The First Casualty by Gregg Loomis Page B

“Whatever looks good.”
    Locking the door of the claustrophobic toilet, he again sat on the seat and read the text on the screen.
    â€œThe picture you sent could be Habiba. NLN. See attached photo. Habiba is believed to be a woman born in Spokane (Wash.) of an American mother of Bosnian descent and Saudi father. She gave her name in college as Abeer Al-Wafd and was active in radical, pro-Islamic causes. She was believed to have been active in the Balkan War 1990–1995 and was convicted in absentia in 1998 by the International Criminal Tribunal of the murder of Serb Catholics by Bosniaks (Bosnian Moslems). She is suspected of planning and participating in both the 2000 attack on the Cole and the 2002 bombing of the resort in Bali, Indonesia. Because of her European looks and fluency in both English and Farsi, Habiba, as she calls herself, passes easily from the Islamic world to the West without detention so far. The last-known contact was a security camera at Heathrow that photographed a physically similar woman disembarking from a flight from Sana’a, Yemen, a week ago today.”
    Jason called up the attachment, a fuzzy black-and-white snapshot of a woman in a hijab, the head scarf common to Bosnian Moslems, not the niqab, the full robe and veil revealing only the eyes, hands, and feet, common to Yemeni women as demonstrated by a woman to the left of the picture. The scarf, of course, concealed the hair; and, pulled tight around the face, could be distorting the features.
    Could be Natalia. Could be the person he was going to see, this Herka Kerjck, had mentioned she was expecting him. Could be idle conversation had gotten to the wrong ears in time to set up an attempt to stop him. Could be. Jason wasn’t sure; he didn’t have to be. One of the many things he had learned working for Narcom was that suspicion and paranoia were good for the health.
    As he walked back to his seat, a glimpse out of the windows told him the train was climbing a grade cut into the mountainside. To his right was sheer rock; to his left, empty space. Mountain roads have tunnels, he thought. He took his seat, giving Natalia a smile. And tunnels meant darkness. Maybe not. He could see lights recessed into the car’s ceiling. He looked around, failing to see a switch.
    â€œLooking for something?”
    â€œYeah.” He pointed upward. “How do you turn those lights on?”
    She put down the copy of the magazine she had gotten from somewhere, a magazine with a man in a suit on the cover along with Cyrillic letters. His practiced, sincere expression told Jason he probably was involved in politics.
    â€œThey come on automatically when it gets dark in the car, why? You will have arrived at Gospić, Lika, before sunset.”
    â€œJust curious.”
    She gave him a questioning look before returning to her magazine.
    He was about to ask about the lunch lady when the car seemed to blink: It went ink dark for less than a second, then full light retuned. Before he could comment, it happened again.
    Jason tensed, anticipating what he guessed was coming. He didn’t have long to wait. The car plunged into midnight again, this time for longer than before. There were no lights from above. Quickly and silently, Jason jumped into the aisle, only a split second before he heard something rip the seat’s fabric, something that he guessed would have stabbed into his chest had he not moved.
    There was heavy breathing. He sensed movement from across the table. Jason froze, fearful any move would give away his location.
    Then it was light again, a transition so sudden he was nearly blinded by it. But not so blind he could not see the sun’s reflection shimmering along the six or more inches of steel embedded in the seat back where he had been sitting.
    He didn’t have long to look.
    Natalia snatched the blade out of the slash in the fabric. Her pretty face was contorted in hatred as she jumped onto the low