by James Reston
The audio cut to Muktar. “Each brother looked into what cover he could take to mislead the intelligence services and blind them.” The voice had a guttural tone. “This whole triumph was accomplished without even the closest friends of Abu Tariq having any information about him. These were spectacular hours. You’re entering a military battle, against the strongest power on earth. And you are confronting them with a group of only nineteen men.”
“Smile and be comfortable,” Omar said.
It was call and response, as Muktar said, “For God is with the faithful, and his angels are with you.”
Karima hit the mute button as a wave of revulsion passed over her. “May God accept his martyrdom,” she repeated in a whisper. How could Sami have been so taken with these maniacs? Their contempt for him was evident. The interview underscored the violence these men could do. Hearing their boasting made her shiver. Her peril seemed greater.
She switched channels. A small man with flashing eyes and a tight-fitting skull cap was being interviewed. The graphic identified him as the grand imam of the al-Azhar mosque in Cairo—the highest moral authority of Sunni Islam. Around him sat a clutch of lesser imams and muftis. What about the fatwa of this Sheikh Osama bin Laden to kill all Americans and plunder their property?
The grand imam grunted derisively. “Osama bin Laden is no specialist in religious affairs,” he scoffed. The imams around him giggled. “Islamic law banishes anyone who issues an untrue fatwa.”
And what about the notion that the hijackers are martyrs and will achieve heaven?
Again the little man spat out his contempt. “They are not martyrs, but aggressors. They will not achieve paradise, but will receive severe punishment for their aggression,” he said. “Whoever shall kill a man or a believer without right, the punishment is hell forever. Allah will be angry with him and give him a great punishment.”
This was too much. Karima began to surf the channels for something more bearable and settled on a travel program. The images portrayed a soothing, lovely scene of low hills and rolling farmland with just a hint of late fall color. By contrast with the brash reporters of the other programs, this host had a soft, cultured voice, narrating as the camera languorously panned across the bucolic scene. He must be a poet, Karima thought.
“Outside Somerset, you pass down a two-lane road through these rolling hills of western Pennsylvania and turn off on Stutzmantown Road, past fields of corn and goldenrod,” the narrator’s voice intoned. “And you finally come to this sleepy little town that has now become a household word. And then a few miles down the road, you come over the brow of this hill, and spreading before you is this extraordinary caldera, an open windswept bowl with only a few trees dotting the hillside in the far distance. In the bottomland a pond, and then the famous line of hemlock trees where the thing came down.”
The thing?
“This is a man-made landscape. When the massive coal shovels came in years ago, they removed three hundred feet of topsoil to get to the three veins of rich anthracite coal beneath. They left behind acid ponds and befouled wetlands in need of purification. The ground is soft now, and that’s why, when the plane came in traveling at 550 miles per hour, the ground literally swallowed it up.”
Karima felt faint. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She realized she could not even hear them speaking anymore. She opened her eyes and saw that she had unconsciously hit the mute button. A collection of locals were parading across the screen, simple, rural folk who looked German except for their overalls … various politicians … Then there was an attractive, stylish blonde, and Karima turned the sound on again. It was the widow of the pilot of Flight 93, saying something about tears falling like rain upon the fields of Pennsylvania. Karima felt a certain ghastly connection to this woman. The lady looked out to the line of hemlock trees. “Rich, Rich, if you can see me or hear me, give me a sign,” she said.
And then another woman came on, a local notable who had organized the volunteers who greeted the thousands of visitors to this morose landmark. She was talking about the brave passengers who had rebelled against the vicious Islamic fanatics high over the Allegheny Mountains.
“Today is not just a tribute to their heroism, but a source of inspiration,” she was saying. “What happened here addresses the age-old question: When you are confronted with a crisis, even in a life-threatening situation, do you act? Or do you wait for someone else to solve the problem?”
Karima could bear it no longer and switched off the television. She knew more than any television program could tell her about the “villain of Shanksville.” With a great effort of will, she lit the candles, sat down on her couch, and switched on the recording device.
July 3, 2001
“When we finally saw the crescent moon rise over the dunes in the east, we rejoiced in the breaking of our fast. For the first time in many nights, I slept soundly, even as little al-Khatani tossed and turned with excitement in anticipation of the Sheikh’s visit. The next morning, we gathered with the instructors outside the administration building, its mud walls still pockmarked from the American attacks a year and a half earlier. In white and black turbans, we sat cross-legged in rows to await the Sheikh. The morning was gray and cold, and I shivered under my Pashtun turban and the white Saudi thobe. Atta sat next to me, scowling under his crochet prayer cap. As we waited, I surveyed my fellow fighters. They were mainly Afghans, with a sprinkling of Saudis and Yemenis, Bedouins and a few Berbers. The Africans, in their woolen burnooses, were the best prepared for the morning chill.
“Eventually, a small caravan of white Mitsubishi minivans pulled up, and the Sheikh emerged. It was as if he were a modern-day Saladin coming to greet his warriors before the climactic battle for Jerusalem. He cut an impressive figure against the bleak landscape, with the elegant bearing of a royal and the charisma of a true leader. He was tall, taller by far than most of the men gathered there. He wore a tan camel-hair bisht abaya over his dishdasha and a long white shawl over his prayer cap. A line from the Koran popped into my head. ‘When Allah has blessed you with His bounty, your appearance should reflect it.’ His beard was long and untrimmed, with a white streak down the middle. It was longer than it needed to be, if the Sheikh was really emulating the Prophet, for it was said that the Prophet’s beard was only four fingers in length. As the prince strode by, I noticed the jeweled jambiya stuck in his belt and squinted to see if the dagger’s handle was made of rhinoceros horn, as I had heard.
“Mohammad Atef conducted him to the simple podium and microphone that had been set up, and he began to speak against the backdrop of the dreary Kandahar plain, an emptiness interrupted only by camel thorn bushes and mulberry trees. His text that day was Verse 9:120: that it was not becoming for the Bedouins and the people of Medina to remain behind Allah’s messenger when fighting, and it was not becoming for them to prefer their own lives to his life. ‘For they will suffer neither thirst nor fatigue nor hunger in the Cause of Allah. Surely Allah wastes not the reward for the Doers of Good.’
“His cadence was slow and deliberate, tinged with sadness. Occasionally he raised his long, bony finger to emphasize a point. He never raised his voice in a harangue nor lowered it in a whisper. I found myself drifting in a dreamlike state.
“‘Do the people have no imam?’ I heard him say. ‘Do they have no sense of honor?’
“He dwelt on the tragedies of Palestine and Chechnya and finally, as if he were directing his harangue to me personally, on the massacre at Qana in Lebanon. And then he turned to his fighters who sat dutifully at his feet. ‘We must search in the Book of Allah for the reasons and the diseases that have led us to betray the sacred house.
It is clear to us that a dislike of fighting and a love of the worldly life have captured the hearts of many. This is the main reason for our humiliation and our degradation. Some say, “O Lord, why have you ordained fighting for us? Grant us respite for a short period!” And I reply,
“Short is the enjoyment of this world. The Hereafter is far better for him who fears Allah.”’
“Two days after the Sheikh’s al-Fitr speech, I was on the firing range, getting instruction in rocket-propelled grenades, when a minivan pulled up. I turned to see a familiar, unwelcome face. Ahmad. The little shit flashed a big grin and a hearty Salaam.
“‘The general wants to see you,’ he said in a self-important voice.
“He drove me to the camp’s center in silence, past the administration building to a small structure that was set apart from the others. A Pashtun with a bandolier crisscrossing his chest and holding a Kalashnikov by its barrel guarded the door. He nodded as Ahmad led me inside and then through a door into a room where Atef was bent over a map with a magnifying glass. When he looked up, he greeted me warmly and motioned for everyone else to leave the room. I glanced at the map and saw that it was a city map with place names in English. Miami.
“‘Abu Tariq, in these weeks you have been watched closely, and you have impressed your instructors with your intelligence and determination. You are being considered for major responsibility in the organization. I congratulate you.’ I stood wide-eyed, ramrod straight, like a true warrior of God. ‘For that to happen, you must formally embrace the program of al-Qaeda and swear your allegiance to the emir.’
“‘I expected that I would have to do this, yasayyidi.’
“‘You have heard of the bayah?’
“‘Yes, yasayyidi.’
“‘In your oath to the Sheikh, you promise not only to obey his instructions to you personally, but also the instructions of any person whom he puts in a position of superior authority over you. Is that clear?’
“‘Perfectly, yasayyidi.’
“Atef cocked his head slightly, as if he was measuring my sincerity. ‘Once you have sworn allegiance to the Sheikh and have sworn to obey all whom he puts in authority over you, you will be required to put your affairs in order.’
“‘With a will.’
“‘Yes. Now, Abu Tariq al Lubnani, let me impress upon you the profound importance of this act. In the first place, it is sanctioned by the Holy Book.’ He reached for a dog-eared copy of the Koran, put on his half-glasses, and flipped through its pages. ‘I refer you to Surah 4:59. Please read it to me.’
“I took the Holy Book and read: ‘“O you who believe! Obey Allah and obey the Messenger and those who are in authority among you.”’
“Atef took my measure over his glasses. ‘Did you know this verse before?’
“I shook my head.
“‘Read on.’
“I continued. ‘“If you differ in anything amongst yourselves, refer it to Allah and His Messenger, if you believe in God and in the Last Day.”’
“‘You read well, Abu Tariq.’
“Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out of my mouth. ‘What if I were not to swear the oath?’ I asked.
“Atef’s face darkened. For a time—it seemed like an eternity—he remained silent, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap. ‘That would be most unwelcome,’ he said at last.
“‘But I have heard of senior members of our group who have not sworn the oath.’
“‘That is a lie!’ he shouted, his face suddenly contorted in anger. He moved to stand.
“‘I’m sorry, then, Mohammad Atef. I was misinformed.’
“Atef paused to collect himself, embarrassed by his outburst, and slumped back into his chair. ‘Your question is a good one,’ he said, quietly. ‘And I will answer it. If you were to refuse to swear the oath, we could not regard you as worthy of an important mission.’
“‘Would I be dismissed from the organization?’
“‘That would be your choice. We had such a case recently. We helped the wayward brother return to his home without difficulty. We even altered his passport to remove the Pakistani entry stamp so he would have no trouble with the authorities. We would do the same for you.’
“Now it was my turn to collect myself. ‘That will not be necessary.’
“‘There is another part to my answer,’ Atef continued. ‘If you do not swear the oath, we can give you a lowly mission. We have a need for tough, smart fighters, and a few who are both tough and clever with computers. But if you were to die without an oath to the Imam, you would die the death of Jahiliyyah.’
“‘I’m sorry, but I—’
“‘Jahiliyyah refers to the time of evil and barbarism and ignorance and unbelief, before Islam came to enlighten the world.’
“‘And what if I were to swear the oath and change my mind?’
“Again, that cruel smile crossed his face. ‘Abu Tariq al Lubnani, I applaud your spirit! You have great promise. You ask the right questions, and if you accept my answers, you will be all the tougher for it.’ The smile disappeared, and a glower replaced it.
“‘If you violate your oath, that will be a matter between you and your God.’
“He rapped two times on the table, and Ahmad entered. Atef waved his hand for my dismissal.
“I followed Ahmad silently through the darkness toward a part of the camp I’d never been in before. At one point, as we walked, Ahmad said without looking at me, ‘Why do you not respect me, Abu Tariq? I am a fearless man. I am an imam and an orator for jihad. I am a lion from the Ghamedclan of southern Arabia!’
“‘Why do I not respect you?’ I said dryly. ‘Because you’re everyone’s toady, Ahmad, that’s why.’
“At the door of an isolated building, Ahmad knocked twice, then knocked a single time. The door opened, and I found myself in an anteroom lit only by candlelight. A group of brothers were playing backgammon. Ahmad mumbled something to one of them in Pashtun, and the guard nodded back, motioning to a side door. At this, Ahmad knocked again, and I was ushered into the presence of the Sheikh.”
Karima switched off the machine. And so, Sami had actually met Bin Laden! It was a question she had long wondered about. And now he was actually going to describe the meeting! She got up and walked to the window. Peeking through the curtain, she saw the patrol car in the dim light of the street lamp. She wandered into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and pulled out the bottle of arak that Sami had brought her from Lebanon. Lebanese heroes fighting the French in the hills above Beirut called the liqueur the “milk of lions,” Sami had told her. She would need the milk of a lioness now.
“Osama bin Laden sat before me on a bank of pillows. He wore a splendid silk robe, and his white prayer cap made his beard appear ever larger than before. In his arms he held a small boy, maybe six years old, who was obviously quite ill. The Sheikh barely acknowledged my presence. He was chewing dates and then putting the mush into the mouth of the sick child.
“He said my name. ‘Abu Tariq al Lubnani. Do you play volleyball?’
“I was dumbfounded, speechless. He asked me again if I played volleyball.
“‘Yes,’ I stuttered.
“‘Volleyball is a wonderful game, especially if you live in the desert. They won’t let me and Atef play on the same side, because we’re taller than everyone else. So, we have to be on opposing sides. It has become quite a rivalry.’
“His team had lost to his cousin’s, he said, and they were playing again the next day. A grudge match.
“‘We’re going to play at dawn, at the first glimmer of light,’ he said, and then chortled. ‘In case the Americans are watching. They are big sports fans, you know.’
I didn’t know what to say.
“‘You are a new talent in our camp,’ he said. ‘And you’re tall! God willing, you will agree to join my side.’
“‘Of course,’ I said, “Most happily, yasayyidi.’
“‘You are most welcome—on my volleyball side and on my caravan.’
“‘Thank you, yasayyidi.’
“‘In fact, we are most pleased to welcome all four of you from Hamburg. You are a talented group, and I b
elieve you will be a great credit to the organization. Your generation will be our hope. The future glory of our faith lies in your hands.’
“‘We will try not to disappoint you, yasayyidi.’
“‘Have you met the German?’
“‘Christian Zimmerman?’ I asked.
“‘We don’t use that name. We have named him Ibrahim,’ he said. The sick boy, he explained, was Ibrahim’s son, that he had a severe kidney disease. They needed to find a way to get him to Germany for treatment or he would die. I said I was very sorry to hear that.
“‘Let us not grieve,’ he responded. ‘If he should die, the Holy Book tells us that he will live through eternity as a lovable and much-loved boy in paradise. And his father will receive an extra reward in the Hereafter for his suffering on earth.’