by James Reston
After a few minutes a sales clerk knocked on the door.
“Can I be of any assistance?” she said solicitously.
“No, thank you,” Karima chirped. “I’ll just be a minute.” After a rustle of papers, she emerged glowing.
She looked at herself in a full-length mirror and scanned the reflection for others in the store. The place was empty, except for a dowdy, middle-aged woman in a proper wool suit. Karima wondered why such an ordinary woman would be in a stylish store like this. Then the clerk interrupted her reverie, complimenting Karima on how nice she looked in the pullover. Karima feigned indecision.
Her train rolled in at 12:02. She found her first-class compartment without difficulty and exhaled in finding it empty. “Anya. Anya. Anya,” she whispered to herself … the name Recht had told her to use when she traveled. She repeated it to herself so it would become rote and instinctive. Throwing her bag on the rack above, she put her briefcase beside her. Through the window she noticed the dowdy lady from the lingerie shop hurry along below her and board. A minute later, the door to the compartment slid open, and the same woman entered, nodding shyly and taking her seat catty-corner, next to the sliding door. Karima noticed that she carried only a purse.
The whistle sounded, and precisely as the hand of the platform clock clicked spastically to 12: 05, the train moved off smoothly. Soon they were through the city and zipping along the open countryside. Her companion pulled out a knitting magazine.
From her briefcase, Karima removed the large program folder for the Fourth Annual Conference and laid it down on the seat beside her, placing it at an angle, so that the woman across from her could read the bold letters on the cover. She pulled her earphones and cassette player from the side pocket and then with thumb and forefinger she took out the cassette, marked “Dr. Meyer.” Throwing a quick, apologetic smile to the frumpy woman, she slotted in a cassette and hit the play button.
“So this was the famous Muktar. To the Algerian he was the brains of the organization, the force who came up with the plans and the targets and the methods. In camp, little al-Khatani had told me that Muktar had been involved with the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center in New York City and with the African operations, and that he had proposed wild schemes to blow up a dozen American commercial aircraft over the Pacific Ocean. He had been educated, al-Khatani said, in a place called North Carolina in the USA.
“No one knew his real name, Karima, only that he had grown up in Baluchistan, a region of country bumpkins, and was embarrassed by it. He had taken the name Muktar partly because muktar meant ‘mayor’ and muk itself meant ‘brain.’ And it had been the name of a famous North African desert guerrilla of the 1930s who had led the rebellion against the Italian colonialists. The real Muktar, I was informed, had been captured on September 11, 1931, and hanged five days later.
“Perhaps after all this gossip, I expected a giant. But there stood before me a small, beefy man, no more than five foot two, with disheveled hair, a thin moustache, and large, almond eyes. The day was hot, a typical ninety-degree day in February on the Arabian Sea. Muktar’s shirt was open to a very hairy chest.
“He opened his arms in welcome. ‘I have been eager to meet you for a very long time,’ he said warmly.
“‘Abu Khaled al Sahrawi sends his regards,’ I said.
“‘Ah, the slippery Algerian.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘He thinks he is the smartest of all the brothers,’ he said with a smirk. ‘In fact, he is the dumbest.’
“‘He tried to discourage me from volunteering for Chechnya. He said when he was there, it was too cold to piss.’
“‘Him? In Chechnya?’ Muktar let out a big guffaw. ‘In his dreams.’
“‘Is it true that he was a handball champion in France?’
“‘Rubbish. If I were you, I would give him a wide berth. He’s very untrustworthy. I can tell you some stories.’
“The entryway was virtually empty except for a prayer rug and a few pillows thrown to one side. ‘Come. We have been waiting for you.’ He motioned toward the next room, and we passed through an archway into a large reception room. It too was devoid of furniture, but against the far wall was a pile of telephone books and computer manuals. Two rifles stood upright next to a lumpy cloth bag. I was pretty sure that the bag didn’t contain cricket balls. Travel brochures, airline timetables, and videos were scattered around.
“Amid this clutter sat Omar, surrounded by three open laptops, five cell phones, and a stack of blank CDs.
“‘Hello, Sami,’ he said coolly. ‘Good trip?’
“I suppose, Karima, that by this time I should have ceased to be surprised. For so long, I had been in the dark, knowing only partially what was happening around me. What was Omar doing here? He and Muktar acted like old pals, as if they had worked together for a long time.
“‘Have you eaten, Abu Tariq?’ Muktar said. ‘We have lentil soup and chicken sandwiches.’
“I nodded gratefully. I was famished. I stood by Muktar as he heated the soup on a rusty stove. Suddenly, in the next room, Omar exploded in frustration.
“‘Saudi fools! Muktar, didn’t you tell them over and over to find a place in a regular apartment block? These idiots have moved right into a Muslim neighborhood with a mosque next door and a halal restaurant down the street!’
“‘Here, you watch this,’ Muktar said, nodding to the soup and sauntering into the next room. He bent over Omar’s shoulder.
“‘Look at this email.’ Omar traced the lines on the screen as he read.
Dear Brother,
Praise Allah, for He has supporters even in this land of the infidels. A fellow Saudi I met at the mosque here in San Diego is helping us with our living situation. And other Muslim brothers have registered us for English classes. I hear they give flight lessons in Arabic as well. So, praise God, there are plenty of brothers here to help us in our mission and who sympathize with our cause.
“‘Never mind. We didn’t tell them much about their mission,’ Muktar said.
“‘They were not supposed to mention any mission at all,’ Omar fumed. ‘And look at this! They sent it from their own computer. They’ve been downloading videos and text from our website on the same computer. And suddenly, we receive more hits on our sites from San Diego!’
“‘Let them know that I am displeased,’ Muktar said, ‘and that they are to read the manual again. They can read, can’t they?’
“Through the doorway, I watched Omar begin to type furiously.
“‘Boneheads! Goatherds! … Muktar, I told you that we could not rely on those imbeciles. They will never learn English, I promise you. Flight school in Arabic? In San Diego? Ha! They have no experience in Western culture. If you think they can learn to fly an airplane, then …’ He glanced at me, and his voice trailed off.
“Muktar went to the window and looked down on the noisy mayhem below as Omar continued to pound the keys. After a time, he turned back to Omar. ‘They know nothing about the nature of their mission.’
“‘It will not work, Muktar. You must get them out of there immediately. They will compromise the entire operation with their flapping tongues. Those American mosques are crawling with spies.’
“Muktar patted Omar on the head. ‘Smile and be comfortable,’ he said softly. ‘God is with the faithful, and his angels are with you.’
“Omar grunted. ‘Don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you.’
“‘They are devoted to the Sheikh, my friend,’ Muktar said. ‘He has chosen them for their dedication. It is not so easy to insert people with clean skins into the States. Instruct them wisely about security. Berate them sternly for their breach … And remember, Omar, Muktar does not like to be yelled at.’
“Omar snorted.
“‘You may be right that they will never learn English,’ Muktar continued. ‘Perhaps they will never go to flight school. I can’t say. But we will need their musc
le later.’ And then he looked at me with a flicker of amusement. ‘Idiots and boneheads have their place in the world.’
“‘They can never use that same IP address again!’ I blurted out.
“Omar and Muktar exchanged glances.
“‘Of course, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I blundered on, ‘but the best way to stay anonymous is to use the computers at internet cafés.’
“‘We told them that,’ Omar said curtly.
“‘Those places don’t keep records of who use their machines or when,’ I persisted. ‘You’ll be able to communicate with them through chat rooms instantaneously. Just make sure they don’t use the same café too often.”
“Again the two exchanged meaningful glances. ‘That’s an excellent suggestion,’ Omar said finally.
“Muktar smiled. ‘I’m very happy that our brother from Lebanon is so able,’ he said.
After twenty minutes Karima switched the machine off and gazed out the window at the precise, demarcated fields of yellow mustard seed. The Germans are so precise in everything they do, she thought. For a moment she wondered if she would be a good farmer. If they sent her to a rural prison, perhaps she would be assigned to the fields. Idly, she opened her tabloid and flipped past the celebrity and crime news to the real news, deep in the middle in a single column of shorts. She scanned it quickly, and her eye fell on the last item.
“US SENDS FIRST TERRORISTS TO GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA”
“I see that you are in dentistry,” her traveling companion said, breaking the silence. “Forgive me for noticing.”
Karima nodded, not looking up from her paper.
“Do you clean people’s teeth?”
“No, we have technicians for that,” she said with a trace of annoyance. “I am a dentist. We’re the ones who pull the teeth rather than clean them.”
“Oh, I see,” the woman said. She seemed embarrassed at her faux pas.
“I’m sorry,” Karima said. “You must forgive me. I’m a bit edgy and behind in my work. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s nothing, nothing really. I understand completely. I used to be that way.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, when I was in the wool trade. We had a shop in Mannheim. Imported fine wool from Ireland. Ladies are quite particular about their wool, you know.”
“I can imagine,” Karima said distantly.
She averted her gaze again to the countryside, hoping to cut short any further chitchat. She thought about the contents of the first tape: Sami’s upbringing in Beirut, their happy times together in Greifswald, his involvement with Atta and Omar in Hamburg and now Muktar in Karachi. She shuddered at the thought of the police listening to Sami talking about their love affair. Then with a start, she glanced up at the busybody when she heard, “Are you traveling to a conference?”
“Yes,” Karima answered. “I mean, no. I’m sorry. My mind is elsewhere. These materials are from an old conference. There’s so much to take in when you’re a young dentist, and so little time.”
“I felt that way too when I was in business,” the spinster said. “New products, new techniques. I suppose we might have diversified.”
“Into dental floss, perhaps.”
The woman did not seem to get Karima’s joke.
“My mother is not well,” she explained. “I have to come down often, and sometimes it causes problems at the clinic.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “I didn’t mean to upset you. That was the good thing about being in business for yourself.”
“The good thing?”
“Yes, I only had to answer to my late husband.”
“I’m sorry, Frau … Frau …”
“Weiner.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Frau Weiner.”
“And your name?”
“I am Anita.”
“Oh, you must be Italian,” Frau Weiner said.
Karima raised her hand. “I’m afraid I have to get back to this.”
And whom did she have to answer to? Karima wondered. A pop song came into her head about being true to yourself. True to myself? True to Sami? True to Germany or to the United States, still reeling from 9/11? Anita? Had she said her name was Anita? Anya. Anya. The train slowed as they approached Mannheim station. Her spinster rose to gather her things.
“I do hope you find your mother in better health,” she said politely. “It was very nice meeting you, Anya.”
Karima nodded. “Goodbye,” she said.
There is a wider question now, she thought, as her eyes followed Frau Weiner through the station crowd. What impact was Sami’s story having on her? How should she go on with life? Surely not just as before. Only she had been so close to this enormous evil … and this evildoer. Only she had this private knowledge. She caught a glimpse of Frau Weiner’s bonnet disappearing into the station.
Wait a minute! Anya? Had that woman said Anya?!
The door slid back again, and a man in his thirties with a leather jacket and a leather briefcase entered, nodded formally, and took Frau Weiner’s seat. Karima gave him an appraising look. He looked ordinary enough. She adjusted her earphones and switched the machine on.
July 4, 2001
“Late in February, I stayed in Karachi for Muktar’s crash course in the peculiarities of American culture. I had been slated for a mission in the United States, probably in Florida. After morning prayers, we worked through the day into the late evening. During the occasional breaks, Omar and Muktar were eager to hear my impressions of the training. I told them of my last meeting with Osama bin Laden, and about the Sheikh’s last comment, ‘If we hit the head, the wings will fall off.’ What did that mean? They chortled without answering, and we went back to work.
“At first, Muktar concentrated on practical things: how to apply for a driver’s license and how to make plane reservations. There was instruction on how to beat airport security. In passing through a checkpoint with contraband, put it in the bottom of the backpack and put batteries on top. When the alarm goes off, security will remove the batteries and, God willing, will pass the backpack through unnoticed. Always assume you’re being watched. If you put on an immigration form that you’ll be staying at a Sheraton, be sure to stay there for one night before moving on. Always use the airport shuttle from the airport to the city center, so your trip appears legitimate. Do not contact associates until you’ve been at your destination for several days. As an exercise, look in the blue pages of a phone book to identify government buildings by address.
“In the interest of operational security, it was advisable to have as little contact as possible among brothers. When talking with brothers, conversations should be short, and filled with trivialities and pleasantries and vulgar language in which one short operational message could be inserted. Standard code words. Meat and water meant money; the word soheil meant money exchange; the Sheikh was known as ‘the teacher.’ For my edification Muktar handed me a communiqué from an operative in Bangkok. I’m sorry, Karima. It contains profanity, and I apologize to you in advance. But I want you to know how they operate. I mean, how we operate:
Listen to me man, ain’t got time for this shit no more. Anyway man, stop playing with me, dude. Thanks for emailing me, man. I also misund U. I’ll send U another email soon. Telling U what’s going on. I think code thing now making sense. Yaa sohailbahi only gave me thirty documents so I may need 20 more from him 2morrow. Cuz I think 2 more even. Plztrry to be fair. Don’t hold ur water, man. In making SEX with chiks around u, DON’T go INTO HER THIGHS UNLESSU GET CONDOMS, ok, dude? Plz tell me if u have any prob. Plz. Fuck all this shit, man. don’t worry who I’m fucking with, ok? Just do the shit right first. Take care. Friends of ours are cool pretty looking but I think I can handle them. Ok shitty babe. I’ll talk to you later u know I love you bitch.
PS u enjoy urxmass yeah! And say merry to the teacher!
“Omar gave me my operational internet address: [email protected]. We looked over brochures for American flight schools and watched a video called ‘City Bird: The Flying Dream’ about the workings of the Boeing 757-300 jet. I had no idea what they had in mind for me then, but I was glad it had something to do with flying.
“Ahmad showed up periodically with provisions, and sometimes he led us in sunset prayers. Once he came with two fat telephone books he had purchased in a nearby bazaar, one for San Diego, one for downtown Los Angeles.