by Caleb Adams
Seven days later, we came back. Having a week to rethink our mission, this time I was eight-months pregnant. Inside my plastic belly, enough high explosives to send the imam and a good hundred of his followers to paradise. We went directly to the right of the stage where last week we had seen a roped-off area for maimed soldiers of war and women near birth. We stood by the barricades, over which was draped a long black banner. And on that black banner, in white Arabic script, were the words of the Shahada: There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.
It was a warm night. Made even warmer by the torches lit at the sides of the stage. My handler was sweating. I could see large beads form at his temples and then make their way down the sides of his face. I remember thinking he would be dead soon, my handler, that is. If not so tonight, then some other day. He was not a man created for this work.
Beside me was a girl. She smelled of mint and thyme, from cooking, I assumed. I looked her way for a moment. She had on a hijab with dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. The shape of her face seemed similar to the girl who had been whipped and murdered a week before. I assumed she was probably the same age as that girl. She was there with a soldier on crutches, one leg on the ground and the other severed at the knee. I assumed he was her father. I thought she did not deserve to die. I thought of many things that night. I know better than to think of anything at all.
We waited through two speakers as we had before. Their speeches were the same. Our cue was to act exactly one minute after the second speaker said his last words. I arched my back and placed a hand on my belly as if a labor pain had suddenly shot through me. When I lowered myself to the ground and sat back on my heels, those around parted to give me a little more room as we had expected. By then, I had already lifted up the bottom of the plastic mold and eased the explosive pack out, where it now rested between my thighs.
My handler was then supposed to kneel in front of me. He was supposed to act as my curtain. He was supposed to put his hands on my shoulders while I moved the explosive pack under one of the barricades. He did nothing. He was paralyzed with terror. Instead, another man knelt before me and looked me in the eyes like he wanted to fuck me. I looked straight back at him, offering him hope.
Finally, my handler crouched at my side and put his hand on my belly. That infuriated the man. He pulled out a sidearm and put the barrel to my handler’s head. He then started berating my handler for not coming to the immediate aid of his pregnant wife. And as he was doing so, I was listening closely for the click of the trigger. I was getting ready to send all of us to our respective resting places.
Fortunately, the man withdrew the gun and walked off. My handler breathed out a sigh of relief and helped me get to my feet. I wobbled a little as I arose, and with my right foot, pushed the explosive pack underneath one of the barricades where the Shahada was draped.
We were supposed to wait for the imam. We were supposed to have visual confirmation. I decided I could not risk it. I did not think my handler could remain there any longer without compromising our mission. Though we did not need it, I asked the girl beside me to help us. I asked her to help part the crowd. She nodded, and with her father, led us through the mass of people toward the back of the stadium. The lights on the rooftop of the stadium dimmed as we were midpoint on the field. The searchlights of the military trucks took to the sky. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The faces in front of me twisted into looks of ecstasy I have only seen on men who were above me while I lay below. I heard a voice come through the loudspeakers. I depressed the detonator.
I have a riddle for you the General told me later that night. Who is one that looks and speaks like the imam but not the imam? I felt sick after his words. Immediately I understood that they had used a double. I should have waited to see the imam take the stage. I had seen enough of his hooked and yellowed finger on the video where I would have known it was not him. I never should have left early to save one Muslim girl. I wondered about that night, though. Wondered if I still would have triggered the detonator even if I knew it was not the imam speaking. Before my eyes closed, I decided that yes I would have. All of them in the stadium were just as complicit in the atrocities that were being committed. No one is innocent in Ayla. All deserve to die.
The next morning they came through the sewers with fire throwers. While we live below the sewers, they are still used by escaped slaves from the labor camps and others who we have not been able to collect and bring into the freight tunnels. For my mistake, the General sent me into the sewers three days later to count bodies. I counted fourteen. The sewers stank of burnt flesh and burnt hair. It is hard to eat with that smell. You are nauseous when awake, you are nauseous when you think, you are nauseous when you return to bed. What you are not though is nauseous when you see their bodies. You are just elated that it was not you.
6th Day of Jumada al-Awwal
“Do you want me to set the pieces?” I asked the man. For the last six months, we had been playing one game of chess before going to sleep. He said eventually it would rewire my brain so that with every action I contemplated, I would be able to choose from three or four futures.
“I have not yet finished reading,” he answered.
“It is the same book every night,” I replied.
“It is the only one I need. Besides you, it was the only item I took before leaving the cellar of the shoe store,” he said, taking the penlight off the page and setting it on the ground between us. A few days ago, upon his entreat, I was able to obtain it from the commissary. He was grateful like a child.
“I took food, medical supplies, warm clothing, and a knife,” I said. “But a book. No, that never made my list.”
“These words fill my mind so it disremembers its hunger. They make me forgot my sores when they bleed, and they bring comfort to my body when it begins to shiver. With regard to the knife, perhaps I was remiss. It now forces me to borrow yours if I ever find the need to slit my own throat.”
“What is the title?” I asked the man. The front cover had been torn away so I was unable to ascertain it with a simple look.
“It is irrelevant. Like either my name or yours.”
“Isn’t what’s inside of it also irrelevant? Like you and me.”
“I will let you decide as I will read you a passage: ‘Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes. Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.’ ” He then looked up at me. “Do you find that irrelevant?”
“I have no God, no soul, and no dreams.”
“That is why, child, they have chosen you as an assassin.”
17th Day of Sha’ban
I was at the Grand Market this morning. The morning is when it is most crowded and therefore the least dangerous. I was with my third handler in four months. The last one killed himself. I found no surprise in his suicide. He ingested a gallon of kerosene. We were able to recover a good portion of it from his body. These fuels we do not come by easily.
We had been sent to terminate the military commander of Ayla, Mullah Akhtar Mohammad Osmani. The General told me that when he arrived in Ayla after the invasion, he ordered all the blue-eyed children who survived to be gathered up. He then ordered their blue eyes to be removed. Outside of his mansion in Ayla, the General said there are six replicas of peacocks. The eyes of some of those children are preserved and woven into the tail feathers of each.
Every morning we were told, he liked to walk around the market and choose his own eggs for breakfast. I was there selling eggs in a basket. In case our mission was compromised, the bottom of the basket was lined with an inch and three-quarters of C-4. In the event the mission was not compromised, I was to sell the military commander the eggs we had injected with thallium. Either outcome I accepted.
I was stopped at a fig seller when I saw him and an escort of his soldiers not more than twenty yards from where me and my handler stood. I clenched my right ha
nd to signal to my handler that our target had been spotted. I took no more than three steps when a girl bumped into me and brought her head close to mine so that her mouth was near my ear.
“You are the one,” she said in a whisper, she said in Arabic.
The man behind her was on one leg, and the scent of mint and thyme on her body were unmistakable. I started to move my hand underneath the basket to find the trigger when she spoke into my ear again.
“If you do not follow me, I will tell them right now who you are.”
That time her words were delivered to me in perfect English, with no trace of an accent. It first brought a chill to me, but after another thought, I withdrew my finger from the trigger. If she were one of them, she never would have asked me to follow her. There would be no need. After identifying me, we would have been rushed right there, and the race would have been on. I either would have been able to trigger the C-4, or I would have found myself dragged off to an excruciatingly long and painful death. I nodded my head and stretched the fingers on my right hand to signal to my handler that while our mission had been compromised, the situation was for the moment not inextricable.
We were led out of the market and onto a street that was filled with both livestock and the harried morning crush of the Ayla denizens. The girl was walking fast, too fast I thought for the situation. We were the only ones at that pace, which alone can bring attention to the Hisbah and the soldiers who watch every heartbeat of the city.
Finally, we came upon a storefront that was still shuttered. The unassuming white sign above it in simple black Arabic script called it out as a café selling shawarma and falafel. The man with one leg let us in. Immediately, after closing and locking the door behind us, he drew a gun from his belt and directed my handler to sit. The girl took me through the kitchen and into another room. She lit a few candles and left. I looked around. The room was simple. On the floor, a mattress. On the wall, a framed picture of the Grand Mosque during the Hajj. The lone window was covered with a black cloth.
Upon her return, she brought in a tray and set it on the ground in front of me. On the tray were some falafel, a bowl of fruit, a few slices of lamb, along with a cup of mint tea. She also brought in a gun of her own, of which no attempt was made to conceal.
“Please, sit. And have something to eat.”
I waited for her to sit and briefly took a second look at the gun. Then I sat. I did not reach for any of her offerings, even though I wanted to take all she had brought and shove it into my mouth. There were two reasons I did not. The first was that I did not want to make her think I was weak. The second because I did not want a hand to leave the basket of eggs I was holding in front of me.
“Would you rather we talk in English or Arabic?” she asked.
I said nothing.
“Since you are my guest, I will therefore speak in your tongue. You are famous up here, do you know that? They are offering great sums of money for your capture.”
Again I remained silent, though I was aware of the price on my head.
“They think you are a man dressed in women’s clothing. I am glad you are a woman. Women here they believe are no smarter than oxen.”
“Why didn’t you say something when you knew it was I who placed the explosives?” I asked.
“Because the imam deserves to die. Most of them deserve to die. They have distorted everything. This is not Islam.”
“Then why were you at the rally?”
“So they think I am one of them.”
“Who is the man escorting you?”
“My uncle, from my mother’s side. He protects me when he can.”
“Do you always wear them?” I asked, speaking of her sunglasses.
“Most of the time. I am sensitive to light. My father stuck a fork in my left eye when I was a child. He did not want to be reminded of my mother’s blue eyes.”
“Why not your right eye?” I asked.
She then took her sunglasses off, along with the niqab she was wearing this time. I did not expect what I saw in front of me. She was stunning. Her perfect black hair unfurled to her waist like a flag. Not a strand I saw was frayed. Her skin was radiant and luxurious. Her bottom lip was full, her top lip thin. She had an oval face, a nose perfectly set upon it. But her eyes, they were magical, and I began to wonder if I was dreaming all of this.
“They are colored differently,” I said.
“Yes, the brown one is from my father. He is from the Arabian Peninsula. Yemen, to be exact. The blue one, as I have said, is from my mother. She was from Iran.”
“Was?”
“Yes, she was from Iran. My father killed her. He took a large rock and smashed it against her head over and over until it caved in. She didn’t even look real after that. It was like I was staring down at a cracked pottery jar.”
“What was the offense?”
“She spoke back to him in front of his family. He is the first one we will kill.”
“The first?” I said.
“Yes, the first. Then we will kill my husband.”
“And the reason for your husband’s death?”
“He beats me. One day I know he will kill me.”
“I do not see any marks on your face,” I said.
She then stood up and placed the gun on the sill of the window behind her. After removing her sandals, she removed her abaya with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Underneath she had on a chemise, dark blue. Satin, I assumed. Her chest stretched it taut, but the black lace trim left the cleavage to the imagination. From there, the rest of the chemise followed her skin like water until it quit mid-thigh. Her legs were pressed together, thin and adoring. I continued on to her feet with a woman’s curiosity and then hurried up again with a man’s lustfulness, wondering if that was all she had worn. She was intoxicating, and I found myself wanting a sip, just a sip. If she had asked, I certainly would have made love to her.
But signs of beatings, I saw none. And so in question, my eyes landed upon her eyes. She answered by removing her chemise. At that moment, her unclothed body before me, I wanted to undress and press my skin gently against hers in order to comfort her deep bruises and scars. I wanted to place my lips on hers and then roll my tongue over her flesh. I wanted to fall asleep beside her and then wake to her in the morning. For another woman, I had never felt like that before. I was mesmerized. And if I believed in either gods or devils, I would not be sure which one I was looking up at.
“Are you satisfied?” she then asked as she picked up her garments from the floor and began fitting them over her body. Afterward, she took the gun off the sill and sat again.
“Why not just kill them yourself?” I asked.
“I am not able to kill like you are able to kill.”
“You are holding that gun like it is the hand of a familiar friend.”
“We are all familiar with them up here. They are a part of our life. You certainly must know this.”
It was at that moment the name Fatima was called. She stood up quickly and then so did I. My handler stumbled into the room, pushed in by a crutch of the man with one leg.
“They have come early to open the restaurant. The shutter is being lifted as we speak,” the man with one leg said in Arabic.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“My father and my husband. It is their restaurant,” she said.
“I should end your life this very second,” I said as I pushed her against the wall, the knife hidden in the sleeve of my abaya now at her throat.
“I do not care if you run the blade across my neck. It would be better than living like this.”
“Give your gun to him,” I said to her uncle. Reluctantly, he handed it over to my handler. I then relieved her of her own gun. “Will they have weapons?”
“Most likely,” she whispered in reply as we could hear their voices coming closer.
After removing the knife from her neck, I nodded to my handler to stand near me as I took a position on one side of the door. Th
e girl and her uncle were on the other side, disarmed and spectators now. Her father and husband made one pass by the door. We could hear the moving of crates or boxes. We could hear them speak. I glanced at my handler. The gun was trembling in his hand.
It was the candles. I am almost sure of it. None of us had remembered to extinguish them. When both her father and husband quieted for an unusual length of time, I realized it had dawned upon one of them, as it had dawned upon me. The barrel of the AK-47 slowly moved across the threshold. Though I had been trained, I had never killed that close before. It wasn’t as intimate as I thought it would be. The knife went through the neck of the gray-bearded man without effort as if through the skin of a fig. I expected more resistance. What I did not expect was him to still be able to fire the weapon. Her uncle fell immediately.
I was now on Fatima’s side of the door. The worst possible position as I was across from my handler. I blinked twice to remind him to hold fire. You never know with these handlers. From outside the room, her husband called out, “Ali, Ali.” He then sprayed eight or nine rounds into the room. My calf felt like it had been sliced open. It was from a ricochet. The noise on the street began to gather momentum as I’m sure all of them were wondering where the sound of the gunfire was emanating.
Her husband jabbed in the barrel of the weapon and quickly pulled it back. Again he repeated the maneuver. I knew he was walking in next. Everyone believes things are safe in threes. Like with her father, I went to plunge the knife into his neck. He was taller than I thought and instead it entered his shoulder. He barely twitched, and then he kicked me back a few feet. When my handler put the gun to his head, he pushed the weapon aside and knocked him with the stock of the AK-47. He took aim at my forehead. I closed my eyes.