by James Reston
“Ahmad stumbled over his words. ‘That because they have made a breach with God and the Messenger, whosoever makes a breach with God and with His Messenger, surely God is terrible in re … re …’
“‘Retribution,’ Omar helped him. ‘And I will read the last.’
“He closed his eyes, leaning his head back before he spoke the words without looking at the text. ‘Therefore, taste it! And the chastisement of the Fire is for the Unbelievers.’
“Oh, Karima, if I could only taste it! I had become afraid. A vision of the Almighty sending his angels to alleviate my fear was attractive. Was such magic possible? The previous verse kept occurring to me! I kept turning it over and over in my mind. ‘Remember, he covered you with a sort of drowsiness/to give you calm as from Himself to remove you from the stain of Satan …’ That was me, the sleeper, covered with drowsiness, oblivious to his surroundings, tormented by the nightmare of Satan.
“In the meantime, I had applied for a new passport, saying I had lost the old one. Me and my ‘carelessness.’ We laughed about it. Omar and I researched flight schools and settled on one in Sarasota, Florida. In May 2000, we applied for our American visas. Mine came through quickly. But Omar’s visa was held up, because they said his country, Yemen, was such a nest of terrorists. A month later he applied again, and again the Americans rejected him. By that time, Atta, as an Egyptian, and Fatfat, from United Arab Emirates, also had their visas. We three were in.
“But a disaster loomed. The Sheikh and Mohammad Atef had designated Omar as our emir. But if Omar could not get into the US, what then? In June, as I was preparing to fly to America as the avant-garde, the order I feared most came from Muktar in Karachi: unless Omar could somehow get into the States, Atta would be the emir.
“I still held out hope because Omar was going to England to find some homely, unwitting English woman to marry and get into America, hiding behind her skirt.”
Döner kebabs were her mother’s favorite. The meat had to be 100 percent lamb, for the matron disapproved of the cheap hamburger mixture that the street vendors passed off as authentic for the tourists. She preferred her tomatoes grilled rather than broiled, and the green peppers well-done. When everything was ready, it had to be served on a slab of pita bread, slathered with olive oil, with a side of pilaf.
When it was all done, and they sat down together, Karima found the meal intolerably long. Her mother talked on and on about her disability case. They were very close to settling now with her quack doctor, and the signs were positive. After Karima cleaned up, she knelt again in front of her mother and began to massage the sore legs again.
“I love you, Mutti,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
An hour later Karima wandered into the living room and saw her mother fast asleep on the chaise longue. She slid the porch door open and saw that the embers were still hot. The night was chilly now, so she grabbed more kindling and threw it on the coals and watched the flames leap up. Then more coals. The smoke became thick and acrid. She gazed at the fire for a long time, extending her hands over the grill to warm them, as the coals became red-hot again.
And then she reached into her pocket and felt the cassette her mother had given her. Looking at the number, she saw that she had listened to it. She turned it over and over a few times. She wished she could think of a prayer, any kind of a blessing that was customary in saying goodbye. And then she cast the cassette onto the coals. The acetate curled and sputtered and writhed. She wondered which hot bubble might contain his last words on that tape.
“I am Sami Haddad, the one who could not kill a lamb.”
Glancing at her slumbering mother again, she repaired to her room, rummaging about for the next unlistened-to tape. I’d better hurry, she said to herself.
“My first flight in the Cessna 152. I was not the best student they ever had. But I survived the first round and got my first pilot’s license that August. My instructor said she was proud of me. She appreciated my soft hands, she said … and my gentleness. When she handed me my citation, she said to the school director, ‘He couldn’t hurt a fly.’
“Atta and Fatfat were training at a different flight school in Venice, Florida, not far away. I didn’t see much of them. We weren’t supposed to have much contact with one another, only on occasions when it was absolutely necessary, which was just fine with me.
“Having seen a commercial on television about a US government program to support new farming ventures, Atta seized on an idea, as if the angel Gabriel himself had inspired him, to ask for a US government small business loan. He and Fatfat chortled about the audacity of it. The proposal was to pose as young aviation entrepreneurs who sought a start-up loan for a crop-dusting enterprise. With Muktar’s permission, he would ask for $650,000 to buy a Cessna, remove all the passenger seats, and install tanks for the pesticide. Of course, pesticide was not at all what they had in mind. Atta asked me to accompany him to the loan office.
“At a cement building in Sarasota, we were seated before a veteran agricultural loan officer named Jones. She was a chunky woman with graying hair pulled back in a bun. Covering the wall behind her was a large aerial photograph of Washington, with the Pentagon in the center and nearby the Faculty of Fine Arts.
“Atta was immediately affronted. ‘I cannot conduct business with a woman,’ he announced.
“Idiot, I thought. ‘Please excuse my friend,’ I piped up apologetically.
‘He’s from Egypt. It’s a cultural thing.’
“She nodded her understanding.
“‘I’m sorry, Mr. Atta,’ she said. ‘But I’m the manager of this program. If you’re interested in applying for a loan, you will have to deal with me.”
“‘You are but a female,’ he said with disgust.
“‘That is true,’ she said patiently. ‘But a female makes the decisions around here. This female.’
“Atta grunted. I smiled at her, showing how I appreciated her sufferance for my rude friend.
“‘Do you wish to proceed?’ she asked, gazing at the clock and glancing back at him.
“Atta nodded.
“‘Very well.’ She pulled out her application and a pen that bore the name of the local bank.
“‘Your name is Atta, you said. A-T-T-A-H.’
“‘No,’ I jumped in. ‘A-T-T-A—how do you say in America? Like “Attaboy.”’
“She snickered. Atta didn’t get it.
“The process was tedious and lengthy. As Ms. Jones asked her questions and scribbled, Atta fidgeted and jiggled his feet on the floor, making various guttural sounds of distaste.
“‘Why is there not more security for this building?’ he demanded to know.
“‘What do you mean, Mr. Atta?’ she said. ‘You were announced.’
“‘Nobody searched me. I could be carrying a gun.’
“‘I doubt that would do you much good, sir. We don’t approve grants through stickups.’
“‘Stickups?’ Atta looked mystified.
“‘We just push paper around here,’ she persevered.
“‘Well, what’s to prevent me from going behind your desk, cutting your throat, and making off with the millions of dollars in that safe?’
“She put down her pen and gave him a stern look. ‘Actually, there is no cash in that safe. Anyway, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Because, Mr. Atta, I’m a black belt in karate.’
“That seemed to arrest Atta’s attention. ‘I think I need that training as well. Can you recommend someone in the area?’
“‘No, I can’t,’ she replied, irritated for the first time.
“After a pause he said, ‘I intend to travel out of the country soon. Will my voyage affect my application?’
“‘Oh, on vacation? Where are you going, Mr. Atta?’
“‘Spain, Germany, and Czechoslovakia, if it’s any of
your business,’ he said.
“‘No, it shouldn’t affect your application, unless you plan to slit a few throats over there.’
“Atta snorted.
“I decided that I’d better redirect the conversation. On her desk was a plastic football with a star on it. ‘So you’re a Dallas Cowboys fan, Ms. Jones?’ I asked politely.
“‘Oh, I see you’re picking up on American culture, Mr. Hadley.’
“‘Haddad. Haddad is my name.’
“‘Oh, sorry, Mr. Haddad. After sixteen years in this business, I should be better with names, but foreign names throw me sometimes.’
“‘Dallas Cowboys. America’s team,’ Atta said proudly.
“She nodded.
“‘Their stadium has a big hole in the roof,’ Atta said with a big smile.
“Ms. Jones continued to scribble.
“‘Have you ever heard of Osama bin Laden?’ Atta asked.
“She looked up. ‘Osama bin Laden? Is that a character in Star Wars?’
“‘No, he’s not. Someday Osama bin Laden will be seen as one of the world’s greatest leaders.’
“‘Really?’ she said without interest.
“Again, there was a lull as she scribbled. ‘How much will you take for that photograph of Washington on your wall?’ he asked. She turned around and looked at the Pentagon photograph as if it were the first time she had ever seen it.
“‘It’s not for sale,’ she said.
“He took out an enormous wad of cash. ‘Five hundred dollars,’ he said, spooling out the bills.
“Her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Atta. Your offer is generous. It’s probably worth about five dollars. But the photograph is not mine to sell.’
“When we walked out of the meeting, I was fuming. We walked for a block or two without speaking. But my emir seemed quite pleased with himself.
“‘What’s so funny?’ I asked bitterly.
“‘That was just a big game in there,’ he chuckled.
“‘You won’t be laughing when she reports us,’ I said.
“‘Me and that sharmuta were just having fun,’ he said, still smiling. ‘We’ll really be laughing when we get that check.’ And then he turned on me coldly.
“‘Let’s get one thing straight, Sami. I’m the emir of this operation. I know what I’m doing. Just keep your concerns to yourself.’
“Of course, we didn’t get a check. A month later the rejection—without explanation—arrived in Atta’s mail. He informed Muktar promptly that they would not be able to purchase a plane. Very well, Muktar replied through Omar. We’ll have to rethink the nature of the operation. Up until this time, I thought our mission would involve small planes. Perhaps we might pack a plane full of explosives, shoehorn Fatfat into the pilot’s seat, and dispatch him to the White House.
“A few weeks later, Atta informed us that new instructions had been received from the Sheikh, through Mohammad Atef and Muktar. All three of us were to enroll immediately in simulator training for large commercial jets. Meanwhile, that fall, Omar applied for the fourth time for a US visa, and for the fourth time, he was rejected.
“I was stuck with Atta.”
The following morning, Karima and her mother sat around the cramped kitchen table and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. There was much to discuss. If her mother won her legal case, there would be many projects. So much had been deferred or ignored as too expensive in these three agonizing years of waiting for the court to render a favorable decision. Perhaps Mutti should move to a more spacious apartment closer in to town, or if she stayed put, this apartment could be repainted and spruced up and all the trash that had accumulated over these years could be discarded. They discussed color schemes and new furniture. They might hire a regular nurse and perhaps even a regular masseuse.
When Karima rose to clean up, her mother said, “Sit down, my child. We’re going to grapple with your situation now.”
The look in her mother’s eyes startled Karima. A determination and strength that she had not seen in a long time was evident. The cast of her mother’s face commanded respect and obedience. Dutifully, Karima sat back down.
“I smelled something burning last night,” her mother said. “Did you burn that tape?”
Karima searched her mother’s careworn face for a hint of disapproval. And then she nodded. “I did it on an impulse, Mutti. I’m sorry. It will probably get me into deeper water.”
“What about the others?”
“Not yet.”
“Now, you listen to me, my darling: we’re going to get you out of this fix.”
“But how? Mama, I’m so confused. I’m caught between two powerful forces, and I don’t know how to get out.”
“I’ll tell you how,” her mother said firmly.
“Can’t we talk about this tomorrow, Mutti?”
“No, we’re going to talk about it right now,” she said firmly. “But first you must tell me everything about the police and about the terrorists.”
The details poured out of Karima in a torrent. At last she could unburden herself to someone who really cared about her, and her relief was immense. When she finished, she looked into her mother’s face.
“You see?” she said, fragile and brittle now.
“Okay,” her mother said resolutely. “Calm down, my child. Listen to me carefully. This is what you’re going to do.”
For her return to Hamburg, Karima chose a slower route, as her mother had instructed, one that required a twenty-minute change in Göttingen and a layover in Hannover. At the main station, she bought a second-class ticket. When she came upon her seat, she found herself in a clutch of rowdy students returning to the university.
The students laughed loudly, tussled restlessly, and masticated their white-bread sandwiches with lip-smacking pleasure, covering the table that separated the four seats with moist crumbs. For a time Karima restrained her annoyance, maintaining her prim, professional composure, suffering the adolescent antics for as long as she could stand it. Finally, she could bear it no longer. Summoning up her best schoolmarm tone, she said, “Could you guys pipe down a little? I need to do a little work.” They glanced at one another and giggled.
“Why don’t you move over there?” one of them said, pointing to an empty seat across the aisle and poking his mate in the ribs. Gathering her dignity, Karima moved without answering. As she sat down, she noticed an Indian gentleman several rows back, sitting with his roly-poly wife, wrapped in a sari.
It seemed safe enough. When she put in a cassette, Sami’s voice was flat and unemotional.
“Soon enough, you’ll remember, my love, my father had a massive heart attack. Even though the pace of preparations in Florida was picking up, I could no longer put off a trip home. Without asking for permission, I informed Atta and took off for Beirut. For the next twelve days I scarcely strayed from my father’s hospital bedside. With tubes protruding from his nose and monitors on his chest constantly beeping and flashing, he could barely talk.
“The parade of family members through the hospital was constant, including Uncle Assem. When he saw me by his father’s bedside, he said, ‘Excellent. The good son.’ I nodded, pleased with his approval.
“Toward the end of the visit, I left for brief stretches, since, at last, father was resting comfortably. I had not been to Beirut for two years, and much had happened in the interim. After my training in Afghanistan, I saw my hometown differently. Taking a taxi to Mazraa Street, I wandered through the Palestinian market only a few blocks from my family’s old apartment and there fell into conversation with a cheery Palestinian man on the street corner. Would he take me on a walk through Sabra? I asked. He gladly agreed.
“‘We want everyone to see the squalor,’ he said.
“We walked through narrow, muddy alleyways, and the man cautioned me to be wary of the frayed, exposed wires overhead and the stinking t
rash that littered the doorways. They wandered into a cramped school, and tiny boys shouted out greetings to the guide, clustering around his legs and competing to hold his hand.
“‘What is their future?’ I asked as we walked away.
“‘It’s very hard to say,’ the man said. ‘They have nowhere to go when they get older, and they will become very angry.’
“He was a doctor, he told me, unable by Lebanese law to practice either outside of the camp’s confines or inside, for it was forbidden. It was a sunny, mild February day when we had entered the virtual prison, but we never saw the sun until we left. Omar and Muktar had been right: I had been blind, utterly detached from my surroundings in my youth, and from the reality of my manhood.