by James Reston
Her mother’s safety had to be her first concern. She had put the old lady in immediate danger by hiding the tapes in her apartment. How could she have been so stupid?! What if the Mauritanian turned up again? Omar’s people seemed to know everything!
She had to decide what to do.
Wait a minute! The police had surely heard the conversation on their wiretap. How fast would they act?
Fast. The phone rang.
“Gruß Gott, Karima. Here is Günther.”
His tone was friendly, almost too friendly, she thought, and intimate—he was never intimate—and it put her on guard. He never called this early in the morning. She braced herself for some reference to her just-concluded conversation with her mother.
“Good morning, Günther,” she tried to reply cheerily. “You’re calling early. I was just flying out the door to an appointment.”
“Karima, I must come to see you.”
“All right,” she answered. “But it will have to wait several days.”
“No actually, I must see you today.”
“I’m sorry, Günther. That’s impossible. My mother is not well. In fact, I think she’s going crazy. I must go down to Stuttgart to see her.”
“I thought you said you were going to an appointment.”
“Yes, before I catch the train.”
“To meet a friend of Sami’s, perhaps.”
She frowned. “Günther, really, I must go. You’re being ridiculous.” There was silence on the line.
“Günther, are you there?”
“I’m here. Your mother is sick, you say?”
“Yes, I absolutely must go down overnight.”
“All right, then. If it’s really a medical emergency.”
“A medical necessity, yes, it most certainly is.”
“Tomorrow night, then. But I must tell you, Karima. Something new has come up. Something important.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m eager to hear what it is.”
Recht had told her often about the pressure he was under—the BKA alone had six hundred agents working on the case—as if it might induce her to help him out. With the warming of their relationship, he still could not let her in on the full scope of the massive investigation. Even with the huge mobilization of manpower, things had not been going so well recently … for the whole operation and not for him personally. Weeks before, the noose was tightening around Osama bin Laden in the caves of Tora Bora. Now reports of his escape were filtering in. Before, it was thought that Omar had left Germany before 9/11. Now the police were not so sure. A shift away from law enforcement to large-scale military action in Afghanistan was underway, and the Americans were throwing their weight around. They wanted everything the BKA had, and they could be quite high-handed in their requests. But they weren’t sharing their own intelligence. Relationships were fraying, and conversations were tense. A bull-faced FBI man had had the temerity to march into Recht’s office and announce, “I just wanted to meet the guy who had been in charge of the surveillance of Marienstrasse.”
Lamely, Recht had replied, “We pay a little more attention to privacy rights over here than you do.”
But in his conversation with Karima, he had been correct. Something else new had come up. He had received a formal communiqué from the first kommissar.
Recht:
I believe there has been a lapse of professionalism on your part. You have allowed yourself to become too friendly with Suspect 21. I remind you of our professional code of conduct. Basic to that code is the admonition never to become emotionally entangled with any witness or suspect, especially one who is attractive.
Despite your reports to the contrary, I am far from convinced that this woman is an innocent in the 9/11 plot. You still have not discovered what was in that damn package. It was most certainly not just gold coins and earrings.
You are to carry on your investigation as you must. But I am assigning new agents to the case, and they will operate independently under my direct supervision.
First Kommissar Wolfgang Schuh
Karima went flying into the clinic, dropped a few things in her locker, and then hurried down a few floors to the medical library. The place had always felt like a sanctuary: the musty smell of old paper mixed with the fresh odor of unopened pamphlets on the latest research. In this provincial all-purpose hospital, the new pamphlets usually went unread. Frau Schenk sat behind the reference desk, glued glassy-eyed to the computer screen. Was she really looking at dental materials? Karima always wondered.
Politely, as always—for reference librarians were her favorite people—she inquired about references concerning the Fourth Annual Conference on Dental Hygienists. Frau Schenk leapt to the challenge eagerly. Yes, the library had some holdings. In fact, Frau Schenk said with evident pride, pointing to a line on her computer monitor, the library had just received some tape recordings of the entire proceedings. How about the paper by a Dr. Meyer on the gummy smile? Karima asked. Frau Schenk hit a few keys and traced her finger down the screen.
“Yes, here it is, I believe. May 4, 2001. Dr. Wilhelm Meyer. ‘Optimizing the Aesthetic Results.’”
“That’s the one,” Karima said.
“What is a gummy smile, Dr. Ilgun?”
“What?” Karima’s mind was far away.
“What is a gummy smile?”
“Oh. A gummy smile is when a patient has small teeth and shows a lot of gum when they smile. Some patients think such a smile is unattractive and want to have it fixed.”
“How do you do that?”
“Well, either you enlarge the teeth or reduce the size of the gums.”
Frau Schenk recoiled. “Aua.”
“Yes, it’s a complicated procedure,” Karima said perfunctorily.
“And painful, I would imagine.”
Karima nodded. “How many cassettes are there for the entire conference?” she asked.
“Oh, your conference.”Again the finger went to the screen. “Nine cassettes. But Dr. Ilgun, I’m afraid they are those microcassettes.”
“Excellent … I mean, that’s no problem. I use a micro-recorder for my work,” Karima said. “I would like to check out the cassettes, please.”
The librarian’s prissy face clouded. “Oh, Dr. Ilgun, I’m afraid, we don’t let audio materials out of the library.”
Karima leveled a stare at her. “Frau Schenk, I must go down to see my infirmed mother. She’s confined to a wheelchair.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Dr. Ilgun.”
“Yes,” Karima said, and then adopting a confidential tone, “I wouldn’t want you to repeat this, but I’m afraid she had spinal difficulty a few years ago, and the doctors botched her operation.”
“Oh, my goodness,” the librarian said, with genuine shock, manifestly uncomfortable to hear personal details. The subject of medical malpractice obviously upset her.
“Yes, she filed suit against that doctor two years ago. And finally, her case will be heard this summer. If she wins, she will be able to pay some of her considerable medical bills and do something about the disarray of her house.”
“That would certainly be a good thing,” the librarian said solicitously. “What an awful ordeal. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Yes, it’s a burden, all right, or should I say, big responsibility, caring for her at a distance like this.”
“Oh, I cannot even begin—”
“It means more time away from the clinic than I would like. Herr Doktor Hildebrand is none too pleased.”
“He can be a bit of a prig sometimes,” the librarian whispered naughtily, and then put her hand to her mouth in embarrassment.
“How true.” Karima pulled herself up in a formal pose. “I would greatly appreciate it, Frau Schenk, if you would make an exception in this case. I’m getting behind in my work. I’m new here, and on probation. A long train trip will give m
e the chance to concentrate.”
“Rules are rules.”
“Frau Schenk, I’m surprised at you. We have developed a friendly and much-appreciated relationship over these weeks. I’m no ordinary borrower, after all, slipping in here to get out of the cold like some homeless person.”
“Well, I really should ask the head librarian—”
“He’s even more of a prig than Dr. Hildebrand.”
Frau Schenk snickered.
“I won’t tell the head librarian if you won’t,” Karima said.
July 7, 2001
“On January 27, 2000, I packed up and prepared to leave the camp. Atta and Fatfat were off somewhere on a bomb-making excursion at the al Farouq camp, and I had not seen Omar for more than a week. As in the departure from Hamburg, it seemed as if once again, I was to serve as the advance guard.
“The mood surrounding my departure was strangely different. The brothers who helped me with my luggage looked at me with a new-found respect. I wondered if they knew something I didn’t know.
“At the processing building, that same smelly little Algerian with the bad breath and haughty ways returned my clothes and passport. ‘Say hello to Muktar for me,’ he said. ‘Muktar the Brain! Tell him that Abu Khaled al Sahrawi sends his regards.’ He gave me a mobile phone, programmed with a single number in Pakistan to call if I ran into any difficulties.
“And then I was surprised to be taken to say farewell to the Sheikh. With those same sad, sleepy, world-weary eyes, he looked at me with a trace of gratitude.
“‘We are preparing to strike the idol of the age, the Great Pagan,’ he said slowly in that distinctive near-whisper. ‘And it is your honor to be part of that historic operation.’
“He stuck out his huge hand with those long, sticky, date-sweetened fingers. His palms were soft, the hands of one who had never done manual labor.
“‘If we hit the head, the wings will fall off,’ he said. I nodded, as if I understood his metaphor. I glanced at the enormous ruby ring on his fourth finger. We shook hands, and the Sheikh encased the clasp almost affectionately with his left hand. ‘Safe travels,’ he said softly, with a slight squeeze. “‘You are living a great story, my son.’ And then he handed me a little scroll tied with a ribbon. I unrolled it appreciatively. It contained a poem, beautifully printed and embossed.
They swore by Allah that their jihad
Should go on no matter what Caesar said.
Our raids shall never end
Until they leave our lands.
“On the bottom I saw the Sheikh’s flowing calligraphy. ‘To Abu Tariq al Lubnani, Allah Wastes Not the Rewards for the Doers of Good (9:120). May Allah Smile on His Sacrifice.’
“It was the last time I saw him, Karima.
“When I climbed into a waiting minivan and the weather-beaten driver started up the motor, I asked if we weren’t going to wait for others.
“‘There are no others, brother,’ the fellow said. ‘Only you. Special instructions.’
“We drove through the clogged streets of Kandahar and on to the border at Chaman without exchanging more than a few words. As we came into the thriving town and neared the border, the throng of humanity increased. Men and boys rolled huge suitcases or pulled their women in small carts, nestled among taped packages. Angry policemen from the Frontier Constabulary prodded and pushed the border crossers with sticks, funneling them toward a long queue. I noticed that one brandished a whip. And in the opposite direction, young boys, not more than about ten years old, pushed their way back through the crowd hurriedly, rushing against the flow of the horde back into Afghanistan, carrying heavy backpacks and casting backward glances.
“‘What are they carrying?’ I asked the driver.
“‘Fertilizer.’
“‘Fertilizer? For what crops?’ I asked.
“The driver turned and looked at me. ‘Fertilizer for the protection of Islam,’ he said in irritation. ‘You should know. The Americans are coming.’
“‘Where are they getting the stuff?’ I asked.
“‘You will see,’ the driver answered.
“He veered off the main road and wove through a massive parking lot, populated by weather-beaten trucks and duty-free Mercedes Benzes. We passed by a bustling market and into a mud-caked sidestreet.
Far up a hill in the distance, I could just make out the Friendship Gate, which marked the actual border.
“‘We get out here,’ the driver announced. ‘We walk across.’
“‘What if we are stopped?’ I asked.
“‘We are going the back way,’ the driver said. ‘I don’t think we will be stopped.’
“‘But what if we are?’
“‘Do not worry, brother. I have a cousin who is a commander in the Frontier Constabulary.’
“‘What about the Taliban?’ I said.
“‘I have a cousin who is a commander in the Taliban too.’
We walked through a network of back streets, perhaps a mile, until we came to another minivan. The driver unlocked it, gesturing me into the back seat. As we climbed the hill to reach the main highway to Quetta, safely now in Pakistan, we passed one transport truck after another. Alongside the lorries, young boys waved to the drivers for attention, waiting their turn with empty knapsacks.
“Two days later, late in the evening, we reached the great Indus River. At a guesthouse in Hyderabad, I was finally able to take a shower and change clothes.
“The next morning, we were underway before dawn. At last the highway was smooth, and I was able to stretch out in the back seat. Close to nine that evening, we entered the outskirts of Karachi. For the next hour the driver fought through the noise and chaos, and then, close to a petrol station, he pulled off the road near a car that was stuck on the shoulder. A small man in a Pakistani floor-length robe and sandals was hunched down by the tire. As we got out of the minivan, the man rose.
“‘Salaam-u-alaikom, Brother Tariq,’ Ahmad said with a big grin. ‘Thank God you have arrived safely.’ At my frown, he said, ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’
“‘Flat tire, Ahmad?’ I said. ‘Bad luck.’
“‘Not all is as you see it,’ he said cheerily.
“‘I missed my evening prayers,’ I said gruffly.
“‘Allah will forgive you,’ Ahmad replied.
“‘Who says?’
“‘I say, in my capacity as a holy man,’ he said, putting his hand to his heart. ‘And as a representative of the Sheikh. Get in.’
“Ahmad took the driver aside, and they exchanged quiet words out of earshot, before the peasant sped off without a word.
“‘Now,’ Ahmad announced. ‘I must follow instructions to the letter.’ He pulled a long cotton bandage and two large cotton balls from under his robe.
“‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, holding up the cotton. ‘It is for your own protection—and ours.’
“Carefully, he placed the two cotton balls over my eyes and then wrapped the blindfold around my head. I could feel him place sunglasses over the blindfold as a final touch. Through the din of honking horns and shouted oaths, we drove for perhaps another half hour before Ahmad slowed and parked. He held me by the elbow as if I were blind, and we stood at curbside for a short time. Then I heard the screech of wheels, and abruptly found myself seated in a bicycle rickshaw. As we came careening around a corner, I could hear young men chanting slogans for a cricket team. Finally, the rickshaw stopped, and Ahmad removed the blindfold. We stood in front of a nondescript apartment building.
“‘Okay, here we are, my brother.’ Ahmad knocked. The door opened, and I was jerked inside, the door slamming behind me. Ahmad was gone.
“‘Salaam, brother Tariq,’ said my rough handler. ‘Please excuse my bad manners. I am Muktar.’
Karima got to the cavernous, open-air Hamburg train station with plenty of time before her 12:05 train. Dawdling in th
e news kiosk, she leafed through the latest women’s magazines and peered over the display cases at the passing travelers. At last, she snatched a copy of the Boulevard newspaper, overcoming her loathing; paid; and strode out. With twenty minutes still before her train was to depart, she wandered into a women’s lingerie outlet, one with lots of mirrors and changing rooms. At a rack of blouses, she pulled down a silk apricot pullover and made her way to the changing room.