The Occurrence

  Kurt took out a small packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. He removed one, and wiped Hashim’s nose for him.

  He folded the tissue inside a clean one and tossed it into the trashcan against the wall.

  “Thank you.”

  This was a far cry from the way Hashim’s interrogations had gone. He’d studied the Inquisition of the Middle Ages, the judicial system of the Roman Catholic Church, whose aim was to combat heresy, and the techniques of torture the U.S. military had perfected in their black sites. Hashim learned much from his fellow men.

  “I’ll ask again. What is your purpose here?”

  Hashim looked down at the chains on his wrists.

  “I discovered things about myself under bin Laden. I learned I was violent, brutal, and determined. I’d beheaded enemies, and ordered them to be killed. But I was misguided.”

  “How have you come to this now?”

  He wanted to tell Kurt it was the experience in the desert that led him here. How the visions of who he’d been in the swirl of dust and light erased the darkness that had saturated him with hate. Somehow, he knew Kurt would understand. But those who were privy to this conversation, from wherever they watched and listened, he wouldn’t trust with this truth. But he needed to let Kurt know somehow, and words from the Qur’an ran through his mind, and he spoke them.

  “‘I tell you of a truth that the spirits which now have affinity shall be kindred together although they all meet in new persons and names.’”

  And Kurt said, “‘Every soul will be brought face to face with the good that it has done and with the evil it has done.’”

  “You know the Qur’an.”

  “Yes. Very well.”

  The psychiatrist’s eyes were locked in on the prisoner.

  A breath rushed out of Hashim, like he was expelling his past, and he said, “In Islam there are two types of jihad.”

  “I know. The greater, of the soul. And the lesser, of the sword.”

  “I’m here to show the world the greater, and that our violent jihad is wrong.”

  Kurt leaned in, his elbows on the table inches from Hashim’s hands.

  “And how do you expect to show the world that?”

  “In a courtroom, with all the coverage your country is known for.”

  “And you expect to have a legal team help you do that?”

  “There is no defense for what I’ve done.”

  “It’s hard to believe your motive is to offer yourself up with nothing in return. You could use this platform for your lesser jihad.”

  “How you deal with me is up to you. I am in your hands. This is neither simple nor easy, nor will be, for either of us. But I am here.”

  He took another deep breath—this time the air that rushed out had the scent of roses. He could see Kurt’s breathing changed as well. And from the look in Kurt’s eyes, and his slow intake of breath, Hashim could tell he smelled the roses, too.

  48

  The White House was in a frenzy. There was no precedent for a terrorist’s surrender. Was it a tactical distraction away from an imminent attack? What ploy was behind Hashim’s surrender? How could this be contained for maximum security and played for political cachet?

  This was a long-awaited moment, but the way it occurred opened a Pandora’s box the government hadn’t expected. Where the trial would be held was also a serious matter. All the options had risk: Federal Court. International Tribunal. Military Court. Foreign Court. U.N. National Court. U.N. Administered Court in Afghanistan. Or a Special Islamic Court. And so, the White House was in a frenzy.

  The heads of the FBI and Justice Department gathered at the Pentagon to review all the evidence, testimony, and details they had regarding the criminal and his crimes. Someone played Hashim’s last video warning, which came right before the feed from the warehouse. The bearded face of the cleric peered out from the monitor—anger burned thick in his eyes.

  “What America has experienced is but a fraction of what my people have endured,” Hashim seethed. “Our sons have been slain, blood has been shed, and our sacred places defiled. Millions of children have been killed in Iraq though they were guilty of nothing. Yet no one has condemned this. You are hypocrites, and the events you have perpetuated have divided the world. To the people of America I say, you will not be safe until your armies quit the land of Muhammad. Until that day, worse than towers falling will you forever see from the wrath of Allah on your people.”

  Bin Laden had taught him well.

  This was one of many pieces of evidence the prosecution planned to use in building its case against the cleric. But there were concerns. While the United States led the world in prosecuting terrorists, the burden of proof was high as to the crimes with which they could connect him in a federal court. It would hinder efforts to bring Hashim to justice no matter how much evidence they’d collected. The prosecutors might be unwilling to use sensitive information that was derived from top-secret sources. The location of the trial and prison where Hashim could be held would become a magnet for violence. No matter where he was detained and prosecuted, firestorms would ignite. Now, they had to figure into the equation the fact Hashim had surrendered. Whatever the American government and its lawyers didn’t know about Hashim could be used against them. Capturing and arresting a terrorist was one thing, surrender this phenomenal another. The government could be guaranteed Hashim’s people would reach him when they discovered what he’d done if they already hadn’t. They would question his loyalty, and put a fatwa on him to be sure. This added enormous complexity and strain to an already insurmountable task.

  49

  Friday, September 25

  From his window seat on the plane, Vincente looked at his gruff image reflected back in the small oval glass as he took in the warmth and beauty of the morning sun.

  He, Jhana-Merise, and Arama had been flying all night from Peru. That Sister Helen had furnished them with passports and him a work visa brought a smile to his face, and deeper respect for the maverick she was. It even helped him look at the man on the cross with renewed interest—that he could inspire such action in the cause of a young girl’s destiny. Truth was, that man had inspired a religion, so why not passports and a work visa.

  In the time Jhana-Merise spent at the convent, Vincente read about cuneiforms and codes in sacred texts. The scrutiny, science, and passion he discovered in those who’d explored these things seemed to be grounded in plausible reality. Like the idea of past lives his wife, and now Jhana-Merise, had exposed him to. And so, he presented what he’d found to Helen a few days before he got on the plane. He believed she would be open to the discussion. He was right.

  Helen wasn’t surprised Jhana-Merise had said there was a hidden tablet in the desert. After all, Helen had said, Moses was in possession of two tablets, who’s to say there weren’t others yet to be discovered?

  Vincente closed his eyes, picturing Helen’s sweet face, and thought of the last thing this holy woman had said to him before he left with his daughter.

  The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the young goat. The calf and the lion will graze together. And a little child shall lead them.

  The faith he’d called a “useless devotion” upon his wife’s death took on a different light in those meetings with Sister Helen. There was a world beyond the one he’d been preached to about. A world this nun had deep interest and curiosity in as well. A world that held, as possible, the belief that we are more than we know, and there are many willing to risk their lives for it.

  Jhana-Merise leaned her head against her father’s side, opened her eyes and smiled, as if she’d heard what he’d been thinking.

  He kissed her gently on her forehead.

  She reached out to Arama sitting in the aisle seat.

  The plane’s wheels hit the ground with a thud. They’d landed at Dulles.

  Vincente gazed at his daughter. She was a delicate and powerful being. He looked at his own rough-hewn hands and
still felt much the brute. But within the gap of those opposites he knew something was reaching to be born.

  50

  Arama stood at the door to Isabel’s apartment. She’d not warned her sister she was coming. And while her unexpected arrival would make Isabel furious, that she brought two others would test their already fragile relationship. But Arama believed once she reminded her sister of the importance of their mission she would understand.

  The apartment door opened and Arama saw in her sister’s eyes the anger she expected, but it was now dressed in the latest style. A dark blue suit of impeccable taste and expense, like so many American women wore on TV.

  Arama gazed into the apartment. It lacked warmth and light, from the straight lines of the furniture, to the hardwood floor, and venetian blinds shut so tight that light had to squeeze into the room. And there was a fragrance she’d never smelled before. It must’ve come from a bottle, not nature, she thought.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Isabel said, jarred at the sudden presence of her sister.

  “May we come in?” Arama asked, pointing to the two others, as if there was nothing bizarre in this sudden appearance in her sister’s life after so long a time.

  “This is the young girl I left you the message about who cured the boy. Her name is Jhana-Merise. And this is her father, Vincente. They’re friends of mine.”

  Arama saw Isabel’s body stiffen and her jaw clench. She used to be afraid of her sister’s anger, but standing here at the threshold of her sister’s life, and looking into the apartment with its cold modernity, she felt pride in how she’d chosen to live. She was a worker from a poor land, but that land bred dreams of family and unity, not the arid dreams of greed and separateness she saw her sister had fallen into.

  “You can’t show up like this,” Isabel said in an angry whisper, her hands clenched by her side.

  The distance had allowed Arama to deny the extent of rage to which her sister was capable. Yes, they had walked different paths. They’d walked them for decades, but Arama hoped that something this magnificent could break through Isabel’s emotional wall. They weren’t from two separate countries, they were human beings connected by God, no matter how much Isabel needed possessions to prove her worth.

  Arama told Isabel of Jhana-Merise and how she healed the boy. She also told her of dreams Jhana-Merise had of Hashim teaching her about the butterfly, and how she saw him clean-shaven, with hands and feet chained. Arama could see her unexpected presence and all the information she’d blurted had her sister reeling. She also saw Isabel take a deep breath, collect herself, as she always had in her drive to be superior, and in true lawyer fashion cross-examine the young girl she just met.

  “You’ve seen Hashim in dreams?” Isabel said, her facade masked the alarm running through her.

  “Yes,” Jhana-Merise replied.

  “Who else knows of this?”

  “Don’t worry. God will protect us,” Arama answered.

  “This is serious,” Isabel said to Arama, pointing a finger like a gun. “Have you told anyone else about these dreams, Jhana-Merise?”

  “Only a nun in a convent where we stayed before coming here.”

  “And Sister Helen is on our side,” Arama said.

  Vincente watched the whole exchange, his face flushed with embarrassment.

  “This isn’t what you expected. I’m sorry,” Vincente said, and turned to go, but his daughter didn’t move.

  “Jhana-Merise,” Vincente ordered her to follow him, but again, she didn’t move.

  Father and daughter stood on the landing.

  Arama stayed just outside the apartment door.

  Isabel just inside, protecting her kingdom.

  The map of Isabel’s life was intricate. It had taken her from South America to Washington, but it was a more tortuous route than it seemed on the surface.

  Living and working in D.C. was something she’d wished for, growing up in a third world country in the shadow of America. And she broke free from the primitive land of the Incas and worked her way to becoming a U.S. citizen. She’d put herself through school in D.C., then university, then law school, working three part-time jobs: clerk, receptionist, and maid. By day she’d been an ambitious student competing for the most coveted law positions, by night, an invisible service worker dismissed as someone from a country far below the United States.

  Her ambitions came from her mother, and when she died, Isabel’s passion to leave the land of her birth overwhelmed her and there was no turning back. Isabel knew Arama had a passion too—for magical thinking and omens. Something Isabel believed was foolish. But it now played havoc in her mind. For as much as she wanted them gone, what clairvoyant ability this young girl—whom her sister had placed before her—seemed to have, Isabel needed to know the full measure of.

  If this young girl had dreams of Hashim, of what else was she capable that would need to be contained?

  Isabel stepped aside and offered them a place to stay for the night. She didn’t know Arama had plans for them to be here longer.

  51

  The occurrence in the desert, and the miracle of her survival added to Dominique’s cachet. But it was her literary street cred and a call from Bruton that opened the door to the Department of Justice.

  The White House was more than eager to set her up with access to the pending trial they’d been preparing since they’d known Hashim was on American soil. They couldn’t avoid media scrutiny, and thought the best way would be to make the first move and get out in front of the story before it broke. And they believed Dominique was the ideal journalist to help them disseminate that information, before all hell broke loose, and every media outlet clamored for coverage.

  Through the series of meetings they let her sit in on, Dominique was brought up to speed with their plan for prosecuting Hashim in D.C. It needed to happen fast, because the longer they waited the more time the insurgents had to plan freeing or killing him.

  Dominique had gathered background information on all the principle lawyers. She was drawn to one in particular—the lone female lawyer on the case who’d come from very interesting circumstances. She asked if she might have time to discuss what she’d been working on with that lawyer. Dominique knew that lawyer’s perspective would be unique among the others the Department of Justice had gathered.

  52

  Despite the demands of the case and the terrifying reality that had intruded into her life, Isabel Chavez was flattered by Dominique’s interest in her part of the prosecution.

  Isabel welcomed Dominique into her office in the criminal division of the Department of Justice. There were no windows, just a metal desk, two folding chairs and a massive set of filing cabinets that lined the prison-gray walls.

  “It’s a storage room, but we need all the space we can create,” Isabel said, and motioned for Dominique to sit opposite her.

  “Must be exciting, being part of the prosecution.”

  “It is.”

  “So, how’s it going?”

  It was a simple question and Dominique’s smile was disarming.

  “There’s a lot to do.”

  “Have you been to see Hashim, yet?” Dominique asked.

  “No. Few have that permission right now. Why do you think he surrendered?”

  “The drone wasn’t meant for the warehouse. Did you know that?” Dominique asked. She could see the piece of information shocked Isabel. “They didn’t tell you.”

  “We were told there were extraordinary circumstances, but not what they were.”

  “Business as usual for the FBI.”

  “How might those circumstances affect our case against him?”

  Dominique hesitated. There was method in her every word and every silence.

  “I understand if you’d rather not answer that, Miss Valen.”

  “No. It’s all right.”

  “Do you think those circumstances are responsible for his surrender?”

  “You’re the fi
rst person who’s asked me that. Why do you think he surrendered?”

  “We’re not sure. There’s been no activity from the cells since he walked into the FBI. We’re not clear how to read that.”

  “What do you think?”

  Isabel stared into the air. Dominique respected her hesitation. She knew there were too many unanswered questions for Isabel to make a conjecture that wasn’t grounded in reality.

  “I think there are two possibilities,” Isabel said. “Either he’s here to take down something huge…”

  “You mean the White House.”

  “That’s an educated guess. And maybe the cells are quiet for that reason. Or, he’s here for something we don’t yet understand.”

  “A lawyer who admits there’s something they don’t understand. I’m impressed.”

  She asked what she believed was an innocent question. “You have a sister in Cuzco?”

  Dominique saw Isabel’s body tense, and she sat up in her chair as if she’d been called on by a teacher for not paying attention.

  “My sister has nothing to do with what we’re talking about. Why bring her into this?”

  It was a defensive reply and piqued Dominique’s curiosity.

  “Finding things about people is what I do. It gives me a better picture.”

  “My sister and I haven’t talked to each other in a long time.”

  Dominique could feel Isabel wanted to take the conversation away from her sister, but Dominique didn’t let her.

  “Then you’re not aware there was a supposed miracle at the hospital where she works.”

  “Really?” Isabel said, feigning innocence.

  Her response left Dominique with the sense there was more here than met the eye.

  “I spent time in Peru before the Middle East. Hiked Machu Picchu. Spent a couple of weeks in Cuzco. Made some friends. They’re still there. They have some interesting beliefs.”

  “I come from a culture that takes little responsibility for itself, Miss Valen. God will make all things better. They never look at what their part is in circumstances.”