by James Reston
“Dr. Ilgun, were you in love with Sami Haddad?”
“Yes, I suppose I was once.”
“Isn’t it possible that your love is blinding you from the truth?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“And that this love, even now, is clouding your memory?”
“I have nothing further to say.”
“He was your husband, was he not?”
“Well, no, not really. Yes and no.”
“He was your husband, yes and no?”
Again the gallery tittered.
“We were married in an Islamic ceremony, but the German state never sanctioned or recognized it as legal.”
He nodded. The question had been for the benefit of the audience. “Are you proud of your husband?”
“I don’t know what to say, Your Honor.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“At 8:30 a.m. on September 11, last year.”
“And what did he say to you.”
“It was very brief, and he hung up abruptly.”
“But what did he say to you?”
“He said it three times. He said, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’”
The judge let the words hang for a long time in the furtive air, savoring the moment.
“That, of course,” he said finally, “is a terrible thing for a man to say to a woman before he sets out to commit mass murder.”
At home that night, Karima replayed her testimony in her mind. As much as she resented Judge Schneider’s bullying, she thought she had probably scraped through without damage. She remembered his threats and innuendoes. She reminded herself again not to volunteer anything that might have come from the tapes. But it was becoming difficult to distinguish between what she knew before the tapes had arrived in her mailbox and what she knew afterward. Her mention of Sami’s conflict over the mission had been a slip. She hoped it would not be noticed.
But who was that man from the botanical garden?
July 5, 2001
“Ten days after Eid al Fitr, I was promised an easy day. No long hike. No pounding on my right shoulder from the recoil of an oversized weapon, no deafening explosions. No long hours. It was a special day.
“I put on a clean, white dishdasha and joined Atta at the ‘media relations’ building. When we entered, we were directed to a room in the back where a brother was fiddling with a large television camera. The set was simple: a Kalashnikov rifle resting next to oversized pillows. Against the wall hung the familiar green banner about one God and his Messenger.
“Atta and I sat down together as comrades-in-arms. From beneath his thobe, Atta brought out a sheaf of papers and handed them to me.
“‘What’s this about?’ I asked.
“‘Today we speak to posterity,’ Atta replied.
“Certain portions were typed, I noticed, and other portions were scrawled in Atta’s calligraphy.
“‘What is this?’ I asked more insistently.
“‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first. Watch how I do it. Then you do the same.’
“I started to object, and then the quiet voice of the Sheikh echoed in my brain. ‘Obey God, the Prophet, and those in authority among you.’ Praise God, I thought, Omar has replaced Atta as our emir.
“‘Okay, ready to roll,’ the technician said.
“‘Wait,’ Atta said. ‘What do you think about the prayer cap? On or off?’
‘“I don’t know,’the cameraman said. ‘Is it your signature?’
“Atta pulled the skull cap down tighter and mugged for the camera.
“‘Let’s leave it off,’ the camera guy said.
“I moved into the shadows to watch.
“For the next twenty minutes, Atta read his testimony in a monotone.
He read fast, his words flat, lifeless, with no inflection given to the emotive parts. His head bobbed up and down between his text and the camera lens. The set pieces, the messages to the scholars, to the poor, to Muslims, to the people of the Arabian Peninsula, folded one on top of another without variety. Because the performance was so boring, my mind wandered to the staging. The lighting failed to highlight his best feature, his amazing eyes, I thought. I made a mental note to suggest that for my performance, the left side of my face, my better side, be highlighted and the right side backlit in low shadow. I would have to decide whether or not to wear my glasses.
“At last—praise God—Atta finished. ‘Well?’ he said, looking to me for approval.
“‘That was great,’ I said.
“‘Okay, let’s go over your testament.’
“‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ the cameraman interrupted. ‘The Sheikh has recorded introductions for your testimonies. Would you like to hear yours, Abu Tariq?’
“I nodded.
“The color bars came on first and then the Sheikh’s blurry image filled the screen of the small television set on the floor. When he got his cue, he began speaking to camera.
“‘And not the least, Abu Tariq al Lubnani, known to us now for his purity and clarity and beauty. From Lebanon, part of Bilad al Sham, the ancient homeland of the Arab and the believer, the dominion that embraces Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan, and Iraq, descendant of Abi-Ubaydah Bin al Jarrah, one of the Prophet’s ten companions, famous for his modesty and bravery, who was promised paradise, commander of armies under the Caliph Omar. May God be pleased with Abu Tariq, and accept his gift of good deed.’
“I frowned and looked at Atta, as if to say, ‘What’s this all about?’ But he averted his glance and kept his eyes fixed on the text in front of him.
“‘Abu Tariq’s presentation is much shorter,’ Atta called out to the cameraman.
“‘Okay, what have you got here?’ I said, testy-like, reaching for his papers.
“I read the first part slowly, whispering each word as I went, trying to act as if I was rehearsing.
“‘I spent my adolescence cheap,’ the script read. ‘I did not do that because I was running away from the hardships of life, as they allege, may God lead them astray. I ate the best food and drank the best drinks. I lived in a fancy house and rode around in fancy cars. I had lovely women as my companions. My parents supported me with money for the best schools. With my parents’ intercession, I also had the special advantage to take a tempting job. But I asked myself, Now what? I ran away from the tyrants and their easy jobs and left for the jihad at the height of my manhood and in the name of God. When we have this duty on our shoulders and the duty is in our conscience and God Almighty says, “Whoever wants life on earth and covets its attractions, then his deeds will be rewarded on earth. But those same people will be condemned to hellfire in the Hereafter, for what they did and the chaos they created.”’
“I looked up. ‘Who wrote this stuff?’ I asked.
“‘Omar,’ Atta answered.
“‘Did he write all of it?’
“‘No, not all,’ Atta replied. ‘It was a collaborative effort. Okay, let’s get the eighth message out of the way.’
“Can I do several takes?’ I asked.
As the camera was focused, I mouthed the words of the eighth message slowly. And then I read it again. In the second reading, I thought of my father, forever generous and dying now, and of my mother, hardworking and long-suffering, and my two sisters, struggling to find themselves as nurses and social workers in service to humanity. And you, my love.
“‘Okay, let’s try it.’
“I read, looking into the lens of the camera, serious and sincere. ‘O father and mother, I am joining the jihad so that I can meet the face of God. Maybe you are hurting. But I will rejoice with you tomorrow. To my father, I say, consider your son’s deed in the service of God and his pledge to follow the example of the prophet Suleyman, who said, “I will visit tonight ninety women and each one of them will bear a child for the sake of God.” And to
you, Mother, be like al-Kahnsaa, the poet and friend of the Prophet, whose four sons were killed at the Battle of Qadisiyah and who did not grieve, but said, “Praise be to Allah who honored me with their martyrdom.”’
“‘Good,’ Atta said. ‘See, you didn’t miss a word. Now the ninth message.’
“‘How do I look in the glasses?’” I said, to buy time.
“‘Let’s try this one without,’ the camera guy said.
“I read flatly this time, trying to imitate Atta, not looking at the camera, just reading what had been given to me: ‘To the wife of the mujahidin. Who has loved her husband, I say: Go, my love, for I will count on you to take care of my children and my wealth. If I return safely, you will be in my care. And if I am lost, then be patient. Our children are in my care. Your secrets are safe with me.’
“Atta grunted his disapproval. ‘You’re so cold, Sami.’ he said. ‘Can’t you read that with a little more feeling?’
“‘Can I mention my girlfriend, Karima, in the second take?’
“‘No,’ Atta said curtly.
“‘But we have no children.’
“‘Never mind,’ Atta replied. ‘No one will care later. Let’s move on. Sami, if you liked Omar’s contribution, wait till the next part.’
“‘Who wrote it?’
“‘I did, with a little help from Ahmad the imam.’
“‘Ahmad the imam?’ I repeated.
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘I mean, I didn’t know he could write.’
“I turned back to the script and read, ‘I do what I do because the grandchildren of the monkeys and pigs among the Jews and Christians committed outrages against Muslim women. Have you not seen with your own eyes how the dirty Jews beat our women in the Holy Land? It tears one’s heart out. I embraced jihad when I saw the crusaders among the Jews and Christians wage war against our religion and spill our blood in Palestine and in Chechnya, in Iraq and Afghanistan, Sudan and Somalia. And I do what I do because those who came before me have failed to drive the infidels from the Arabian Peninsula. The great idol of the modern age, America, has suppressed us and humiliated our pride and ridiculed our religion and desecrated our honor. I do what I do to let America know that the soldiers of God are coming. Its demise is near. Let us not be fooled by the state of false grandeur it is in. For God is our ally, and there is no ally for us but God.’
“Atta looked at me, waiting for my praise. ‘I like the part about the grandchildren of monkeys and pigs,’ I said.
“He scowled. ‘Okay, let’s do the obligatory.’
“I read the last typed paragraph mechanically. I had become a machine, Karima.
“‘Finally,’ I said, full-throated now, peering deep into the camera lens, and seeing only your face, disapproving and stricken with grief. ‘I wish to praise the mujahidin leader, Sheikh Osama bin Laden. May God preserve him from the plots of plotters, protect him from the envy of envious ones, and defend him from the rancor of rancorous ones. May God add my deeds to the glory of his good deeds.’
“Late that night, Karima, as I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling in the darkness and pondering the events of the day, I realized it was now official. I was certified … unless I can find a way to avoid it.”
“Karima Ilgun!”
Through the scratchy connection, the shrill tone of her mother’s voice warned of trouble.
“Mama. Is something wrong?” Karima said sweetly.
The words were muffled, as if through suppressed tears. “There most certainly is something wrong. Verdammtnochmal, Karima. Very wrong, very wrong.”
“What is it, Mama? Tell me.”
“What on earth are you hiding, my child?”
“Get control of yourself, Mutti. What are you talking about?” Karima could hear mother clearing her throat. “Mutti?”
“Today, Lailani was here to clean. When she was straightening up your room, she found a tiny cassette tape …”
“Mama—”
“It’s marked in your handwriting as the proceedings of a dental conference.”
“Well, you know what I’m studying, Mama.”
“Yes, about gums and smiles. That’s what the label says. But, Karima, it is not about gums.”
“I know.”
“Mein Gott, you know?!”
“Yes, I know.”
“I thought I might learn something, canim. I would be able to talk to you better about your work. And so—”
“Mama, you had no right!”
After a pause, her mother said, “I know. It’s true. But how could I have known?!”
“You had no business going into my things.”
Her mother cut her off. “How long have you had these things?” she said sternly. “Before September 11?”
The dead space on the phone between them lasted some seconds. Instinctively, Karima knew that her next words had to register.
“No, Mama, not before September 11. After.”
“After?” her mother wailed. “After!”
“Mama, try to control yourself. This changes nothing.”
“Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
Again, Karima paused. She did not want to lie. “I intend to do that.”
“Um Gotteswillen,” she heard her mother whisper.
There was another long pause. Finally, her mother said, “There is something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes, the doorbell rang today. It was a very nice-looking African man. Very black but nice-looking. He was well dressed and seemed to have very good manners. He said he was a friend of yours, so I let him in.”
“You let him in!”
“Yes. He was from somewhere in Central Africa, I believe—”
“Mauritania?”
“Yes, that’s right. I believe it was Mauritania. I didn’t know you had any friends from that part of the world.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t know this African? He seemed to know all about you.”
“What did he say, Mutti?”
“He said he was trying to get in touch with you after the tragedy—”
“Tragedy? He used that word?”
“Yes. Well, of course, I wouldn’t tell a stranger where you were without checking with you first. Certainly not someone like him. But he was gracious about it. Said he understood and that he would be checking back with me. He bowed in a very elegant way and made a strange sound as he was leaving.” She started to whimper again. “He said … he said, ‘Tell her that Omar says hello.’”
Karima felt herself choking.
“Karima?”
“Yes, I’m here, Mama,” Karima answered, finally collecting herself. “Okay, don’t worry. I think I know who that was. But listen to me carefully … very carefully, Mutti.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t want you to open the door to any more strangers. Is that clear?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“If that man—or anyone like him—comes to your door again, I want you to call the police immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” she whimpered. “I’m frightened, Karima.”
“Okay, I’ll catch a train in a few hours and come down to see you.”
When she hung up, Karima knew her situation had changed. To the first person she saw, her mother would blab the whole thing as if she was only asking for help or advice or comfort. And that person would gossip to the next, and on and on, until it inevitably reached the ears of the police. Soon enough, Kommissar Recht would be knocking on her door, furious that she had kept the existence of the Haddad recollections secret. The facts were indisputable: she was withholding vital evidence from a frenzied global investigation. It was her final act of material support for terrorists … that’s what they would think.
Why hadn’t she calle
d the police the very moment she received the package? Judge Schneider had pilloried her on that point, but he didn’t know the half of it. To herself at first, she justified her behavior as a crime against history rather than a crime against justice. The Americans would not see it that way, she realized now, and they would blame Recht. And, Omar’s gang was demanding that she turn them over as holy relics of their glorious, failed mission.