by Ben Coes
“Yes, I know what to do,” said Sirhan. “When should we start throwing students from the building?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Every hour?”
“Yes, every hour.”
“What if they agree to your demands?” asked Sirhan.
“Until the weapons arrive, the executions must continue. It is the only way.”
“And if they somehow—”
“They won’t, brother,” said Nazir. “The trap is too perfect.”
“But if they do—”
“You must make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of ISIS and of Allah. It will only make us stronger. The next time, there will be no negotiation! If the dormitory is destroyed, our power will only grow!”
“Of course, Tristan. I will not let you down.”
47
LATAKIA, SYRIA
Nazir put down the phone. It was nearly midnight. He was alone.
There were many questions in his mind. What had happened to Allawi? Had Raditz killed him? More likely, the information from al-Jaheishi had enabled America to find them both. It didn’t matter now. In a way, the ship that held the weapons was a metaphor for his own fate. Everything he had worked for and planned on was now beyond his ability to control. Like a ship, the entire operation was under way, at sea, and whether it floated or sank was now in the hands of others. His work was largely done. Selecting Sirhan, choosing a college dormitory versus a mall, even the choice of explosives. It was all set. Nazir felt neither good or bad about it.
He knew he needed sleep, but instead he made tea and sat down at his desk. He would write for a few hours. He had learned much in the past twenty-four hours. His journal was filled. He would start a new one. He placed the old one on the bookshelf; there were now hundreds. Someday soon, very soon, he would have them all printed. Nazir understood how famous he was, but it was for acts of terror and barbarism. What the world didn’t yet comprehend was that a larger philosophy was beneath it all. His name would be remembered, like Marx, Stalin, Khomeini, Hitler.
He reached up and grabbed an old journal from many years ago, a random choice. It was from Oxford. He stared at the cover for many moments, paralyzed in thought. Then he opened it and started reading.
The Diary of Anne Frank is admired by millions of readers, and justifiably so. On one level, it is a deeply moving book about one individual’s strength of character in the face of evil. Perseverance, hope, resiliency, adaptation, and survival—or the desire to, anyway. These are the lessons, among others. The presence of a family that is not a target of the Nazis but is nevertheless willing to risk their lives for one that is hints at a deeper human strength and bond that is more powerful than that of government.
—T. Nazir, 22 Nov.
A pained look came over Nazir’s face. It was the date—November 22. It was to be his last day at Oxford. Like all great lessons, it was a day that taught him so much, a night that opened his eyes every bit as much as it closed his heart.
He put the journal down and walked into the bathroom. He lifted up the eye patch and stared at the hollowed-out cavity where his eye had once been. He touched the edges, imagining it was still there, picturing what it looked like—remembering the cruelty that had seared evil into his being for eternity …
* * *
Nazir heard a knock at the door.
“Tristan?”
It was Clive, who lived down the hall from Nazir. The voice was aristocratic and smooth, like almost everyone at Oxford.
“May I come in?”
Nazir said nothing. He was lying on his bed. His face was buried in a book.
“Oh, Tristan,” Clive cooed laughingly. “I know you’re in there.”
“Tristan isn’t here,” said Nazir, continuing to read. He took a pencil from behind his ear and made a mark on the page.
“The race begins at midnight,” said Clive, “followed by a party. We were both invited. We can’t be late.”
“I don’t want to go,” said Nazir. “I told you that. Ask someone else.”
“Entering in three, two, one—”
The door opened and Clive came in. He was dressed in a striped maroon sweater and khakis. He was tall, with tousled brown hair. He walked to the side of Nazir’s bed. Nazir still did not look up.
“The Diary of Anne Frank?” asked Clive. “Humanities? Did I miss an assignment?”
Nazir finally looked up. “No, I’m reading for pleasure.”
“Anne Frank? I thought you guys despised the Jews?”
Nazir shook his head.
“What have they ever done to me to justify my having any feelings whatsoever about them?” Nazir said. “I’ve met a total of three Jewish people in my life. One was an accountant who worked for my father. One was the mother of my friend. And then there is Murray, upstairs. He seems nice.”
Clive nodded. “Point taken. I just meant, for pleasure? Really? Anne Frank?”
Nazir put the book away and sat up.
“It’s about the desire to live versus the power of fear,” he said. “Perseverance against paranoia.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Clive changed subjects. “So what about tonight?”
“Why would I go? To be the token Muslim in Bullingdon?”
“Oh, bollocks,” said Clive, “don’t be silly. I went to Eton and you’re my best friend. As difficult as you are, people do actually enjoy your company. Maybe it’s because you despise everyone equally?”
Nazir let a barely susceptible grin come to his lips.
“How did you get us invited?” asked Nazir. “I thought it was the ‘hardest ticket to get in five hundred years’ and all that, blah, blah, blah.”
“I did what you were unwilling to do,” said Clive.
“Which is what?”
“Ask your brother.”
Nazir turned. “I told you not to,” he snapped. “And he’s not my brother.”
“I forgot. Stepbrother,” said Clive.
Nazir stood at the window, looking down into the courtyard.
“What did he say when you told him one was for me?”
Clive looked at Nazir, a blank expression on his face, then shook his head.
“Who cares?”
* * *
Francis Leopold Dorchester Highgate III, or Franny, as everyone referred to him, was Nazir’s stepbrother. Nazir’s father, considered by many to be the most brilliant currency trader in the history of the London Stock Exchange, had, after the death of his first wife, Nazir’s mother, married Barbara Highgate, a stage actress who had never been married but who had a son with James Rensallear, Earl Cadogan. Franny was an infamous character on the Oxford campus. He cut a wide swath. He looked down upon Nazir’s father and, by extension, Nazir, despite the fact that his entire life, a life of utter luxury and proper British accoutrements, was paid for by Nazir’s father.
Franny Highgate had become Nazir’s stepbrother when Nazir was six and he was eight. Since then, Franny had been withering in his treatment of Nazir, a combination of racism and physical cruelty that his father thought healthy for Nazir.
Nazir didn’t care about money. The fact that his father had so much meant little to him. Truth be told, it didn’t mean anything to his father either. He enjoyed the thrill of properly executing upon a theory. The fact that being good at it equated to massive wealth was, to Nazir’s father, irrelevant.
Over Easter holiday, Nazir found his father’s will. Half of everything was left to Barbara, the other half shared equally between Franny and himself. But attached at the back of the will was a codicil, registered that very week. Instead of splitting half between him and Franny, Franny was now to receive the entire half, other than a few trinkets and artifacts that were his mother’s, such as her favorite gold brooch.
Nazir was deeply offended by the first will. The codicil practically made flames come out of his ears.
Despite the fact that he’d been snooping in his father’s office, he stormed upstairs, where hi
s father and Barbara were sleeping. His father awoke and looked up, startled.
Nazir’s father stood up and put on a silk robe, then grabbed a cigarette. “Come with me.”
Nazir followed his father out onto the terrace off the master suite. Workers were unlocking the gates of Kensington Park, across the street.
“So you found the will?” asked his father as he lit the cigarette.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to explain something to you, Tristan.”
He took several puffs, exhaling into the cool breeze.
“You, like me, Tristan, are meant for great things,” said his father. “In fact, I believe you are meant to change the world. I don’t know how, but I do know it. Money is not a gift. It’s a curse. Francis is a worthless human being. But he is my son. My adopted son, but nevertheless my son. Without money—money left to him, because he will never earn a shilling—Franny would end up bankrupt and in all likelihood embroiled in various legal difficulties. In other words, he needs it.”
“So clearly my mistake was being the top of my class,” said Nazir sarcastically, “instead of a drunkard.”
Nazir’s father flicked the stub off the terrace. He turned to Nazir.
“With you, it is the opposite. If I leave you that money, it will be a curse. Whatever you’re meant for will not be achieved, because necessity, hunger, even desperation, these are the roots of greatness. And you are destined for greatness.”
Nazir was silent. He stared down at the park, watching the first few early morning joggers cutting in through the majestic iron gates.
After more than a minute of silence, his father leaned down, trying to get Nazir to acknowledge him.
“I just said you were destined for greatness. Have you no response?”
Nazir shot his father a contemptuous look.
“At some point you became infatuated with being white, father,” said Nazir. “It clouded your mind. This is proof. You might believe what you say. But believing it doesn’t mean it’s right—or even sane.”
Nazir’s father grinned appreciatively.
“I can’t argue with your reasoning, but none of that is true. I don’t see things in terms of skin color. It was your mother who taught me that. When we were poor in Cairo, she taught me that I had a destiny having to do with numbers. You have a destiny having to do with something much bigger.”
“What are you talking about?” said Nazir with hatred in his voice.
“I don’t know. That is what you need to figure out.”
Nazir began to walk toward the French doors that led inside.
“Have a good trip back to school.”
“Imagine what they will say someday,” said Nazir, back turned to his father. “‘Nazir was hated by his father. He cut him out of the will.’”
“But you will always know why I did it. Because I love you.”
Nazir stared straight ahead, saying nothing, and continued to walk toward the doors.
“Look at me, Tristan.”
Nazir took the small brass doorknob in his hand. He paused, not looking back, then opened the door and walked away.
* * *
There were at least fifty students assembled on the massive brick back patio of Bullingdon. One of the members was moving through the crowd of eager first-years with a rolling silver tea service, making first-years drink either vodka or whiskey.
The initiation into Bullingdon was a drunken run across the grass of the club, through Marsh Park to the large, striking hedge out beyond the rugby fields and around the pond, followed by a ritual skinny dip in the pond. Those first-years invited to the races were being considered for membership in Bullingdon. It was Oxford’s most exclusive club, though nobody was really sure what its members actually did other than drink and destroy things.
The challenge of the races, other than the run and the swim in and of themselves, had to do with the fact that drinking was integral to every stage of the race.
Nazir was standing next to Clive. He took a few gulps of vodka. He watched Franny out of the corner of his eye. Other than the occasional coincidental sighting around campus, it was the first time Nazir had seen his stepbrother since arriving at Oxford.
Someone leapt onto the low wall at the back of the terrace and proceeded to let his pants drop to his ankles, then urinated as he sang a song.
“By the way,” said Nazir sarcastically to Clive as they both averted their eyes in disgust, “thanks for getting me a ticket. What a wonderful cultural event.”
“Oh, lighten up, will you?”
At some point, Franny came over.
“Clive,” said Franny, then looked at Nazir. “And you must be…?”
Everyone laughed.
“Hi, Tristan,” said Franny. “How do you like it? I hear you have Ogilvy.”
“Good,” said Nazir, barely glancing at his stepbrother.
“Well, as we both know, you probably are smarter than most of the professors here,” said Franny.
“And how are you?” asked Nazir.
“I’m good. Graduation in six months. Believe it or not, Tristan, I’m going to try for SAS.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Do my part, as they say, for England. Crazy, I know—”
Clive interrupted. “What happens next?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. So listen, there will be a call for a members challenge. Each member asks one of you blokes to race, and off you go. All in good fun. I believe Wilson was going to ask for you. He’s harmless.”
The drinking, smoking, and partying continued for several hours; then one of the members, an obese, dandily attired blond-haired boy, climbed onto a table and blew a whistle.
“Welcome, all you sick bastards and future masters of the universe! Welcome to the four thousand eight hundred and twenty-sixth running of the hedge, wherein we learn what it means to be a Bullingdon gentleman. Now drink up. When you get tapped on your shoulder, that is how you know who your challenger is. You must not only triumph over your challenger, you also are expected to bring along adequate supplies, and by supplies, I, of course, mean alcohol, so that the entire process might be more enjoyable. Now most of us can’t run more than a few hundred feet without throwing up, so it shouldn’t be that big a deal, really.”
A tall, handsome student with black hair approached Nazir.
“Tristan? Patrick Wilson. Let’s go.”
“Should I grab something?”
“Yes, grab that bottle of champagne, will you? We’ll take it easy, nice trot, yes? Then a swim. You’re sort of a legacy, even though technically Franny isn’t blood.”
Approximately fifty students moved down across the massive field in a whooping, shouting cabal of inebriation. The field grew dark as they jogged across the grass, the sky was clouded over. Various students formed small packs, stopping for a few swigs of alcohol or a cigarette. In the distance, Nazir watched as one of the upperclassmen tackled Clive to the ground, playfully wrestling with him.
At some point, Nazir lost track of Wilson but kept running. As he came to the end of the field, he saw the massive hedge, rounding the corner. A light was coming out of the ground. It was a small door to a root cellar. Franny was standing near the door, as if expecting him. A strange, cold shivering feeling came over Nazir then. He stopped and turned, but Wilson was there to grab him. Then there were others and soon they were on him.
Nazir could have screamed, but he didn’t. For some reason, he remembered Anne Frank. He remembered the way she remained always convinced that she would live, despite the overwhelming odds against her. He also remembered the inhuman brutality that would’ve seen her killed for no reason. Why? was the question he couldn’t figure out the answer to. Why would someone want to kill someone like Anne Frank?
As they dragged him down the rickety steps of the cellar and started beating him mercilessly, Nazir understood the answer.
They threw him on the ground and kicked him everywhere, punched his face, poured alcohol on
him, all the while laughing cruelly, until they were so winded they couldn’t laugh anymore. The front of someone’s pointed shoe—perhaps a wingtip—struck him in the right eye. He screamed. Other than involuntary grunts and moans, it was the first display of weakness and defeat Nazir showed that day.
“My eye,” he mumbled. “Stop. Please.”
But they kept beating Nazir until he was nearly dead. He saw Franny’s sweat-covered face through the dim light.
“Don’t ever talk to your father about my inheritance, or my mother’s,” said Franny, holding Nazir by the hair and lifting his limp head a few inches off the dirt. “And by the way, that’s how an empire rules, you ungrateful nigger.”
“My eye,” sobbed Nazir, clutching his face. “Please, Franny…”
He didn’t wake up until the next day, when an old man, one of the groundskeepers, found him and brought him to the hospital. His right eye was ruptured beyond repair.
* * *
In the hospital where Nazir slowly recovered, he refused to speak with anyone, not his father, not Clive, not the police, not even the doctors and nurses who took care of him.
On his tenth day of silence, he looked at one of the nurses as she took his breakfast tray away.
“My belongings,” he whispered.
“Yes, Tristan. They are over here.” She pointed to some cardboard boxes.
“Is there a journal?”
The nurse looked through the boxes, finding it near the bottom of one.
“Is this it?”
Nazir nodded.
“Could I have a pencil?”
After the nurse retrieved him a pencil, Nazir started to write:
The Diary of Anne Frank (continued) I would like to reflect on this book from a different perspective, that is, what it shows about the weakness and imperfection of the Third Reich. While the book shows what we all know to be true, namely, that the Nazis were evil, it also exposes failures of planning and implementation of the Nazi system of government. The Nazis permitted families who were agnostic to the Third Reich to live, thus enabling situations such as that of the Frank family, who were able to hide. In retrospect, Hitler should have exterminated not just Jews but anyone who had ever associated with them, such as hiring them or being friends. While venal, this broader cleansing—from a purely political perspective—would have done more to prevent Jews from continuing to live, and engaging in such things as writing books, for it was works like this book that elicited the righteous anger that resulted in America joining the battle against the Third Reich and defeating them.