Yousef moves his wrists to gauge the strength of the knotted ropes that bind him. He does the same with his ankles. He could topple the chair and try to roll to the door, or towards whatever might serve to cut the ropes binding him. The problem is where to come up against a cutting edge. He thinks he hears a noise. Perhaps someone is approaching the door. He stares at it expectantly for several seconds but no one appears. Glancing to his right he sees a dark wooden table, aged, unassuming, in the same style as the chair to which he is fastened. To his left there is nothing but a bucket and a stack of boxes up against the wall, on which he discerns extensive marks of water damage. The rest of the space is merely more of the same, dirty white walls and more marks of leaking water. Yousef hears noises again, this time getting closer. There are steps, followed by the slow creak and opening of the door.
The figure who appears in the doorway provokes in Yousef a mix of dread and astonishment, but any words or exclamations he might offer are stifled. Beyond this, all of his saliva has abruptly dried up, inciting a cough that will not stop. The cloth hampers him, causing him to retch wetly and repulsively. The man who has just entered holds in his hand a small sack which by its size and shape resembles the boot of a 5 year-old child. Yousef understands what it is. It’s the sack for a jambiya, a dagger from Yemen with a curved blade, the country where the father of this mysterious man comes from, or rather, came from, considering that he is dead.
“Easy, Yousef. No need to choke on my account. I know I frighten a lot of people, but not you.”
Yousef can only answer with more coughing and fluid flung directly from his guts into the sodden cloth stuffing his mouth. The man before him responds with a grimace of disgust.
“That cloth really is revolting. But everything in due course, isn’t that right? You do understand that I must be absolutely certain that you will behave? Do you know what I have in my possession right now? A trump card: Nefise.” The mysterious stranger pauses at length to study Yousef’s reaction. Then he resumes, “You won’t do anything that could put her life at risk, isn’t that right?”
Yousef’s cough stops as though the entire system of his body has suddenly been blocked. His face becomes tense. The man seems to have seen what he wanted, because he draws the dagger from its pouch, approaches Yousef and then lets the sharp blade cut the cord suffocating him. Yousef breathes in sharply, then moves his lips and jaw several times in their new freedom. Before him his captor still clutches the dagger. Its handle, indicative of social class in this kind of dagger, is made of rhinoceros horn, and it goes with the pouch faced with silver, revealing the high status of the jambiya’s owner and its substantial value. The man is wearing a long white tunic. His beard is very long, and white in places. It covers his neck completely, ending only at this chest, giving his face a longer, charismatic appearance. His eyes are just as Yousef had always known them to be – sad but strangely sweet; like the eyes of a solitary but very determined man. Yet there is much more that lies hidden in these eyes.
“I will only ask you three questions before I free you completely,” said his captor, beginning to pace the floor of the dreary storage room. Yousef remains silent, expectant. “You know that I have in my power the life of Nefise, and I would not lie to you about this, because a man such as I has no need to lie to anyone, isn’t that so?”
The response is only a few seconds delayed.
“Yes. I have no doubt that you are speaking the truth.”
“You know that I have a powerful reason for doing what I did?”
“Yes, I know that the reason must be powerful, even if only in your view and not in mine. As well as the reason you have not put an end to my life.”
“Third and final question: what would you be able to do to save the life of Nefise?”
“I’d be able to give my own life. She is my jihad. She makes a better man of me. My heart is a compass that once fooled me and steered me towards your jihad as the road to being a good and devout Muslim, but I have gone down a long, dark tunnel, and at the other end of that tunnel was wisdom, the answer to the question of the meaning of things and of the world. All men must go through what I went through at least once in their lives. Only Allah knows what would become of you if one day your being started all over again like a computer, all that you could have accomplished with your faith and determination.”
“It happens that this is who I am, and I shall not go through the same things as you because that is not what is written. You will give your life for Nefise, as before you’d give it for what you call my jihad, although it is not mine but the cause of all Muslims?”
“I will give my life for Nefise and I know that only that is true. More true than anything that you could say to me.”
Sheik Omar Rasoul Sharif ponders the meaning of the last words spoken. This man who helped, in a humble, determined and devout way, far from the spotlight, to perpetrate the greatest upheaval in the modern world, whose actions and words helped to alter the course of history, directly involved in a number of attacks in some of the greatest cities in the world, now endeavors to make sense of this response that unquestionably seems to arise from the most profound faith. He is capable of understanding it as he has always been capable of understanding men’s fervor and channeling it towards grand objectives. Before him there is a man whom he knows very well. Or whom he used to know very well. A number of years have passed without their having seen each other, which prompts them both to act with circumspection and to examine one another carefully before making any move. Even so, each of them knows that there are certain things in the other’s way of being that will never change. Their gazes linger on one another, discerning, defiant, until once again the dagger comes into play, this time to tear loose and free Yousef’s movements entirely.
“Now,” says the Sheik softly, “I know everything I need to know.”
13
A man willing to do anything to achieve a particular goal, with so much determination that he is able to offer his very own life as a sacrifice, constitutes an extraordinarily powerful force of nature, comparable to the torrent of a great waterfall, the wind of a typhoon or the wave force of a tsunami. Such energy, when uncontrolled, also constitutes an enormous potential hazard. It can tear up thousand year-old trees by the roots or solid houses by their foundations, and if effectively channeled for a particular end, it can also prove to be an ally of immeasurable worth. To take the measure of the potential energy within Yousef and be assured with about the master key that controlled it were Sheik Omar Rasoul Sharif’s underlying goals in the first moments of their reunion. To achieve his objectives he needed this precious energy working in his favor, and the master key to exercise this command, as he had just ascertained, to tame and guide Yousef to serve at his beck and call – was Nefise.
After freeing Yousef from his bonds, Sheik Omar gave orders for him to be served a good meal, and now, somewhat later, the two had come together in a modestly furnished room in a spacious house in Istanbul. They were seated on cushions on a carpet by a low table on which there was a pot of apple tea and small porcelain cups carefully arranged for three people (although only two were seated there so far). There was also dried fruit such as apricots and dates in small bowls. From time to time the maiden in the veil with the severe demeanor, whom Yousef had seen earlier in the storage room where he had been tied up, passed by.
“Before our guest arrives, I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity? You know that I have always looked upon you with respect, and I am genuinely grieved that you have lost your way somewhere along the path of light. Well, be that as it may, you say you had a magic revelation ... did you see Allah?”
“Would that in any way change your plans?”
The man who was one of the world’s most feared and hunted men passed his hand through his long beard.
“No. Yet even so, do satisfy my curiosity on this point.”
“Not in the way we imagined Him.”
“And how do you imagine H
im now?”
“As something greater than all, yet unable to hold back the rage of men.”
“It is a good definition but you contradict yourself. How could something greater than all be unable to hold back the rage of men?”
“Perhaps because men are so numerous and Allah’s weapons are so few.”
“Few? No, they are not few. How can you have changed so much? Were there scriptures in this tunnel you say you traversed?”
“It’s no use. I’ll never be able to explain to you in words what I went through or what I feel now.”
“Could it be instead that the burden that this struggle requires you to bear one day became so heavy that you could no longer endure the harshness of the struggle, and at this point you succumbed, and from that point on became a limp and lifeless plant? The path of faith and perseverance is hard. The trials are many. I will tell you what I think could have happened to you. When the trials became heavier and harder to endure you broke and chose to leave, to give up, and now you seek redemption through your crazy, delusional love for this woman. You flee from the struggle and hide from yourself. I tell you it is of no avail. This is not the path. Only Allah can judge us or redeem us. Only Allah.”
Sheik Omar remained calm while uttering these words – indeed, impassive, as though his voice spoke only the supreme truth that imposes itself through its own authority. His shy gaze helped to impart a tone of authenticity to the words he uttered. Yousef was very well acquainted with these attributes.
“I will not attempt to gainsay your words. And I do not claim to be right. I only speak from my heart.”
“From your heart?”
Two sharp knocks at the door interrupted their conversation. The one they’d been waiting for had just arrived. The grim black-eyed maiden opened the front door and received him without a word, never looking at him directly. The man was somewhat stooped as he walked in with short little steps, and was wearing a brown suit and tie, as though he had just come from his job in a bank. He had very short hair, aligned on his head with hair oil, and was the owner of a very round face that fit with the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He carried a leather document case in his hands. First he respectfully greeted Sheik Omar and took a seat facing Yousef, whereupon the Sheik introduced the two men.
“Yousef, allow me to introduce you to Mustafá. This man is an experienced Turkish civil engineer, who has, furthermore, a doctorate in his field. Obviously, Mustafá is not his real name, but I expect I scarcely need to tell you that. Surely you have not forgotten how these things are done. Mustafá will be providing us with assistance to carry out our plan here in Istanbul with his scientific expertise. Mustafá, this is Yousef, the only man capable of executing our ambitious plans at ground level.”
“It is a great pleasure to meet you. I have heard of your legendary exploits,” Mustafá addressed him, in a show of deep respect.
“Enough of that, Mustafá. And I would rather that you did not refer to whatever it is you know, or think you know, about my past while we share the same space. Moreover, why the hell am I Yousef and he’s Mustafá?” Yousef demanded, turning to face Sheik Omar.
“And what other name do you want?”
“Argun.”
The other two men exchange puzzled and surprised glances.
“Don’t pay him any mind, Mustafá. That’s the way he is, impetuous, full of energy, and at times unsettling, but I am certain that on the ground he will deliver as he always has, without the slightest flaw. Let us call him Argun, if that’s what he wants. Now let us proceed, show him our East-West plan,” Sheik Omar ordered the Turkish engineer.
“East-West? Let me guess, they’ve managed to discover a bomb even more powerful than the nuclear bomb and now they’re planning to open a giant crevice that will divide the East and West of the world. Nothing could be more ridiculous…”
Neither of the men exhibited the slightest smile in response to this unexpected jest. Mustafá expressed only surprise in the look he shot Sheik Omar. The latter confined himself to nodding his head firmly, and imperturbably issuing an order as though nothing untoward had occurred:
“Proceed, Mustafá.”
“With pleasure.”
At these words, the man removed from the leather document case a series of papers that he arranged in the middle of the table, availing himself of the empty space between the cups. They seemed to be detailed drawings for a construction project, showing various measurements, references of scale and different plans for certain structures.
“Gentlemen: allow me to present the Marmaray Tunnel down to the most trifling detail.
Mustafá awaited Yousef’s reaction. Here were the plans of different sections of the tunnel in question, drawings and schematic diagrams swarming with numbers and engineering notes. Yousef examined them with genuine curiosity and perplexity.
“This project seeks to connect Europe and Asia, the West and the Orient,” Mustafá resumed. “And tonight, at the stroke of midnight, we are going to separate the two continents once again.”
“Tonight?” Yousef asked instantly with complete stupefaction.
“Isn’t it beautiful? Poetic? Symbolic? I believe that even in the West there are many who will thank us for such an act. As far as I can see, most people there, if they could choose, would prefer that Muslims lived on one planet and Christians on another. The Jews, for their part, I’m sure they’d rather live alone on a whole planet of their own.” Sheik Omar was staring into space, or perhaps into the waters of the Bosporus, imagining it convulsed with an explosion, the very tectonic plates of Europe and Asia grinding together and moving irretrievably apart from the force of the earthquake, and a vast trench seething with incandescent blazing magma issuing from the guts of the Earth. In his febrile mind, he knew that such an act would be forever remembered and spoken of. It would give a boundless voice to his cause. “Did you know that the actual tectonic plates of Europe and Asia sometimes move and cause serious earthquakes in this vicinity? Isn’t that true, Mustafa?”
“Indeed it is. The North of Turkey is traversed from East to West by one of the best known, most intensively studies tectonic faults in the world: the North Anatolian fault. Between 1939 and 1999, there were eleven seismic events with a classification greater than 6.7 on the Richter scale. Well, Istanbul is only 20 kilometers from the North Anatolian fault. The Marmaray Tunnel is at a depth of fifty six meters, and one of the big problems in its construction has been precisely to protect the project, including the stations that will be on the coastal shore of the Bosporus, from any potential earthquakes or seaquakes that may occur. The Marmaray is located a mere 19 kilometers from the junction of the plates.”
“My God!” Yousef exclaimed.
A joyous silence absorbed Omar and Mustafá. Yousef, for his part, was struck dumb and deeply alarmed.
“You’re out of your minds! Apart from the fact that something like this requires time for planning… tonight is impossible!”
“I said tonight, didn’t I, Mustafá? I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat imprecise. The attack must take place in less than twelve hours, otherwise… farewell, Nefise!”
For several moments Yousef pondered the drastic situation he found himself in. If did not collaborate he would lose Nefise, for he knew very well what Sheik Omar was capable of for the sake of his jihad. He would certainly kill her. But Yousef knew that he also ran a serious risk of losing her if he went along with this dreadful megalomaniacal project to its end.
YOUSEF
1
Afghanistan was invaded by the Soviet Union on Christmas Eve, 1979. This historic event would profoundly mark the life of Yousef Al-Khaled.[1] If we imagine that human lives flow like a river running from its headwaters to the sea, we can imagine that there are events that mark our lives in two quite different ways: some that add a spurt of current like a tributary stream, and never leave things the same as they were (a marriage, for example, or a child), and others, whose main function
is simply to drastically change the course of the river, like obstacles that nature places along its path. The invasion of Afghanistan by the Soviet Union was one of these latter events in the life of Yousef and, as the power will never be granted to a person to know how his life would have been if this or that incident had not suddenly intercepted it, Youssef could also never know what his life would have been like if the invasion of Afghanistan had not occurred. He was just like all the victims of this war, the wounded, the dead, the displaced, their relatives and others, whose lives, just like Yousef’s, were profoundly affected although they were not present on the stage of military action when the conflict erupted. So it is with all wars. It is true that they add little or nothing to the current of the river that is a human life, but they drag it way off course, and as a general rule, they always take away much more than they give.
The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller Page 4