Kill Alex Cross by James Patterson

camp outside of Najran had given her the name of the mosque. Just in case , he’d said. And use the back door in the alleyway . Hala hadn’t even told Tariq about the location until last night.
    It had been pitch-dark when they came in, and lights were prohibited. Now a single high window was letting in just enough gray dawn to show her details she hadn’t seen before. This was a storage room, wasn’t it? There were boxes of paper and other office supplies. Some canned goods. An enormous wooden lectern, listing a bit to the side, like an old person who needed to use a cane.
    And what was this? She saw that their things had been brought from the hotel. Both suitcases, Tariq’s laptop, and the black weapons case were stacked neatly by the room’s only door.
    “Is it safe to move around?” Tariq asked.
    “I suppose it is. Let’s see.”
    Hala stood up. They could at least change their clothes. She was halfway across the room when the door suddenly opened from the outside. Had someone been watching them all night?
    A portly woman, somewhere between middle-aged and old, walked in on them.
    “You’re awake,” the woman said in Arabic. “Good. We brought your suitcases here.”
    She had a basin of water in both hands, still steaming hot. There were two hand towels on her shoulder and what looked like a blue silk hijab for Hala. Clothes from back home.
    “As soon as you’re ready, you can come have breakfast with him,” she said. She set the basin and towels on a chair, then turned to go. “I’ll just be outside.”
    “Excuse me. Breakfast with who?” Hala asked.
    The woman stopped, but only to look them over again, assessing them in some way. “Don’t be too long,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

THEY WERE BROUGHT around through the darkened back of the mosque. Hala could hear the Fajr prayer coming through the walls as they moved quickly along, carrying their shoes.
    The housekeeper, or whatever she was, stopped at a tall carved door and let them inside, but she didn’t follow. The breakfast was already set.
    “Brother. Sister,” the man at the table greeted them, also in Arabic. “Come and sit. The coffee’s getting cold.”
    He was squat, like a man crossed with a toad, but his face was open and seemed friendly. He watched them come into the room with the kind of amused curiosity one usually reserved for a visit by children.
    It was only when they came closer that Hala noticed the wheelchair. The heavy table and his long shirt had obscured it until now.
    “Thank you for having us, Sheikh,” Tariq said. “We’re very sorry for the imposition. We apologize.”
    He waved their concern away. “You were right to come here,” he said. “And I’m not the imam of this mosque. Just a Family member like yourselves. You can call me Uncle. Now, please, don’t be so polite. I know you must be hungry.”
    She was, but Hala still paused to take stock. The man — Uncle — had scrambled eggs, pita, and jam on his plate. There were several other untouched dishes on the table.
    He picked up on it right way. “Smart,” he said. “But completely unnecessary. What would you like me to try?”
    “The labneh ,” she said. “And the date spread.”
    She didn’t back down, and it seemed to please rather than antagonize Uncle. His grin only broadened as he took large bites of both, then poured coffee for all three of them from the same pot.
    “Very good. I’m impressed. Now, enough antics. You can relax,” he told them in a quiet voice that was also firm and reassuring.
    As they loaded their plates, Hala’s mind came back to the night before. “What about the others?” she asked. “Is everyone —”
    “Perfectly safe, thanks to you,” Uncle said.
    It seemed imprudent to complain about the mother bitch right now. “The assignment didn’t come off,” she said instead.
    “Yes, but not without some impact all the same,” he answered. “Two of their police officers are dead. That’s a powerful