by James Reston
“For my benefit Muktar painted a glamorous picture of the delights of Florida. Its Gold Coast and Space Coast and Gulf Coast. Miami, Naples, Sarasota, Venice, Disneyland. He became especially animated as he talked about the idioms of American speech, as if he were reliving his days in North Carolina. In greeting someone, I was to say, ‘What’s up?’ and if so asked, to give a standard reply, ‘Not much.’ I was always to be on time for appointments because, Muktar said, punctuality in America is money. A good way to start conversations was to ask, ‘What do you do?’ because Americans are obsessed with their careers. The more questions you ask of Americans, given their vanity, the less they will ask about you. Learn to speak loud and laugh a lot and look them straight in the eye, he said, because Americans are suspicious of dark-skinned guys with shifty eyes. No bribes. No bargaining. Be sure to shower daily and use plenty of underarm deodorant. Don’t patronize women; treat them as equals. Feel free to admire the pretty ones with the phrase, ‘She’s hot!’ You should call your brothers ‘dudes.’ With African Americans—always use that phrase, not ‘blacks’—if the dude is flashily dressed, you can tell him that he looks ‘fly!’
“‘Remember,’ he said, ‘Americans have stereotypes about Middle East Muslims, and they all begin with the letter B. We are Bedouins who act generous but who will stab you in the back at the first opportunity … and bazaar men who bargain and try to cheat you. Our women are belly dancers, modest in public, but exotic strip-tease artists behind closed doors. We’re backwards or we’re billionaires. And finally,’ he said with a smirk, ‘we’re bombers.’
“‘We have our stereotypes of them too, I suppose,’ I offered.
“‘Oh, yes, I’m a student of that as well,’ he said. ‘Those begin with the letter c. They’re cowboys and colonialists … conspiratorialists and consumers. They love their Coca-Cola. And remember this, Abu Tariq, most of all, they’re cowards.’
“At an appointed time, Ahmad arrived at the safe house. With little fanfare, Muktar went to a closet and pulled out a vest. It had pouches, and wires and cigar-sized plastic tubes.
“‘I ask everybody do this,’ Muktar said, holding it up for me like a haberdasher to slip my arms through the sleeve openings. It was heavy, Karima, really heavy. Omar moved in with a loose-fitting light brown shalwar kameez and slipped it carefully over my head.
“‘It’s a ritual, Sami,’ he said. ‘Sort of an initiation.’
“I stood stock-still, dazed, uncomprehending. Was this really my public execution? They did not seem to be joking.
“‘Follow Ahmad,’ Muktar ordered with a wave of the hand and turned back to a document he was reading.
“The little shit put me in the back seat, and we drove into the city center, parking near Frere Hall. Ahmad motioned for me to follow him along Abdullah Haroon Road until the sparkling Marriott Hotel loomed before us. The imam pulled out his cell phone to check the time.
“‘It’s time for high tea, mate,’ he said in an awful cockney imitation. We waited. Finally, a tourist bus slowly edged into the driveway.
“‘Good. Americans,’ Ahmad said in a whisper. ‘Walk slowly to the entrance, moving through those Americans. And then carry on down the street to the far side of the hotel.’
“And so, I walked like a zombie, one foot in front of another, and barely aware of anything other than the weight of the vest. I pictured Ahmad watching me approach the hotel and making my way through the American tourists. I could imagine his glee—since he despised me as much as I despised him—pulling out his cell phone and dialing the magic number.
“I knew what I was supposed to feel at this moment. If I was a good Muslim who wanted to go to heaven, in the gospel according to Osama bin Laden, I must kill Americans wherever I might find them and plunder their property and make big headlines. I looked at these pasty ladies ahead of me, perspiring in the February heat in their cotton print dresses, and their flabby husbands in their ridiculous Bermuda shorts.
“I tried to think only of you, Karima. As I got closer to them, I whispered your name. ‘Karima, Karima, I love you, I love you, I love you,’ over and over and over. And then I was among them, navigating through them, while inside I cringed and waited for a flash and darkness.
“And then, by some apparent miracle, I was through and still alive, and I found myself walking along the empty sidewalk, alone, confused, dizzy. And there beyond stood Ahmad, far down the street, leaning against a granite wall, smirking and chewing on a weed in amusement. Without a word, he nodded approvingly and led me to the car.
“‘Welcome, brother,’ Muktar said matter-of-factly when we got back to the apartment. ‘I’ve made a fresh pot of lentil soup.’ Omar looked up from his computer and gave me the occult finger salute.
“On my final day in Karachi, they focused on the plan for the next few months. I was to work with Omar, the newly appointed emir, and obey his every instruction in the knowledge that he in turn was getting his orders from higher authority.
“‘Obey God and all in authority over you,’ Muktar repeated. He instructed me sternly, I was to restrain my contempt for Atta. Meanwhile, when I got back to Hamburg, I was to distance myself from the radical Muslims in the Al-Quds mosque. To my delight, I was ordered to shave off my scraggly beard. Then, Muktar handed me a plane ticket and an envelope with $5,000 in cash, as well as an eyedropper and a small bottle with a chemical to remove the Pakistani stamp from my passport after I arrived in Dubai. Ahmad was on tap to take me to the Quaid-e-Azam airport in the morning.
“‘Will I have to be blindfolded again?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ Muktar answered. ‘But these neighborhoods are full of gangsters. So, keep your eyes wide open.’
“At sunset Ahmad came for prayers. As they had their foreheads to the floor, the little imam said, ‘Now we will invoke Allah’s guidance in relation to our brother, Abu Tariq al Lubnani, with the Salat-I-Istikhara, the decision prayer.
“‘O Allah,’ he intoned, ‘if, in Your divine knowledge, embracing this man in our cause is good for my religion, my livelihood, my affairs, and my immediate future, then ordain it for me, make it easy for me, and bless it for me. If embracing him is not good for these things, then turn me away from him, and make me content with it.’
“After a supper of mutton biryani and mango juice that Ahmad had picked up at a local takeout, we gathered on the floor in front of Omar’s computer to watch an American movie called Independence Day.
“As the alien spaceships spread their shadows over New York, LA, and Washington, and the silly warrior president went into his Code Blue, their reactions varied. When the Americans ran through the streets like panicked chickens, when the sentimental, stupid old Jew invoked John Lennon, when the doofus cracker flew his bomb-filled plane into the belly of the beast, for family and love, and especially when a Christian seer held up a sign that read ‘The End Is Near,’ they took great pleasure. When Will Smith’s wife did her pole dance as a stripper, Ahmad squealed with delight.
“But we didn’t get through the whole movie, ya’youni. Halfway through, Muktar said, ‘This is the important part.’ The spaceship opened up and trained its death laser on the symbols of America, and one by one, they crashed down in flames: the Liberty Tower in Los Angeles, the World Trade Towers and Empire State Building in New York, and in Washington, first the White House, and then the US Capitol.
“As the dome and the pillars of the Capitol were crumbling, Muktar hit the pause button, and the image of the ruined monument to American democracy was frozen on the screen.
“Turning slowly to me, he trained his doe’s eyes on me and said, ‘This is your assignment, Abu Tariq al Lubnani. The Faculty of Fine Arts.’
“They looked at me, Karima, waiting for me to say something. I just looked back at them. I didn’t know what to say.”
Karima switched off the machine and rolled her eyes painfully across the ceiling. “Sami … Sami … Sami,”
she muttered to herself. She stared, dazed, at the industrial smokestacks far in the distance. What am I to do? she thought for the hundredth time. What am I to do?
She tried to collect herself and turned her attention back to the compartment. The man in leather had been watching her intently but quickly diverted his eyes back to his sports magazine. She pulled off her earphones.
“Are you getting off in Stuttgart?” she asked politely.
He seemed flustered by the question. “No, … ah … I’m going on to … Augsburg.”
“Augsburg,” she repeated.
“Yes, it’s a Martin Luther town. The Augsburg Confession.”
She shrugged indifferently.
“Never mind. You’re probably not a Lutheran.”
“No.”
“You’re Turkish, aren’t you?”
“A bit more German than Turkish. But yes, I was born in Istanbul. How could you tell?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I suppose it’s your olive skin. Very lovely, mind you; don’t get me wrong.”
“Actually, I’m trying to recapture my roots. I have a cat named Roxelana.”
“Roxelana?”
“Yes, she was the sultana of Suleyman the Magnificent.”
“Really. In the harem, I guess. I’ve read about that.”
“Actually, she was the sultan’s wife. But you’re right. She was also queen of the harem.”
The interchange heartened her. Would a real undercover policeman dare to express such politically incorrect opinions in a public exchange with his subject? What would Kommissar Recht think?
“I think I’ve seen you someplace before,” the man said.
“Really?”
“But I can’t place it.”
“I have a rather common face,” she said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “No, definitely not. Not a common face at all.”
9
WHEN KARIMA ARRIVED AT KAISERSTRASSE, clutching the plastic shopping bag with the lamb and condiments for their döner kebab dinner, she found her mother fidgety and light-headed. Her legs were bothering her again, and in the best of times, the discomfort made her cranky. Karima put away the meat in the refrigerator and knelt at her wheelchair. She snapped the leg rests out straight and began to massage her mother’s sore legs with body oil. As Karima peered at this familiar, kindly, but tormented face, she thought her mother suddenly looked quite old. They spoke only the occasional pleasantry, holding off the big subject for later.
“You know, Mutti, I told a man on the train today that I was recapturing my Turkish roots.”
“Perhaps you should also recapture your father’s faith, my child. There is much in the Koran about mercy and forgiveness.”
“I don’t need forgiveness, Mutti.”
“Mercy, then,” her mother said. “I know you are suffering.”
“What I need is peace, and I don’t know if I can ever get over it … ever.”
“Perhaps you should tell the police everything you know. That would be a start.”
Karima could not bear to argue the point yet again, not with her mother, not with their secret. She said nothing, continuing to apply the oil and rub and rub and rub, as if she could rub away her own discomfort and terror. She could feel her mother slowly relax. The old lady lay there, reclined, her eyes closed, a slight smile on her wrinkled, fulsome mouth.
“The Americans have begun their public inquiry into the attacks,” she mumbled finally.
“Yes,” Karima answered. “I saw that in the paper.”
“And they’re sending the terrorists to that awful prison in Cuba.”
“Yes, I saw that too.”
“What a terrible place that must be … to be a prisoner there, I mean.”
Rebuke and suggestion hovered in the air like a bad odor. There was nothing more to say. Slowly, without opening her eyes, her mother reached her hand into the pocket of her robe and handed Karima the tape.
“Are you safe, my child?”
“I don’t know, Mama. I’m not sure.”
“And what about me?”
“Yes, you’re safe, Mama. You’re not to worry.”
It pleased Karima to fix the dinner just the way her mother liked it, for the old lady’s pleasure was evident. She had arrived at an age where many things had to be done just the same way. Karima always went out of her way to make a ritual of it. She parked her mother in front of the television. And then she repaired to the kitchen to begin the dinner. On the balcony she rolled out the charcoal grill. There was still kindling from her last visit, she noticed. Returning to the kitchen to get the pilaf going, she glanced back into the living room to see that her mother had nodded off. Karima pulled the curtain slowly and noiselessly across the sliding door to block the evening sun that might disturb her mother’s sleep. And then she went to her room.
As she sat on the bed, she looked around the walls filled with the relics of her childhood. “Those whom I have loved and lost,” she whispered, “speak to me.” As the voodoo rules for the evocation of the dead require, she repeated the phrase three times.
“Only ten days before I fall into your arms, my darling! Nine full days together! I count the hours. I kiss your hands, yahayati, and I even kiss the cat.
“I’m starting to get quite busy. So, I’m not sure I’ll have time for much more recording. Things are getting hectic at the flight school, and Atta is as annoying as ever. I feel like punching him every time I see him.
“I begin simulator training tomorrow.
“I’ve been thinking about how close I came to not making it to this point. Sixteen months ago, after leaving Karachi, I had to change planes in Dubai, where airport authorities removed me from the line, deposited me in a small room, and interrogated me for four hours. A problem with my passport had alerted them, and I wondered if Muktar or I had botched things. In those hours I sat alone, sweating, locked in that room, while, presumably, they made calls to the CIA and German counterintelligence.
“If I had been compromised in Dubai, the whole operation might have been exposed. They would find out where I had been and who had been with me. But at last, they released me. I’m still not sure why. I’m not proud to say it, but by this time, I had become a pretty good liar. Muktar had been right. Look them straight in the eye. Relax. Laugh a lot.
“Back in Germany a year ago, we spent those four lovely months together, habibti. I made sure never to bring up religion or politics. We made love blissfully, like man and wife at last. And that was when it happened. You were pregnant. You seemed so happy. But I panicked. It will make more sense to you why now.
“Other things were going on that you didn’t know. Regularly, Omar was gathering the group together at Marienstrasse for contemplation and preparation. As the newly appointed emir, he wanted to be sure that everyone’s commitment in Afghanistan held firm. We sat around in a circle on the floor, and by candlelight, Omar focused our attention on one or another passage in the Koran.
“What a gang I joined! Atta, the Egyptian purist, hot with rage; Fatfat, the romantic dreamer; and Omar, the philosopher-leader. Ahmad, the imam, occasionally joined the circle. He always made a point of sitting next to me.
“Sometimes, I had the impression that these sessions were convened only for my sake. Things were different. It was no longer a study group. We were operatives now. Of the five of us, I was the only question mark. I had to be constantly reminded of the nobility of our mission. The Faculty of Fine Arts sounded so grand. They watched me closely for any hint of backsliding. I think they were mostly worried about you. Yet, they dared not confront me—they guessed that when the final moment came, I would choose you over them.
“One of those sessions, in April 2000, sticks in my mind. Omar focused us on the year 1421 AH and the month of Muharram, when Husayn, the son of Ali and the grandson of Muhammad, was martyred. Omar had chosen a
passage from Sura 10 about the spoils of war. In his soft, mesmerizing voice, he read from the twelfth verse: ‘Remember Thy Lord inspired the Angels with the message: “I am with you to give firmness to the Believers.”’ And then he turned to me.
“‘Sami, you read the next line.’
“I read forcefully: ‘I will instill terror into the hearts of the Unbelievers.’
“‘Yes, terror in the hearts of Unbelievers. Good. Well-read. And Atta, the next words.’
“Atta almost shouted the next words: ‘Smite ye above their necks and smite all their fingertips off them!’
“‘Excellent. And Ahmad, you read the last bit.’
“‘But I don’t read very well,’ he stammered. ‘The sentence is long.’
“‘Never mind. Do the best you can.’