02-05-2014, 10:54 AM
Damit. This one liked to hear the sound of his own flaptrap, didn't he? Well, Reed indulged him the chance to show off. She wondered what he was seeing when he scanned the terrain. No doubt it was something similar to her own analysis, but Reed wasn't a soldier. She was something entirely distinct. Though she'd wager his salary far outstripped hers. Living the life of a double-agent apparently isn't grounds for a raise.
She wasn't overly reactive if his story about the Grand Mosque Seizure of '79 was meant to provoke one. The seizure was led by Juhayman al-Otaybi, who belonged to a powerful family of Najd. He declared his brother-in-law Mohammed Abdullah al-Qahtani to be the Mahdi - sound familiar? - or the Islamic redeemer. His followers took that the fact that Al-Qahtani's name and his father's name are identical to Muhammad's name and that of his father, according to the prophecy that His and his father's names were the same as Muhammad's and his father's, and he had come to Mecca from the north to justify their belief. If two generations of conspiracy were all it took to name a new Mahdi, then the world should be crawling with them. In fact, glancing over her shoulder to study the distant tops of white-shrouded heads roaming far below, the world probably was.
The bodies piled up after a couple weeks, between hunger, disease and execution. "Is that right?"
She asked of the impromptu lesson with a derisive snort. Islam forbids any violence within the Grand Mosque, to the extent that plants cannot be uprooted without explicit religious sanction, unless of course, its God's will. Apparently God wanted a bunch of his most faithful to get their throats slit.
Of course the Saudi government exacted their revenge. The so-called Mahdi sealed his own fate. Public executions "for religious transgressions" were tried and beheaded in public squares across eight different cities to set an example for future rebels. Imagine it. The bloodthirsty contradictions squashing a rebellion over a whole fuckton of voodoo, palm-waving, and chants. It sounded eerily familiar to the situation unfolding right in front of her and the tongue-flapper; honestly, she wouldn't mind putting that tongue to better uses; Damn! When did that kid fill out? At least it meant she had job-security.
She shook his hand firmly, sizing him up to so speak. Behind the glossy lenses of his glasses, she wondered if he was searching her face for recognition status. There were a few dead-end plants about Reed's identity as a reporter, though technically the name was credited as behind the scenes producer type work rather than as a journalist. It was likely to explain the shortage of sites to clock her face. The rest was a relative dead end. There was just enough backstory on her to make the identity plausible: a college degree, a social security number, etc. But there was a distinct lack of prom pictures, or childhood ski trips, or any of that other personal shit that staked her claim to an American lifestyle. Not much more than a well-practiced accent, at least. Julie Reed was a ghost, literally. Her DNA, fingerprints, and retinas led to the same statue positioned in a long hall of sculptures.
If he suspected anything amiss, he played along to which Reed was thankful. Like earlier, she was in no mood to deal with extra paperwork.
They released hands amiably, ridiculous press of his lips still seeping onto the back of her hand, but Reed made sure to tilt herself just so to give him a better view of the badge resting against her chest. Or maybe to taunt him with their ongoing charade. He was french, she was American - supposedly - it only made sense to skip the pomp and circumstance and go right for blatant flirting. That, and Trano had wound her so tight lately, the idea of driving him a little jealous wasn't a bad move to make. He was so close to having actual feelings for her - loyalty, primarily - that maybe witnessing her manipulation of someone else might drive him closer to her side of the fence? He was sentimental enough to fall for it: all for good-cause, of course. She had to have his blind trust, or else the entire mission was in jeopardy.
"I may have been a little misleading,"
she met his with a quirky grin of her own, "I work for Nicholas Trano who's downstairs no-doubt buffing up his mani-pedi as we speak."
She thought about sliding closer toward Jacques, but it was too fucking hot to even think about getting within a foot of another human heartbeat. So the knowing glint in her eye would have to suffice. Reed had to dig deep to play damsel in distress, but thankfully Jacques' profile would respond better to ambitious slave-driver than to pampered little princess.
She winked. "I take it you've heard of him? Maybe I could get you an interview."
She carefully monitored Jacques' reaction. "So. Does Légion Première have any interest in America's sweetheart, Nick Trano?"
She wasn't overly reactive if his story about the Grand Mosque Seizure of '79 was meant to provoke one. The seizure was led by Juhayman al-Otaybi, who belonged to a powerful family of Najd. He declared his brother-in-law Mohammed Abdullah al-Qahtani to be the Mahdi - sound familiar? - or the Islamic redeemer. His followers took that the fact that Al-Qahtani's name and his father's name are identical to Muhammad's name and that of his father, according to the prophecy that His and his father's names were the same as Muhammad's and his father's, and he had come to Mecca from the north to justify their belief. If two generations of conspiracy were all it took to name a new Mahdi, then the world should be crawling with them. In fact, glancing over her shoulder to study the distant tops of white-shrouded heads roaming far below, the world probably was.
The bodies piled up after a couple weeks, between hunger, disease and execution. "Is that right?"
She asked of the impromptu lesson with a derisive snort. Islam forbids any violence within the Grand Mosque, to the extent that plants cannot be uprooted without explicit religious sanction, unless of course, its God's will. Apparently God wanted a bunch of his most faithful to get their throats slit.
Of course the Saudi government exacted their revenge. The so-called Mahdi sealed his own fate. Public executions "for religious transgressions" were tried and beheaded in public squares across eight different cities to set an example for future rebels. Imagine it. The bloodthirsty contradictions squashing a rebellion over a whole fuckton of voodoo, palm-waving, and chants. It sounded eerily familiar to the situation unfolding right in front of her and the tongue-flapper; honestly, she wouldn't mind putting that tongue to better uses; Damn! When did that kid fill out? At least it meant she had job-security.
She shook his hand firmly, sizing him up to so speak. Behind the glossy lenses of his glasses, she wondered if he was searching her face for recognition status. There were a few dead-end plants about Reed's identity as a reporter, though technically the name was credited as behind the scenes producer type work rather than as a journalist. It was likely to explain the shortage of sites to clock her face. The rest was a relative dead end. There was just enough backstory on her to make the identity plausible: a college degree, a social security number, etc. But there was a distinct lack of prom pictures, or childhood ski trips, or any of that other personal shit that staked her claim to an American lifestyle. Not much more than a well-practiced accent, at least. Julie Reed was a ghost, literally. Her DNA, fingerprints, and retinas led to the same statue positioned in a long hall of sculptures.
If he suspected anything amiss, he played along to which Reed was thankful. Like earlier, she was in no mood to deal with extra paperwork.
They released hands amiably, ridiculous press of his lips still seeping onto the back of her hand, but Reed made sure to tilt herself just so to give him a better view of the badge resting against her chest. Or maybe to taunt him with their ongoing charade. He was french, she was American - supposedly - it only made sense to skip the pomp and circumstance and go right for blatant flirting. That, and Trano had wound her so tight lately, the idea of driving him a little jealous wasn't a bad move to make. He was so close to having actual feelings for her - loyalty, primarily - that maybe witnessing her manipulation of someone else might drive him closer to her side of the fence? He was sentimental enough to fall for it: all for good-cause, of course. She had to have his blind trust, or else the entire mission was in jeopardy.
"I may have been a little misleading,"
she met his with a quirky grin of her own, "I work for Nicholas Trano who's downstairs no-doubt buffing up his mani-pedi as we speak."
She thought about sliding closer toward Jacques, but it was too fucking hot to even think about getting within a foot of another human heartbeat. So the knowing glint in her eye would have to suffice. Reed had to dig deep to play damsel in distress, but thankfully Jacques' profile would respond better to ambitious slave-driver than to pampered little princess.
She winked. "I take it you've heard of him? Maybe I could get you an interview."
She carefully monitored Jacques' reaction. "So. Does Légion Première have any interest in America's sweetheart, Nick Trano?"