laid it next to the first one, on the bed, stock towards him. He gave a fragile smile as she also pulled out his boot knife and holster, and put down the extra clip next to the pistols.
"Alright, then," he said.
"Yeah," Carrie said. "We're in hiding and I've lost credibility with a lot of my contacts, not to mention, someone wants to blow our heads off. Doesn't make sense for us to walk around unarmed." In the next few minutes, Carrie detailed her visit with During, her visit to the fallback boxes, and told Quinn about her hideout cleanup. "It's not whistle-clean, but it would pass a casual inspection. People might think that kids just hung out there to smoke, not that a black ops specialist had his HQ there. Oh, and I brought your computer."
"Just what I need. Hope Hussein has WiFi, I've been missing my dose of PornTube."
Carrie smirked. "Funny. You know, I can count on one hand the number of times you've made me laugh."
Quinn closed his eyes again. "Yeah, well, there hasn't been a lot to laugh about."
She reached out, and stroked Quinn's hair. "In any case, I think we can expect a call from Saul in a day or two. Or possibly Otto, if he thinks it isn't safe. Meanwhile, you need to not get fucking killed by those guys down the hall," she said.
"I heard what they're planning, Carrie. It's not pretty. There's going to be a major attack in Berlin. They saw me when I went down the hall to the toilet. I'm sure Zayd is going to think I'm a loose end that needs cleaning up," Quinn said.
"Get better fast," she said. "We need to get our hands on the documents, and figure out what the hell is in them that could be making us a target. As for Zayd, couldn't you tell Dar Adal or Saul about the splinter group downstairs? Have Allison put her resources on it?"
"There might not be time for that. And I think I could get them to change their mind," he said. "I'm pretty sure that Zayd's second in command is susceptible. I don't think he appreciated being supplanted as leader, when that asshole got out of prison."
"Maybe, maybe not," Carrie said. "At least we have weapons now. And a bit of extra cash. I also got you this." She dug through the bag, her delicate fingers lifting out the half-completed male passport.
Wearily, Quinn eyed the counterfeit document. "You think I'm going on the run with you?" His eyes were almost closed, but he managed a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.
"Yeah, I do think so. If we have to. I'm not leaving you, Quinn," she said seriously, taking his hand again.
"Exhausted, Carrie . Need to sleep," Quinn muttered. Whether he was ducking a difficult conversation, or really was tired, Carrie didn't know. Probably both.
"OK," she said. "OK, rest now. I'll keep watch."
The confrontation and additional minor surgery had drained every last bit of energy from Quinn. When he heard Carrie's voice say that she'd keep watch, the final barrier between Quinn and unconsciousness was lifted. He fell sound asleep, with Carrie still holding his hand.
The sun was low in the sky, casting an orange glow through the threadbare curtains, when Hussein pushed the door open, the smell of food wafting in after him. "Dinner," he said.
"I'm sorry," Carrie said to their gracious host. "I should be helping you."
"You should not," Hussein said. "You must hide yourself. I can do cooking, it is not difficult. Please, will you eat? And you?" he said, indicating Peter, who was blinking and rearranging himself into a reclining position on his back.
Hussein brought simple plates, lentils, rice, and tea. Quinn was able to sit up and nibble, while Carrie, who hadn't eaten anything substantial since Quinn had knocked her out in the woods, found that she was ravenous and had to hold herself back from eating third portions of everything. She sipped at the tea – mint, this time – and leaned back in the kitchen chair next to Quinn's bed. The three of them had eaten mostly in silence, but now, Carrie belched noisily, and grinned.
"Excuse me," she said. "Wow."
"Good one," Quinn slurred around a mouthful of lentils.
"You like the food," Hussein said, gratified.
"I like all kinds of cuisine, but yours is one of my favorites," she said honestly. "I appreciate the meal. I appreciate everything you've done, Hussein. You… you've done more for us, strangers, than people who've known us our whole lives. I don't know how to thank you," she said, and put her hand on Quinn's knee through the covers, to indicate she understood he'd saved him.
"I am glad. I am happy to help," he said.
Quinn finally spoke, getting to the heart of the matter. "Help?" he asked plaintively. "You picked me up off the streets, gave me your blood. Why?"
Hussein took a deep breath, and facing the window, spoke softly, his face bathed in the orange glow of the evening light.
"My wife and I," he said, serene in the hold of a memory, "were doctors together. She died when our clinic was bombed in Mosul."
Carrie and Quinn said nothing, just listened, Carrie's hand still on Quinn's knee.
"I can't practice medicine here, they won't honor my license. So I took a job managing this building," he said, shrugging. "When there's room, I care for people like yourself, who wouldn't receive treatment otherwise. People who are good people, who are in trouble."
Carrie waited a moment for Hussein to continue speaking. "I'm so sorry, Hussein," was all she could come up with.
He looked at her, looked at Quinn. He smiled, and it was a genuine smile that lit his eyes. "She would approve," he said. He seemed to be talking both about nursing Quinn back to health, and about sheltering Carrie and Quinn.
"Well," Carrie said, "I thank her. And you," she said.
"Yes," Hussein said. "I will check more times, for bleeding and pain. But I will leave you undisturbed. You must both sleep."
Carrie offered to do the washing up, but Hussein waved a hand at her, insisting that she'd be better off in a room more distant from the hall, where it was easier to hide. She had no idea how they'd ever repay this man.
Unfortunately, he lived upstairs from a terror cell. As Quinn dozed and Carrie kept watch over him, she heard the voices again from downstairs, muttering and plotting. Occasionally someone shouted, and someone else shushed them. Quinn had been right, she could hear what was going on down there, a lot more than she'd like. And it wasn't good news. She heard the words "jihad," and "attack", that was certain.
She took it all in, and found herself shivering when she made out another word:
"American."