The Barrabas Strike [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE The tall man in black robes and turban touched his forehead to the cold gravel and, hands pressed tightly palm to palm, rose from his knees. His morning prayers finished, Sayyid Hosain al-Din opened his eyes to the glorious dawning, an eastern sky shot with fire orange and vibrant turquoise. The craggy peaks that stood between him and the sunrise were backlighted, distant flat-black cutouts. All around him the earth was shades of soft purple, and the quickly evaporating night dampness filled the air with the clean, aromatic scent of the high desert. The surrounding serenity and beauty seemed unreal to Hosain, blatantly fraudulent in color and perspective, like a crudely retouched photo postcard. He shivered. Exhaustion was distorting his perception. He had not had a full night's sleep for more than three weeks. Hosain inhaled slowly and deeply several times, then, in a booming baritone, broke the morning's hush with a litany of praise to Allah. "O He, O he who is He, O he who is naught but He!" And Hosain began to walk purposefully across the plain of dusty stones. As he walked, he recited the words of the Koran over and over. He, O he who is He, O he who is naught but He!" The cadences of speech and movement were precisely joined. It took six paces to complete the sentence, sue paces and one deep breath. He moved stiffly at first, but after a dozen repetitions his body began to warm to the task. With each succeeding breath the flow became more effortless, until he glided along like a column of black smoke, the hem of his robes barely swishing over the rubble.