The 19th Hijacker

by James Reston

  “‘I’m not much of a warrior,’ I said.

  “‘We should stop,’ Omar said abruptly. ‘Let’s end with a reading.’ He handed me a Koran, already open to a certain page. He pointed to the verse. ‘This is called the Verse of Repentance. Let’s read it together.’

  “Our words ground together disjointed-like. I stumbled on the unfamiliar phrases, while Omar’s voice was lyrical, polished, mesmerizing, as he spoke the words almost from memory. ‘“Oh ye who believe, what is the matter with you that, when you are asked to march forth in the cause of Allah, you cling heavily to the earth?”

  He stopped. ‘Read the rest yourself, Sami … as if you really believe it. I will listen.’

  “I traced the words on the page with my index finger: ‘Are you pleased with the life of this world rather than the Hereafter? But little in the enjoyment of this worldly life compares to the Hereafter.’

  “‘Now,’ Omar said with a smile. ‘Don’t you feel better?’

  “‘Not really.’

  “‘Listen to what Anas bin Malik says about that verse.’

  “‘And who might he be?’

  “‘He’s a prophet of the faith, Sami. Show some respect.’

  “‘I’m sorry. Am I supposed to apologize?’ I asked.

  “‘Not yet,’ he answered. ‘Anas bin Malik said about the Verse of Repentance, “Nobody who dies and who believes in Allah would want to come back to this world, even if he were given the whole world and all that is in it … except the martyr. For the martyr, on seeing the superiority of martyrdom, would like to come back to the world and get killed again in Allah’s cause.”’

  “‘I’m not much of a martyr either,’ I told him.

  “Honestly, yahabibti, I was glad to get out of there … Uh-oh. Gotta go. Atta just drove up.”

  Early the next morning, Karima went out to get a newspaper. Perhaps, she thought, there will be news from Afghanistan or Pakistan. At the crowded newspaper shop on the corner, she jostled for a space so she could leaf through some magazines. A story in Der Spiegel caught her attention. To its consternation, the BKA was admitting that it had had the apartment at Marienstrasse 54 under surveillance during 1998 and 1999, because it suspected two of its residents, Mohamed Atta and a portly terrorist named Marwan al-Shehhi, had links to Osama bin Laden’s terrorist organization. The planning for the 9/11 attack had gone forward right under their eyes. The last known occupant of the apartment, the article said, was a Yemeni scholar named Ramzi Omar—but he had disappeared. Karima wondered if Recht was party to this catastrophic negligence.

  Back at her apartment she rummaged in her purse for a tissue—and felt something strange, an envelope. “Sister Karima” was scrawled on the outside. And inside:

  Greetings, Karima Ilgun,

  I hope that, God willing, you are coping with the pressures the authorities are putting on you. We applaud your behavior so far. We have been observing you from far and near.

  Her mind flashed back to the customers at the newspaper store, and then she rushed to the window to see that no police car was parked at her curbside.

  We know about the tapes and journal. I am making arrangements for them to be picked up. Heed what the Noble Koran says: Eat up not another’s property unjustly or sinfully.

  Do not underestimate their importance to us. These are the sacred relics of Abu Tariq al Lubnani’s martyrdom, may Allah have mercy on him. Under no circumstances are you to share these things with the police.

  If you do not honor this demand, it will go very badly for you and for your invalid mother. We will take her into our care, and we will exact our justice on her for the transgressions of her daughter, according to our reading of the Sharia. For her wrong and for yours, there will be a painful torment.

  You will be hearing from me soon. Omar.

  June 6 (continued)

  “Okay, I’m back. Whew. That was close. Atta turns up at the oddest times.

  “By the winter of 1999, I began to think that I was not such a hopeless case. I didn’t have to call Omar anymore—he’d call me. He was holding public classes. Sometimes with, like, fifty people. But my sessions were private. Special treatment for a special student.

  “One time I was late. He sat all alone in the library at the Box, reading the Koran. On the seat beside him as usual were two cell phones. He let me know I was late.

  “‘Well, hail the Red Baron! Late but flashy!’

  “He schooled me that day in the glorious victories of the Arabs. Beyond Badr, the early victories and the early caliphs, the triumph over the Persians at Qadisseyya and over the Byzantines at Yarmou, how Islam expanded through the Middle East and established the Caliphate. It was all new to me. I told him proudly of my ancestor who fought at Yarmouk, but I never really knew before what the battle was about.

  “He talked especially about the role of the second caliph, Omar. Omar was great because of his discipline, his humility, and because he rejected anything showy and ostentatious.

  “‘And he was always on time,’ Omar said mischievously.

  “He lectured me about the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, which I’d read about in National Geographic magazine. It had a picture of the Horns of Hattin. So I knew about Saladin’s triumph over the Crusaders. But the victory of the Egyptian Mamluks over the Mongols in the thirteenth century? I’d never heard about that.

  “He always came back to Badr, the first big triumph of Muhammad over the rich and powerful empire of the Quraish. He loved to tell about the few hundred raiders ambushing the great caravan. It came about by appointment, he said. God adjudicated the outcome, sent down three thousand angels, led by Gabriel, to slay the infidels. The whole thing struck me as magical thinking. It’s a great story, don’t you think? It’s world history, right?

  “One time he said, ‘The Sheikh often quotes the Prophet, “I wish I could raid and be slain, and then raid and be slain, and then raid and be slain.”’ He was so passionate about that kind of stuff, but it always made me kind of uncomfortable.

  “When I asked him who he was talking about, he was embarrassed—he averted his eyes, I remember now. Which he never, ever did.

  “‘Oh, he’s just a good Muslim,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned him. Just a rich man with good intentions who’s made some pretty bad mistakes. We’re not sure of him, I can tell you.’

  “‘Who is he?’ I asked. And Omar said, ‘Never mind, Sami. I shouldn’t have brought him up. It’s what the Prophet says that’s important.’

  “‘Come on, Omar. What’s the big deal? Just tell me his name.’

  “And then he told me. ‘Sheikh Osama bin Laden.’

  “So now you know. I had no clue who this guy was…. Anyway,

  Omar didn’t really want to talk about the Sheikh. He turned the conversation back on me. Who was I? What did I stand for? What did I want out of life? I felt queasy every time he started grilling me like that.

  “One time he put it to me this way: ‘Don’t you want to participate in the struggle of your generation?’ And another time: ‘You grew up in the shadow of Sabra and Chatila. How can you not see that Islam is under attack? Isn’t that Palestinian hellhole just a few blocks from your parents’ apartment?’ I had never really paid attention, I had to admit.

  “And the pilot thing, he was very interested in that. ‘What is it about flying that so appeals to you? Is it because you think it’s so beautiful up there, so clean, not messy like down here on the ground? If you flew over Beirut, I suppose Sabra and Chatila would look just like the rest of it.

  “He started calling me ‘the Phoenician.’ ‘You think of yourself as a Phoenician rather than a Palestinian. But Phoenicia is a dead civilization, and Phoenicians were traders and hustlers and cheaters. We are all Palestinians now.’

  “‘Phoenicia was a great civilization,’ I protested. They founded Carthage and Marseilles and Barcelona, right? I rem
ember that from grade school.’

  “He asked me if I knew what the word ‘Phoenicia’ meant.

  “‘No.’

  “‘Come on, Sami. Use your imagination. I bet you can guess, since you’re the Phoenician.’

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t guess. So he told me.

  “‘It’s named after the Phoenix, the bird of Arabia.’ Which I thought was the falcon. Then he told how the phoenix reached five hundred years of age, set itself on fire, and emerged from the ashes, born again.

  “With each session I was becoming less and less sure I wanted to be there. And yet I wanted to prove myself to him. His grasp of history and the Koran was amazing. His passion and commitment were irresistible. When he was moved, I was moved too. I could never doubt his sincerity, even right up to now, even as I am really struggling.

  “I felt like a nonentity next to him. Nothing, no dreams, no ambitions. Spoiled rich kid, living off daddy, unable to stand on his own two feet. I stopped trying to joke around with him, and he began to compliment my ‘progress.’ I was proud.

  “Sometimes, Atta would stop by. The first time he limped into the room—he always irritated me, the little shit—I thought about dropping down to one knee, swirling my hand in a swami salute, and proclaiming my loyalty to the great Emir. But I thought better of it.

  “Which was good, because after a while, I came to expect Atta to be there. I liked his attention, even if he acted like a jerk. He’d interrupt Omar to make political points. The religious stuff bored him. Then, one day, Omar and I had been alone for the whole hour, and he’d talked quite a lot about himself. He was ashamed he had never gone on hajj. He had failed a seminal obligation of Islam. Also, he’d never found a suitable wife.

  “And then he talked more about jihad. The inner struggle: how the true believer strives for perfection, resists all the temptations that might undermine his quest for betterment. He spoke of the conflicts in men, the conflicts between love and hatred, generosity and greed, compassion and aggression.

  “‘Take Atta, for example,’ Omar said. ‘Atta is consumed by hatred.’ It was the first time he spoke ill of Atta. It was so weird: that very moment, Atta showed up. He looked terrible, like he’d been up all night. They exchanged this little salute. Atta pointed to Omar with a crooked finger, and Omar pointed back in the same way. And then Atta slumped down into a chair, closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall. Something was upsetting him. ‘Don’t mind me. Go on. Don’t let me interrupt.’ Omar gave me a knowing look, as if to say, ‘See?’

  “And then Omar suggested Surah 8, 65–66 which I knew, by then, and together we read: ‘O Prophet, urge the believers to fight! If there are twenty steadfast persons amongst you, they will overcome two hundred. If there be a hundred steadfast persons they will overcome a thousand of those who disbelieve, because they, the disbelievers, are people who do not understand.’

  “Atta sat there, staring at me with those eyes. Then he chimed in from memory. ‘It is not for the Prophet to take prisoners of war and free them with ransom, until he has made a great slaughter among his enemies. You desire the lucre of this world, but Allah desires for you the Hereafter.’

  “Suddenly I was very tired. I wanted to get out of there. As I rose to leave and was thanking Omar, Atta said, ‘Just a minute, Sami. I have something to tell you.’

  “I said it better not take long, because I was off to Greifswald for my second anniversary with you. That really threw Atta. Any talk about you, my darling, seemed to upset him. But he said fine, it wouldn’t take long. I thought about when he’d dismissed the Syrian. But that was not it at all. He said he wanted me to know that he’d be going away for a while to finish his dissertation. I asked him where, and he said, ‘Originally, I thought about going to New York. There’s a city planning expert in New Jersey. But I’ve decided against it.’

  “New York sounded pretty good to me. I always wanted to go there.

  “‘Come on, Sami. America is controlled by Jews. You know how hard that would be on me. New York is their Mecca.’

  “I said, ‘You know something, Atta? I’ve never met a Jew in my life. So, I’ll just have to take your word for it.’

  “‘Bosnia, Kosovo, Chechnya … the Jews planned all those conflicts, just like they instigated World War II so they could found Israel.’

  “There was no arguing with him. I don’t know what I would have said anyway. I have no idea who runs New York. He went on about this idiot Clinton, how the Jews sent their harlot to bring him down. Omar was watching us the whole time, judging me and how I reacted to Atta’s rant. I’m thinking I have a totally new perspective on how Omar sees Atta when he goes off like this.

  “‘Open your eyes, Sami. Get your head out of the clouds. Clinton was getting too friendly with the Arabs. Too pro-Palestinian for the Jews. So, they sent their whore to bring him down. And the dope fell for it.’

  “Then Omar said, really softly, but, you know, serious, ‘We will have to send something more than a whore. The USA is so powerful, Mohamed.’ He was trying to bring Atta down, but Atta went on and on and on about Islamic states regrouping economically to achieve a caliphate. When Omar said he should give it a rest, that the USA was too powerful to take on that way, Atta stood up to him.

  “‘No! Something can be done! There are ways. Look at how they turned and ran in Beirut, after their barracks were bombed.’

  “‘That was years ago,’ Omar scoffed.

  “‘The USA is not omnipotent,’ Atta insisted. ‘They ran away like dogs.’

  “Omar and I just stood there, quiet, letting him wind down. Finally, he said he had to go.

  “‘So where will you be going?’ I asked.

  “‘Malaysia.’

  “‘Well, have a nice trip,’ I said.”

  4

  THE PHONE RANG. Karima grabbed it.

  “Kommissar Recht!” But it was a female voice.

  “Karima darling, it’s Gretchen. Please don’t hang up.” It was the lilting, soft, sweet, intelligent voice of her old roommate. “Karima. Karima?”

  Paralyzed with fright, Karima froze. Finally, she sputtered, “Hello, Gretchen.”

  “Oh, Karima, I’ve been thinking about you every day. It’s so terrible. Please let me help you.”

  “I’m okay,” Karima whispered.

  “But you must let your friends help you. You can’t go through all this all alone.”

  “Thank you for calling, Gretchen.” Karima said, trying to catch her breath. “I love you. It’s just that I …”

  “I know. I know. It’s natural that you would pull into yourself, shut everyone out, even those like me. It’s terrible … terrible …”

  “Yes. They’re saying I caused it all.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Totally absurd. Who’s saying that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Listen, have you retained a lawyer?”

  “A lawyer? What for?”

  “What for? Karima, liebling, you can’t minimize the danger you’re in.”

  “The danger isn’t legal.”

  “Not legal?”

  “Anyway, I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t know anything about all this.”

  “I know. Of course not. But they may not believe you. They may try to stick something on you, just because they need a scapegoat.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “All the real villains are dead, including him. You know I never liked him.”

  “I know.”

  “So they need someone to blame.”

  “The police say they are protecting me.”

  “You might need someone to protect you from the police.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you told them everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good … Everything?”

  “I couldn’t be very helpf
ul.”

  “I know how hard that must have been for you. You’ll forgive me for saying so, but he was such a bastard!”

  Karima paused. “Worse,” she whispered finally.

  “Can I come to see you? I mean, we wouldn’t have to talk about all this if you didn’t want to. Just be together … you know, like old times.”

  “I can’t, Gretchen. I’d like to … really, but I can’t. They won’t let me.”

  “Okay, I get it. But remember, my brother is a lawyer. He’d be glad to help.”

  “Please, Gretchen, I implore you, please don’t talk to anyone about this.”