Terrorist

by John Updike

  Ahmad has let light into a cave. Charlie is not inside the grimy space, nor are the two operatives, the technician and his younger support. The workbenches and pegboards are just as Ahmad remembers them. The litter and drifts of discarded parts in the corners seem less than before. The garage has been cleaned up, tidied toward some finality. There is a hush as of a tomb that has been robbed the last time. The traffic in the alley throws into the cave dangerous flickers of reflected light; passersby idly glance in. No one is here but the truck is here, the boxy GMC 3500 unprofessionally hand-lettered WINDOW SHADES SYSTEMS.

  Ahmad opens the driver’s door gingerly and sees that the military-drab box still sits there between the two seats, ducttaped to the milk crate. The ignition key dangles from the dashboard, inviting an intruder to turn it. Two thick insulated wires still trail from the detonator into the truck body. The access door, no higher than a crouching man, slides open only six inches before the wires threaded through it begin to pull tight. Through the six-inch opening Ahmad smells the mixture of ammonium-nitrate fertilizer and nitro-methane racing fuel; he sees the ghostly-pale plastic drums, each as high as his waist and each holding one hundred sixty kilograms of the explosive mixture. The glossy white plastic of the containers glimmers like a species of flesh. Spliced yellow wires loop from the blasting caps, enhanced by aluminum powder and pentrite, which are embedded in the bottom of each drum. The twenty-five containers, he can make out in the shadows, have been arranged in a five-by-five square, neatly roped together with doubled clothesline and secured against sliding by taut attachments to the cleats and side bars within the truck body. The whole constitutes a work of modern art, assiduous and opaque. Ahmad remembers the squat technician, the dainty smooth gestures of his oil-tipped hands, and imagines him smiling, gap-toothed, with a workman’s innocent pride. They are all, all in this scheme, parts of a beautiful machine, fitted one against another. The others have vanished but Ahmad remains, to put the final piece into its place.

  Gently he slides back the little wooden door, restoring the array of loaded plastic drums to their fragrant darkness. They have been entrusted to him. Like him, they are soldiers. He is surrounded by fellow-soldiers even though they have gone silent, leaving no instruction behind. The door at the back of the truck has been padlocked. The big hasp has been swung over and its slot closed over the thick protruding staple and a heavy combination padlock snapped shut there. Ahmad has not been told the combination. He understands the message: he must have faith in his brothers, just as they have faith in him, in their unexplained absence, to proceed with the plan. He has become the surviving lone instrument of the All-Merciful, the Perfect. He has been provided with a truck the twin of one he habitually drives, to make his path straight and smooth. Tentatively, he sits in the driver’s seat. The old imitation black leather feels warm, as if just vacated.

  An explosion, he remembers from his physics class at Central High, is simply a solid or liquid being rapidly turned into a gas, expanding in less than a second into hundreds of times its former volume. That is all it is. As if from the rim of such an impassive chemical event he sees himself, small and precise, climb into the unaccustomed truck, start the engine, rev it gently, and back it out into the alley.

  One small thing nags. Getting out to lower the rattling garage door behind them—him, the truck, and the invisible company of his collaborators—Ahmad feels the juice of the breakfast orange and a suppressed nervous excitement press upon his bladder. He had best lighten himself for the journey ahead. He parks the truck, with its motor idling, on one side of the alley, raises the garage door again, and finds the machine shop’s toilet behind a smirched unmarked door in a corner beside the workbench and the pegboard. There is a string that turns on the naked bulb, and a bright porcelain receptacle with an oval eye of dubious water to be flushed when he is done adding the little stream out of himself. He washes his hands scrupulously, using the dispenser of grease-cutting detergent in readiness on the sink. He returns outside and pulls down the rattling door on its knotted cord and realizes with an inner lurch how foolish and dangerous it had been to abandon the truck, its motor running, even for a minute or two. He is not thinking normally, in this exalted yet thin atmosphere of last things. He must keep his head level by conceiving of himself as God’s instrument, cool and hard and definite and thoughtless, as an instrument must be.

  He consults his Timex: it says eight-oh-nine. Four more minutes lost. He rolls the truck forward, trying to avoid potholes and sudden starts and stops. He is behind the schedule that he and Charlie set, but by less than twenty minutes. Calmer now that the truck is moving, part of the flow of the daily traffic of the world, he turns right out of the alley and then left on West Main, passing again the Pep Boys, with its disturbing cartoon image of three men, Manny, Moe, and Jack, conjoined in one three-headed dwarf body.

  The fully awakened city twinkles and swerves around him. He imagines his truck as an encircled rectangle in a helicopter view of a car chase, threading through the streets, stopping at lights. This truck handles differently from Excellency, which had an easy sway to it, as if the driver were sitting on the neck of an elephant. Driving Window Shades Systems, he feels no organic sympathy. The steering wheel doesn’t fit his hands. Every irregularity in the road surface jars the whole frame. The front wheels persistently tug to the left, as if some accident left the frame bent. The weight—twice what McVeigh had, greater and denser than any load of furniture—pushes him from behind when he brakes at a red light and holds him back when he pulls out on green.

  To avoid the center of the town—the high school, the City Hall, the church, the lake of rubble, the stubby glass skyscrapers supplied as sops by the government—Ahmad turns on Washington Street, called that because, Charlie had once told him, in the other direction it goes by a mansion the great general used as one of his New Jersey headquarters. The jihad and the Revolution waged the same kind of war, Charlie explained—the desperate and vicious war of the underdog, the imperial overdog claiming fouls by the rules he has devised for his own benefit.

  Ahmad punches on the dashboard radio; it is tuned in to an obnoxious rap station, spouting unintelligible lewdness. He finds WCBS-AM on the dial and is breathlessly told that traffic on the helix into the Lincoln Tunnel is a logjam as usual, stop-and-go, ho-ho-ho. Rapid chatter from a helicopter and rackety pop music follow. He punches the radio off again. In this devilish society there is nothing fit for a man in his last hour to hear. Silence is better. Silence is God’s music. Ahmad must be clean, to meet God. An icy trickle high in his abdomen reaches his bowels at the thought of meeting the other self, as close as a vein in his neck, that he has always felt beside him, a brother, a father, but one he could never turn to confront directly in His perfect radiance. Now he, the fatherless, the brotherless, carries forward God’s inexorable will; Ahmad hastens to deliver Hutama, the Crushing Fire. More precisely, Shaikh Rashid once explained, Hutama means that which breaks to pieces.

  There is only one New Prospect interchange off Route 80. Ahmad steers the truck southeast on Washington until Washington meets Tilden Avenue, which feeds directly into 80 in its thunderous plunge, this time of day, toward New York City. Three blocks north of the interchange, at a broad corner where a Getty service station faces a Mobil that includes a Shop-a-Sec, Ahmad sees a somewhat familiar figure hanging on the curb waving, not waving like a man absurdly hoping for a taxi—which don’t range free in New Prospect and must be summoned by phone—but waving directly at him. Indeed, he points to Ahmad through the windshield; he holds up his hands as if stopping something physically. It’s Mr. Levy, wearing a brown suit coat that doesn’t match his gray pants. He’s dressed for school on this Monday but instead is standing outdoors a mile south of Central High.

  The unexpected sight stymies Ahmad. He fights to clear his racing mind. Perhaps Mr. Levy has a message from Charlie, though he didn’t think they knew each other; the guidance counselor had never liked his getting the CDL and drivin
g a truck. Or an urgent message from his mother, who for a while this summer would mention Mr. Levy a little too often, in that tone of voice that meant she was embarrassing herself again. Ahmad will not stop, no more than he would for one of those writhing, importuning monsters, made from plastic tubes and blowing air, that bewitch consumers into turning off a thoroughfare.

  However, the light at the corner changes and the traffic slows and the truck has to halt. Mr. Levy, moving faster than Ahmad knew he could, dodges through the lanes of stopped traffic and reaches up and raps commandingly on the passenger’s window. Confused, conditioned not to show a teacher disrespect, Ahmad reaches over and pushes the unlock button. Better have him inside next to him, the boy hastily reasons, than outside where he can raise an alarm. Mr. Levy yanks open the passenger door and just as the traffic has to move again hoists himself up and flops into the cracked black seat. He slams the door shut. He is panting. “Thanks,” he says. “I was getting afraid I’d missed you.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “There’s only one way to get to 80.”

  “But this isn’t my truck.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t be.”

  “How?”

  “It’s a long story. All I have are bits and pieces. Window Shades Systems—that’s funny. Let in the light. Who says these guys don’t have a sense of humor?” He is still panting. Glancing at his profile, where Charlie used to sit, Ahmad is struck by how old the guidance teacher is, removed from the youthful commotion of the high school. Weariness has accumulated under his eyes. His lips look loose, the lid skin below his eyebrows sags. Ahmad wonders how it feels, to be sliding day by day toward a natural death. He himself will never know. Perhaps after being alive as long as Mr. Levy, you don’t feel it. Still short of breath, the man sits up, pleased at having achieved his purpose of getting into Ahmad’s truck. “What’s this?” he asks, of the drab metal box taped to the plastic crate in the space between the two seats.

  “Don’t touch it!” The words come out so sharply that Ahmad out of politeness adds, “Sir.”

  “I won’t,” Mr. Levy says. “But don’t you touch it either.” He is silent, inspecting it without touching it. “Foreign manufacture, maybe Czech or Chinese. It sure isn’t our old standard-issue LD20 detonator. I was in the Army, you know, though they never sent me to Vietnam. That bothered me. I didn’t want to go, but I wanted to prove myself. You can understand that. Wanting to prove yourself.”

  “No. I don’t understand,” Ahmad says. This abrupt intrusion has confused him; his thoughts feel like bumblebees, blindly bumping at the walls inside his skull. But he continues to steer smoothly, gliding the GMC 3500 through the curving connector onto Route 80, bumper-to-bumper at this commuting hour. He is getting used to the unforgiving way this truck handles.

  “As I understand it, they used to rig up explosives inside the Cong’s spider holes and seal them in and detonate them with these. Woodchucking, they used to call it. It wasn’t pretty. But, then, there wasn’t much pretty about the whole business. Except the women. But I heard you couldn’t trust even them. They were Cong, too.”

  Ahmad, his head buzzing, tries to state his position clearly: “Sir, if you make any move to break the wires or interfere with my driving, I will set off four tons of explosives. The yellow is a safety switch, and I’m turning it off now.” He moves it to the right—snap—and both men wait to see what will happen. Ahmad thinks, If something happens we will not know it. Nothing happens, but the switch is now off. It remains only for him to sink his thumb down into the little well whose bottom is the red detonation button, and to wait the microseconds for the ignition of the blasting powder to ripple up through the enhancing pentrite and racing fuel into the tons of nitrate. He feels the smooth red button at the tip of his thumb, without taking his eyes from the jammed highway. If this flabby Jew moves to deflect him he will brush him aside like a piece of paper, like a tuft of carded wool.

  “I have no such intentions,” Mr. Levy tells him, in the falsely relaxed voice with which he advises failing students, defiant students, students who have given up on themselves. “I just want to tell you a few things that might interest you.”

  “What things? Tell me, and I’ll let you out when we get closer to my destination.”

  “Well, I guess the main thing is, Charlie’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Beheaded, in fact. Gruesome, huh? He’d been tortured before they did it. The body was found yesterday morning, dumped in the Meadows, by the canal south of Giants Stadium. They wanted it found. There was a note attached to it, in Arabic. Evidently Charlie was CIA undercover and the other side finally figured it out.”

  There had been a father who vanished before his memory could take a picture of him, and then Charlie had been friendly and shown him the roads, and now this tired Jew in clothes as if he dressed in the dark has taken their place, the empty space beside him. “What did the note say, exactly?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Same old same old, to the effect that he who breaks his oath punishes himself. God will not deny him his recompense.”

  “It sounds like the Qur’an, the forty-eighth sura.”

  “It sounds like the Torah, too. Whatever you say. There’s a lot I don’t know. I’m coming in late.”

  “May I ask, how do you know what you do know?”

  “My wife’s sister. She works in Washington for Homeland Security. She called me yesterday; my wife had mentioned my interest in you, and they wondered if there was a connection. They couldn’t find you. Nobody could. I thought I’d give this a try.”

  “Why should I believe any of what you say?”

  “Don’t, then. Believe it only if it fits with what you know. My guess is it does. Where is Charlie now, if I’m lying? His wife says he’s vanished. She swears he was just in the furniture business.”

  “What of the other Chehabs, and the men to whom they supplied money?”

  Ahmad is being tailgated by a midnight-blue Mercedes driven by an impatient man too young to have earned a Mercedes, unless it was in stock manipulation at the expense of the less fortunate. Such men live expensively in the so-called bedroom towns of New Jersey and jumped from the towers when God brought them down. Ahmad feels superior to this Mercedes driver, and indifferent to his tooting and swerving back and forth as he seeks to dramatize his wish that the white truck were moving less sedately in the middle lane.

  Mr. Levy answers, “Gone underground and scattered, I suppose. They caught two men trying to fly to Paris out of Newark, and Charlie’s father is in the hospital with what’s supposed to be a stroke.”

  “He suffers from diabetes, truly.”

  “Whatever. He says he loves this country, and so did his son, and now his son has died for this country. There’s one theory that he’s the one who fingered his son. The uncle in Florida, the feds have had an eye on him for some time. These agencies are overwhelmed, and don’t communicate with one another, but they don’t miss every trick. The uncle will talk, or somebody will. It’s hard to believe one brother had no idea what the other was up to. These Arabs all pressure each other with Islam: how can you say no to the will of Allah?”

  “I don’t know. I have been denied,” Ahmad says stiffly, “the blessing of a brother.”

  “Small blessing, to go by what I see at school. In jackals, I read somewhere, the pups fight to the death as soon as they’re born.”

  Less stiffly, remembering with a smile, Ahmad tells Mr. Levy, “Charlie was very eloquent for the jihad.”

  “That was one of his acts, apparently. I never met the guy. He sounds like a loose cannon. His mistake, my sister-in-law said—and all she does is echo her boss, she worships the bozo—his fatal mistake was to wait too long to spring his trap. He’d seen too many movies.”

  “He watched a great deal of television. He wanted some day to direct commercials.”

  “My point is, Ahmad, you don’t need to do this. It’s all over. Charlie never mean
t for you to go through with it. He was using you to flush out the others.”

  Ahmad reviews the unfolding, slithering fabric of what he has heard and concludes, “It would be a glorious victory for Islam.”

  “Islam? How so?”

  “It would slay and inconvenience many unbelievers.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mr. Levy says, as Ahmad deftly maneuvers the transition from 80 East to 95 South, seizing the inside lane and not allowing the Mercedes to pass him on the right as the bulk of the traffic continues east toward the George Washington Bridge. On the left, the Overpeck River crinkles in the breeze as it flows toward the Hackensack. The truck is on the New Jersey Turnpike, above swampland being exploited in every scrap that can be drained. The Turnpike branches; the leftward branch leads to the Lincoln Tunnel exit. The plotters saw to it that an E-Z Pass transponder is fixed to the center of the truck’s windshield; it will let him roll smoothly through the toll booth, without more than a moment’s exposure of the youthful driver to the eyes of a toll-taker or guard.

  “Think of your mother.” The conversational ease has gone from Mr. Levy’s voice; a touch of stridency has entered. “She’ll not only lose you but she’ll become known as the mother of a monster. A madman.”

  Ahmad is beginning to take pleasure in not being moved by this intruder’s arguments. “I have never been essential to my mother,” he explains, “though she did, I admit, stick with her assignment once I was unfortunately born. As to the mother of a monster, in the Middle East the mothers of martyrs are highly esteemed and receive a substantial pension.”

  Mr. Levy says, “I’m sure she’d rather have you than a pension.”

  “How are you sure, may I ask, sir? How well do you know her?”

  Gulls, at first a few in his vision through the windshield, then dozens coming into focus, and the dozens becoming hundreds, wheel above a waste site. Beyond their greedy gathering of wings, beyond the sullen Hudson, stands the stone-colored silhouette, notched like an immense key, of the great city, Satan’s heart. Lit from the east, its towers loom in shadow from the west, a dust of haze radiant between them. Mr. Levy’s silence foretells a new attack on Ahmad’s convictions, but for now driver and passenger share without comment their glimpse of one of the world’s wonders, suddenly snatched from view as the traffic hurtles onward and replaced by relatively empty expanses on either side of 95—marsh grass shot through with blue flashes of sky reflected by the watery channels as they wander in the mud. High in his windshield, a silvery cruciform glint escapes Newark International Airport, carving in the milky blank sky a twin-tipped trail like a highway for others to follow, in the web of patterns the air controllers enforce. Ahmad momentarily feels exhilarated, like a plane lifting free of gravity.