The Believer

by Joakim Zander

  I feel my heart start to race, my cheeks getting hot. Imam Dakhil takes my hand in his and puts his other hand on top of it. He looks at me with his green, sincere eyes, and I feel that nothing has ever been more important in my life than this, that this is more important than me, or even you, or us.

  “Brother Taimur says you are devoted?” says the imam.

  I nod enthusiastically. I have never been more eager to express my sincerity.

  “That you feel strongly about the injustices that our brothers and sisters are subjected to? Brother Taimur says you’ve had your problems, brother Ajam, just as we have all had our problems, but that you’ve chosen to let Allah, may he be glorified and exalted, take over your whole heart, not just a small part?”

  “Yes,” I say. “My whole heart belongs to Allah, may he be exalted.”

  I say it with conviction, just like I say Shahada, just like I pray and read the Qu’ran. I say it because I want it to be true. I say it even if I don’t feel it, because there’s nothing I want more than to feel it.

  Imam Dakhil nods and holds my hand tighter.

  “Brother Taimur also says that you’re very eager to seek out jihad? That you want to connect with our brothers in Syria, that you’re not afraid of martyrdom, that you would be happy if Allah, may he be exalted, were to allow you that?”

  “Yes,” I say, my heart pounding. “I don’t fear death, I yearn for paradise, I long to serve Allah, may he be glorified and exalted.”

  They look at me calmly. Imam Dakhil presses my hand harder, then leans forward to stare deeper into my eyes.

  “There are many ways to seek jihad,” he says. “Jihad is not just accomplished on the battlefield and in martyrdom, if you were to be so blessed by Allah, may he be exalted. It is not the only way to reach paradise, do you understand?”

  Brother al-Amin moves closer to us so that he can look me in the eyes.

  “You understand that we’re fighting our jihad here?” he says. “By doing what we’re doing now? By finding believers like you and helping them to carry out the will of Allah? That’s also jihad.”

  But I can’t do that, I want to scream. If Allah has a plan for me it’s not here! It can’t be here!

  “Yes,” I say. “I understand. May Allah’s will be done, may he be glorified and exalted.”

  It feels uncomfortable to praise Allah here, among these scrawny trees, in this long grass. It feels uncomfortable to praise him at all, when all I want is for him to fill me up, not just test me.

  “It’s possible that you have potential,” imam Dakhil says. “We have contacts and opportunities. If your belief is strong, brother Ajam, it’s possible that your dream to serve Allah, may he be glorified and exalted, on the battlefield may come true.”

  Now I feel that gas fill me again, that warm, hopeful, volatile gas that’s thicker than blood and lighter than air or thought. Maybe it’s God, I think, maybe it’s Allah, may he be glorified and exalted. Perhaps he’s come to fill me, to reward me for my patience and trust. But I know that’s not true. I know I’m a bad Muslim who can’t feel God, who longs for something greater but can’t feel the greatest of all.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for contacting me.”

  “Don’t thank us,” says the imam Dakhil. “Thank Allah, may he be glorified and exalted.”

  16. LONDON—TUESDAY, AUGUST 18, 2015

  IT’S JUST AFTER nine in the morning when Klara arrives at the four steps that lead up to 33 Surrey Street, just around the corner from the Strand and the roar of morning rush hour. The air is heavy and warm, saturated with the smell of exhaust, the river, and coffee. A small, shiny brass plate above the doorbell announces that she’s outside the KING’S CENTRE FOR HUMAN RIGHTS STUDY.

  Yesterday’s dull headache has died down but still hums somewhere in the back of her head. She really didn’t have time to be sick yesterday, but it had been impossible to work. Her hangover and anxiety kept her in bed most of the day. Of course, she was grateful for what Pete did for her, but she’d refused to borrow clothes from him and instead made her way home in her own disgusting clothes. She could never face him again after that, better to just forget that night as soon as possible.

  Now she takes a sip of the coffee she bought from a Belarusian teenager at Starbucks and regrets it immediately when her nausea returns. Whatever happened on Sunday night led to at least a two-day hangover, and coffee obviously doesn’t help.

  In order to gain a little time, allow the nausea to pass, she walks past the front door to number 33, and instead takes the stairs down to the courtyard beneath a sign that says STRAND LANE. She remembers reading that behind the window at the back of the small courtyard an ancient Roman bath is hidden.

  On the way down the stairs, she takes out her phone to check her email and jumps when she notices that she’s not alone in the yard. No more than thirty feet away, she sees the tall, slender silhouette of her American colleague Patrick Shapiro. He seems to be squatting but gets up quickly when he sees her, then runs a hand through his blond hair and adjusts his titanium frames.

  “Klara,” he says seriously, slightly embarrassed. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” she replies and realizes that she has no other choice but to approach him.

  They shake hands, which seems oddly formal, but over the year she’s been at the institute they’ve barely spoken to each other outside of the weekly meetings their boss, Charlotte Anderfeldt, insists on having with her employees. And Patrick’s not the kind you can have a chat with when you’re headed back to your office with a cup of coffee in hand. On the contrary, he keeps to himself, comes in early, leaves late, always keeps his door closed. Rumor has it that he refuses to use the Internet or even a computer for some reason.

  Klara notices a window behind Patrick, and she takes a few steps toward it and leans in toward the dirty glass while she puts a hand above her eyes to minimize the glare. All she can make out is something that looks like a worn, sunken sandstone bathtub. A ruin of a bathtub. She turns to Patrick, a wry smile. The headache remains ensconced at the back of her head.

  “As tourist attractions go, it’s not exactly Disney World, is it,” she says.

  He nods seriously. His smooth, elongated face looks like sandstone too, she thinks.

  “Well, I like it,” he says, almost offended. “I come here almost every morning. Dickens apparently used to bathe here.”

  Klara nods, she’s also heard that somewhere.

  “And Guy Fawkes and his men met here to plan the attack on the Parliament,” he adds, his voice slightly lower.

  “Really?”

  She didn’t know that.

  “So you come here every morning?” she continues and glances in through the window again. “Feels a bit like if you’d seen it once . . .”

  She lets the sentence hang.

  “I like the idea of it,” he says. “The layers. The story within the story. It’s probably not even a Roman bath, probably more recent. But just the fact that it’s lying here beneath everything else, quiet, almost forgotten. First, the Romans—maybe—then the city grew for thousands of years, then Fawkes, then Dickens. Everything has grown around that old tub, and we don’t even really know what it is. And finally, here we are with our ‘human rights.’”

  He adds air quotes around the last two words. It’s the longest speech she’s ever heard him make.

  “What do you mean by that? ‘Human rights’?” She imitates his gesture. “You don’t think that’s what we’re working on?”

  He shrugs and seems to inspect her more closely.

  “I just mean it’s like this bath here. Things aren’t always what they seem, there are layers. And in the end we don’t even know if the core is what we think it is.”

  She shakes her head, gently massages her temples. This is way too existential for her today.

  “I think I have to go to work now. You coming?”

  Up on the third floor, outside Charlotte’s door, Klara t
akes a deep breath before knocking. The old wooden floor creaks as she nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Yes?” Charlotte’s voice comes from inside the room.

  Klara gently pushes the door open. Charlotte is sitting in the bay window facing the street, behind an antique desk cluttered with papers and highlighters, cell phone chargers and half empty coffee cups. In the middle of all this chaos stands a large aluminum-colored computer screen that’s probably connected to a computer somewhere under all the papers and debris. The walls are covered with bookshelves full of books, binders, and more chaotic piles of paper.

  “Excuse me, Charlotte,” Klara says in Swedish. “But something happened.”

  Charlotte gets up from her desk and gestures for Klara to join her on one of the small sofas. Charlotte looks relaxed and bohemian today in a wide skirt and a loose-fitting top. Her thick, dark hair is held up in a messy ponytail.

  “Sit down, honey,” she says. “What happened? Have some water. Or would you like some tea? Are you feeling better at least? You were sick yesterday?”

  Klara nods and can feel herself turning red.

  “Yes,” she says. “Much better. Must have been . . . food poisoning. ”

  Charlotte looks kindly at her with big, dark eyes and the sincerity in them makes Klara feel more deceitful than ever.

  “Ugh,” Charlotte says. “Glad you feel better!”

  “Definitely!” Klara says and nods with excessive enthusiasm. She swallows deeply, preparing herself.

  “I don’t want to disturb you, it’s just that I lost my computer on Sunday.”

  She knows she’s blushing more, there’s nothing she hates more than admitting failure. And she can’t tell Charlotte what really happened, so she’s decided to present an edited version, one without red wine or vomit or bartenders or collapsing in dark alleys. Yes, a story with no bars at all. Charlotte’s eyes widen.

  “What? How did that happen, Klara?”

  “I must have left it at the airport or on the train,” she lies. “I contacted the lost and found departments, but, you know how it is, nothing yet.”

  She shrugs, feeling small and completely worthless.

  “It’s OK, Klara, we’ll figure it out, of course. We’ll find you a computer to work on. But you’ve followed the instructions regarding all your documents?”

  Klara nods eagerly, relieved to finally be able to say that she’s done something right.

  “Yes of course,” she says. “Everything related to work was saved on the server.”

  “And only on the server?” Charlotte says and presses her hand a little harder. “You know, so close to the Stockholm Conference, it’s important that nothing leaks out.”

  Klara nods again.

  “Only on the server.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, definitely,” she says.

  And she is. She’s followed Charlotte’s instructions to the letter, been careful to save every document onto the encrypted server, especially every document related to the large EU conference in Stockholm. She knows what an honor it is for Charlotte and the rest of the centre to be presenting their assessment of the opportunities and risks related to privatizing prisons and police forces at the biggest annual meeting of EU justice ministers in about a week. This particular report was the main reason Klara was hired by the centre a year ago. Charlotte won the contract not because she happened to be Swedish, and the report would be presented in Stockholm, but because of solid academic experience, and she needed a right hand that could help her with organization and writing.

  Charlotte’s offer arrived suddenly, just as Klara was getting herself out of bed at Grandma and Grandpa’s on Aspöja and had decided to try to finish Mahmoud’s thesis.

  “What a great opportunity. Of course, you should take it, Klara,” Professor Lysander, Mahmoud’s supervisor, had said. “You’ll get the chance to work on the thesis, and it will be good to get away. And it’s at King’s College! That’ll look good.”

  She looked up the centre, and indeed it belonged to King’s College London, was relatively new, and focused on researching human rights issues in the gray area between the private and public market. It was concerned with precisely the questions Mahmoud’s dissertation touched upon, and she saw that some of Anderfeldt’s articles appeared in Mahmoud’s bibliography. She thought about it for a week and then went over to meet Charlotte.

  It turned out that the institute was composed of Charlotte, Patrick, two other researchers, and later Klara. Over the past year a few graduate students had joined them together with a couple of undergraduates who did background research for various projects.

  Klara had liked Charlotte’s laid-back, intelligent attitude from the beginning. It was clear that she had ambitions, both for herself and for the newly established centre. Klara had felt a kind of excitement awaken inside her. Maybe this would be good for her?

  “But why me?” she’d asked Charlotte. “How did you know about me?”

  Charlotte had only smiled at her.

  “Good researchers get noticed fast,” she said, and winked at her.

  Klara didn’t really care how Charlotte had found her, she was just happy to leave the archipelago. To get out and move on. She’d already signed a contract by the time she flew back to Stockholm later that evening.

  “Typical,” Charlotte says now. “To lose your computer right now, I mean. But, like I said, these sorts of things happen.”

  She pats Klara’s hand and reaches for a mug, which she fills with green tea from a thermos bottle on the coffee table.

  “And how’s it going for you?” she continues. “The draft on legal constraints?”

  Klara’s job is to compile a background text on the legal problems of privatization as it relates to democratically sensitive agencies, such as the police or prison system. She’s been as accurate and objective as she could, even if she thinks it’s appalling that anyone would seriously consider it democratically defensible to privatize a police force. It’s lucky that Charlotte received such a sensitive assignment, she thinks. Charlotte is objective and honest, both in her research and in her private life. At the same time, it’s almost a dizzying thought that the institute’s research will form a kind of basis for such an important discussion among EU countries. This is precisely the kind of job that is able to consume Klara, stop her from thinking about the past or the future.

  “Good, I think,” she says. “Just read through it again. I’ll send you a link this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Charlotte says and takes a sip of tea. “Talk to Dawn about getting a computer, she knows what you’ll need in order to sign for a new one from the university.”

  It’s with relief that Klara climbs the creaking stairs to the attic floor she shares with Patrick. Charlotte and the other researchers all sit on the floor below. The rest of the building’s five floors are taken up by various university administrative activities, which Klara has never really had any reason to explore. Charlotte has indicated that they’ll soon get another floor and at least three more researchers. There seems to be money in any case, which is an unusual level of security in the academic world.

  As Klara enters her floor, her head throbbing weakly, she grabs an ibuprofen from her purse, and swallows it without water. Just as she’s about to go into her office, she notices, to her great surprise, that Patrick’s door is ajar, something she can’t recall ever having seen before. She stops, hesitates. She and her colleagues have joked so much about Patrick and his oddball ways that the temptation to peek into his office is overwhelming.

  She glances at the door to the tiny restroom and can see that it’s locked. He’s probably gone in there and forgotten for once to close his office door behind him.

  She glances once more toward the locked door and then tiptoes over the creaking floor to Patrick’s office. Just a quick look, surely that’s OK? She carefully pushes on the faintly squeaking door.

  The room in
side is surprisingly dark, he’s pulled down the blinds of the garret window that looks onto the backyard. She’s not sure what she expected—perhaps creative madness, papers pinned up with colored yarn connecting them, like the movie version of academic mental illness?—but that’s not what his room looks like. It’s tightly organized. Smooth piles of paper lie in straight lines on his desk, and the books are placed orderly on the shelves in the low, dark wood bookcase that covers one wall. A single paper is taped up on the wall, a letter-size page with just a few words in large font: A Dangerous Remedy.

  She freezes. There’s something about those words. A dangerous remedy. Something familiar, something that makes the hairs on her arms stand up, and she shudders. What does it mean? Is it the name of the book he’s working on?

  She continues searching the room with her eyes, but the only strange thing that she sees is a computer screen—identical to the screen in her own office, university standard—standing on the floor with its cord hanging behind it. Instead, a large whiteboard hangs above the desk, on which something that looks like a mind map has been drawn. Klara leans in inquisitively—maybe she’ll get a few more details about what Patrick actually does with his days?

  In the dark, it’s difficult to make out what he’s written in red ink on the white background, but at the center of the mind map she can make out a rectangle with “Ribbenstahl” written inside it. She takes a half step over the threshold. In one of the other rectangles she sees what looks like “Stirling Security.” An arrow leads from that to Ribbenstahl. Below Stirling Security is a circle with “Russian Embassy?” written inside it.

  What is he up to? she thinks.

  At the same time, she hears someone flushing the toilet and throws a quick glance over her shoulder before bending forward and squinting at the board one last time. All arrows seem to lead through King’s Centre for Human Rights toward a large jagged circle at the top of the board. Inside it reads “The Stockholm Conference.” And beside it: “Charlotte’s report?”