Convergence at Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  When Aymen arrived at Asem’s home the next morning, Zaim was the first to speak. “I am ready. What do I do?”

  A smile broadened Aymen’s face. “Come with me. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Before following Aymen, Zaim turned to Asem. “What can I ever do to repay you for the kindness you have shown me?”

  “Learn well, my son. Learn well.”

  With that the two men embraced each other, brushing first one cheek and then the other, and Zaim left for a new life.

  “I am taking you to meet our spiritual leader,” Aymen announced as the two men walked through a crowded marketplace.

  It was the first time in months that Zaim had been out in public. Time had smoothed the sharp edges created by the extreme trauma of Dania’s. Left in place was a distrust of people, an emptiness of being alone even in this crowd, and a hate that would never die. Several blocks later, Aymen led him into a brick building, and they were met by two others who were dressed in traditional Palestinian garb similar to what Asem had been wearing the first day the men met on the street.

  “Wait here,” Aymen demanded, and he left the room to return in a few moments accompanied by someone who was a total stranger to Zaim.

  He thought he was beyond being cowed, but this person carried himself in such a way that Zaim knew who was in charge before any words were spoken. Dressed in a black robe and with his head wrapped in a black turban, the man looked at Zaim through scowling eyes overshadowed by dense, bushy black eyebrows.

  “You are Zaim,” the man announced with not so much a question as a statement.

  Zaim could only nod.

  “Come! We must talk,” the black-robed cleric ordered, and he led Zaim away to an inner room.

  Zaim spent the next few days in this hidden residence. The cleric interrogated him daily, sometimes lecturing him on the evils of western society, sometimes probing to ascertain his commitment to avenging his loss.

  One day Aymen retuned, bringing with him a person Zaim had never met. He was introduced only as Haitham, the leader of a group calling themselves freedom fighters, what the United States called terrorists.

  Chapter Six

  Haitham wasted no time with idle chatter. “Aymen tells me that you have experienced what so many of us have endured for years, perhaps more so. I am sorry for your loss. The question is, do you want to take action or are you content living with your memories?” He allowed time for his words to sink in.

  “What do you mean, ‘take action’?” Zaim wanted to know. He didn’t immediately pick up on what Haitham was getting at.

  Bluntly, Haitham said, “Do you want to avenge your wife’s and son’s deaths, or do you want them to remain only a memory you carry? If you believe someone should pay, I can help. If not, then forget I came today.” Again he waited out the silence.

  Through pursed lips Zaim spit out the words, “They must pay for the pain and the loss they have caused me. Tell me how.”

  “First, I have connections with warriors who seek revenge for the degradation with which we Arabs are burdened. They will welcome you into their group with open arms. In various places, we have training sites where fighters are taught how to strike back at our enemies. It is at such places that plans are made to plant fear in the minds of those who would step on us and to cause as much damage as can be done.

  “Second, after your training you will be assigned a project designed to avenge the wrong done to you. Aymen tells me that you are sure that the real power behind Israel is the United States and its people. You are right, and we believe you are an ideal person to carry our war to their shores. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for this cause?”

  Zaim stared at Haitham. “When do I begin, and where do I go?”

  Less than a week later, Haitham escorted Zaim to the airport. He handed the younger man his ticket.

  “Do you have your passport?”

  Zaim checked his breast pocket another time. “Yes, it is right here, and I have the papers verifying why I wish to enter Afghanistan. Will it not seem strange that I am entering the country at a time of such turmoil?”

  “Everything has been taken care of as far as that is concerned. The Russians have all but left the country, although you might still experience their presence at the airport. The marketplaces in the cities are still able to function. Yours is not a difficult story to tell. You are a merchandiser of handmade rugs who wishes to establish contacts with several of the home businesses where the valuable rugs are woven. You are an importer who in turn sells to outlets in the United States.

  “Once through customs, you will be met by one of ours who will take you to the training camp. Don’t worry about being stopped by security. That matter has already been arranged for with a few dollars changing hands. As for having to verify your profession, it is only a cover to be used for nosy fellow passengers or airline workers.

  “We’ll meet again, I’m sure. Have a pleasant trip.”

  It was as Haitham had predicted at the airport in Afghanistan. The customs officer smiled and ushered Zaim through with barely a cursory look at his passport and a quick stamp of the papers. Once inside the terminal, Zaim looked around, hoping to be able to identify the person who was supposed to meet him. A man about his own age was leaning against a pillar. He held a hand-lettered sign: ZAIM.

  Together, they proceeded to the baggage claim area where they found the two bags holding all of Zaim’s possessions, and they left the airport without exchanging more than a few dozen words. Zaim was instructed by the man who had not even introduced himself to toss his bags in the back of a battered Toyota pickup truck. They drove from the city in silence, the driver constantly checking his side mirrors and glancing from side to side whenever they approached an intersection or alley.

  Once out of the city, Zaim could sense the driver begin to relax, and for the first time a slight smile formed on his lips.

  “I am Fadi. You I know, Zaim. We have approximately five hundred kilometers to travel before we reach our destination in the mountains. It is a well-hidden camp. In the meantime, I would guess you are hungry and thirsty. If you look in the cooler behind the seat, I brought some fruit and roasted lamb from the city, and there are a few bottles of cold water, too. Feel free to help yourself. Do you have any questions of me?”

  Zaim shook his head and reached for the food. It had been a long day, and he was hungry and tired. He ate in silence.

  Long after dark, Fadi braked the pickup to a stop. Zaim had fallen asleep, his chin bouncing off his chest as the road had become narrower and rougher until it was nothing more that a goat trail into the mountains. His eyes opened wide when the vehicle stopped moving, and in the head lights he could see a few dilapidated buildings. There was a lamp burning inside one of them, and the flame produced a flickering effect when viewed from outside.

  “Come with me,” Fadi urged. “I want you to meet our leader and instructor before you go to bed.” Zaim followed, slightly intimidated by being in a situation so totally foreign to him.

  It took his eyes a second to adjust to the dim light in the building, but when they did, Zaim was struck by the starkness of the room. Two rows of tables with benches were arranged across its length. At one end was a kitchen with several large pots and pans hanging from nails driven in the wall. At one of the tables sat a rough-looking character whose weathered face and ragged beard presented an image of one who had spent most of his time in the wilderness.

  “Our new recruit has arrived.” Fadi said matter-of-factly. “Samer, this is Zaim. Zaim, meet our leader. Samer is one of our patriots who helped drive the Russians from Afghanistan. He is your teacher and trainer. Listen to him, and follow his orders.”

  Samer looked up from his cup of hot tea. He placed his right hand over his heart and nodded slightly. “Zaim, how are you after your long trip? Well, I hope.”

  Zaim, taken aback by this custom of always asking about a visitor’s health and more than a little awed by Samer’s
intense eyes, was a little flummoxed.

  “I am fine,” he managed to get out.

  “That is good. We begin early tomorrow with your training, and I am glad you are in good condition to start.

  “Tell me, Zaim, are you afraid?”

  Zaim was not quite sure how to answer that question. Finally, he gathered his thoughts and said, “Not so much afraid as uncertain. I don’t know what to expect, and that is a little frightening. Should I be afraid?” he asked of Samer.

  “To a degree, yes. You probably know that last summer President Clinton of the United States ordered a cruise missile attack on one of our training camps. It killed several of our lieutenants and narrowly missed killing one of our leaders, Osama.

  “I will say that we are quite confident in our safety here. Few of us are notable targets, and we are well protected not only by the terrain and but also by the tribal chiefs who rule this area.

  “Fadi, take our new friend to his quarters and get him settled. Zaim, be ready for a very difficult day tomorrow.”

  As the sun was rising above the mountain peaks the next morning, Fadi opened the door to the barracks and called out to the men. Zaim opened his eyes and looked around. He was surprised to see twelve other beds in the room. Last night he had been ushered to one near the door, had slipped into bed, and had fallen asleep without seeing much of the room. Bodies began to rise from beneath the covers, and Zaim found himself to be one of thirteen recruits who would begin their training that day.

  There were no amenities. A latrine was located behind the building, there were no places to wash up, and the place was as cold as the air outside. Zaim wondered about his choice.

  Breakfast was served with little fanfare, and the men were told they had roughly fifteen minutes to finish their meal. Samer sat down with the men.

  “We are not here to break you. We are here to help you become warriors against the sins of the Western World. For the next weeks you are going to be toughened both physically and mentally. It will be difficult, for sure, but in the end you will thank us.”

  The men ate in silence after that, until Samer stood and in a quiet voice said, “It is time.”

  They were pushed through physical drills day after day: running, climbing banks of loose sand, pushups, pull ups, all sorts of strenuous exercises. Whenever someone faltered, Samer was there to talk to him, to remind him of what hurt had been suffered. When Zaim wanted to quit, Samer was there to remind him of Dania, of his son, of his suffering. At night he needed no reminder. His damaged arm throbbed and renewed his hate.

  Day after day, the men were told stories of atrocities against the Arabs, some true but most grossly exaggerated or fabricated. Day after day the men were led to hate more deeply than they had the day before. A group mentality took over, reinforcing their beliefs. Eventually, between the physical hardship and the constant talk of reprisal, the men came to hold an irrational hate for all things Western.

  Training became less physical. The thirteen were taught how to shoot assault rifles, how to assemble and disassemble their firearms, how to safely handle explosives, how to use hand-to-hand combat tactics, and most interesting to Zaim, how to build bombs and detonate charges. He excelled beyond what he thought possible, and soon it became apparent that he had emerged as the leader of the thirteen. They looked to him for inspiration and for guidance. This did not go unnoticed by Samer.

  Chapter Seven

  There was no formal graduation from the camp, no diplomas handed out, only an acknowledgement by Samar that their training was drawing to an end. One day Zaim noticed that two of the men he had bunked with were not at breakfast in the morning. The next day, one more was missing, and the day after, two more.

  That day Samer sat next to Zaim at his table.

  “I have noticed how well you have performed, my son.” Samer had never called him that endearing term before. “We have decided that it would be a waste of time to place you on the lines or even in minor covert duties. Instead, we have an important project for you to do.

  “You will take charge of training a six-man team. When the training is complete, you will be given your directions. This will involve patience on your part. It will not take place immediately. Word is that a monumental attack on U.S. soil that has been years in the planning is scheduled for the near future. Your attack will be of a different nature and will occur after the Americans have once again become complacent.”

  Zaim continued to shadow Samer, until one day six new recruits were brought to camp: Imad Diqqa, Murad Judal, Jibril Al-Nams, Afu Jaber, and Yusuf El’ Elyam. Samer and Zaim put the men through the same routine he had endured. Little by little Samer stepped out of the picture, until the recruits knew who was their superior. Zaim was their leader, and what he said was their law.

  Zaim was sure that his team was ready. Although he was a demanding leader, and although none of the recruits fully measured up to his exacting standards, he reluctantly admitted to himself they were good.

  He had been in this camp for months now and had been allowed to sit in on many of the strategy sessions attended by Samer and various other individuals who came and went. One day Samer summoned Zaim to his makeshift office where he was instructed to have a seat. Another freedom fighter Zaim did not recognize was already there, sipping from a cup of strong spiced tea.

  “Today, I have received a plan intended for you and your group,” Samer began. “The others will be assigned to return to their homes until everything is ready for their action. In the meantime, you will return to Honduras for only a few days. Then you will travel to the U.S. under the pretext of seeking buyers for Afghan rugs.

  “Here is a map of the U.S.” Samer unrolled a large page that looked like it had been torn from an atlas. He pointed at a spot midway across the North American continent and close to the nation’s northern border. “This is Minneapolis, Minnesota. We have a group of people who have lived in this city for many years. Some members have actually been born there. Most are respected business men who are above being suspect in any subversive activities.

  “Now here, even further north,” and Samer moved his finger almost to the line representing the Canadian border, “is the town of Two Harbors. It is small, about thirty-five hundred residents. Most importantly, it is a village on Lake Superior where one of only two sets of ore docks is located. Much of the iron ore that feeds the steel mills on the eastern end of the Great Lakes is shipped from there.” Then he pointed a little more north.

  “Here is a place called Brimson. It is in the middle of a northern wilderness, remote and sparsely populated. That is where you will set up your base of operation. For now, I want you to make contact with those in Minneapolis. They will help you purchase a secluded place up there.

  “Here are two phone numbers for you to use when you arrive in Minneapolis. Do you have any questions?”

  By the time their meeting ended, Zaim had a good idea of what he was to do. The most difficult part of the assignment was the part about being patient. Before he was dismissed, he was assured he would not be left to carry out this mission alone. He would have assistance along the way.

  Two days later, after instructing those he had trained and setting up means for them to be in communication, Zaim was back at the airport, ready to board a plane that would eventually return him to Honduras. He was not the same person who had left over a year before.

  Chapter Eight

  Still in bed, David Craine stretched luxuriously. The glow of pale-green light flickered through the thin shade covering the window of his single room, and a neon sign shaped like a shamrock above Dunnigan’s Pub blinked on and off. The pub was a watering hole for the locals in this small Minnesota burg, Two Harbors. It was also a regular stop for the surge of tourists who spilled from the excursion train that pulled into town every other day in the summer. David lived above that tavern in a rented pillbox of a room, and the dim light from a street lamp below was enough for him to see the extent of his worldly possession
s—except for his lake cruiser moored at the Silver Bay Marina.

  From his bed in the corner, David took in the sights: a lounger facing an ancient television set, a Minnesota Twins baseball cap hanging on the doorknob, the short counter with a toaster and microwave parked on it, a one-tub kitchen sink, and a small round oak table with a cup and saucer waiting to be bused.

  This room was the place where he slept in the summer when he was not on Lake Superior in his boat. It was the place where he spent his winter months, hibernating until spring. At the first glimmer of open water, the boys at the marina placed slings under his pride and joy, Crusader, Too, and cradled her into the ice-cold water of the harbor slip.

  From then until freeze-up, he virtually lived on his boat, returning to the room above Dunnigan’s only when he needed a place to rest and while he restocked the boat with necessities and took on a load of fuel. She was a wonderful craft—thirty-four feet long with twin screws powered by two 454 Chev engines.

  The cruiser was big enough to handle Lake Superior’s waters quite well. She had ample room for guests to sleep over, and he was thankful for all the adventures she had brought into his life.

  He remembered the parties they had on her, remembered the times when as many as seven people spent days on her without leaving. It was cramped, but no one cared as long as the steaks, wine, and beer held out.

  “Well,” he said to himself, “time to get up and face the music,” and he rolled out of bed, stretched to his full six feet and looked out the window. It was dark, and under a lone streetlight two blocks away, Crusader I sat high and dry on timbers. She was a museum piece by that time, a reminder of those who decades ago fished blue-fin herring on Lake Superior. No one would mistake Crusader, Too for her namesake. David’s version had a streamlined fiberglass hull that could cut through the waves—far different than the lumbering hulk of a workboat propped up by the marine museum, a crippled and useless vessel.