The Moment Before

by Jason Makansi

  Each attempt at communicating with the other soldiers compounded his confusion. Soldiers did little but small talk amongst themselves. They understood the fragile web of comrades, neighbors, and friends comprising Syrian society and the Syrian Secret Police, the on again, off again nature of the loyalties amongst the various political and religious groups. Elias had never been exposed to any of this, he kept asking questions others found perilous to answer.

  He pieced together a plausible story, with many gaps for sure, but one that seemed logical. Government law, he’d learned, allows any male born in Syria to be drafted into the military between the ages of sixteen and fifty-six, regardless of where he lives, what citizenship he holds. The government has the right to enforce this law upon one’s entry into the country. Hence his father’s final edict: “Elias, whatever you do, do not come back to Syria. We will meet you in Lebanon if necessary, but do not come home.”

  One fellow soldier said the law was now being vigorously enforced. The new regime was desperate to build an army capable of taking on the Israelis. Elias also received quick, brief lessons in recent Syrian history and global politics. The strange language he occasionally heard from some of the leaders was Russian. The man who was in charge of the country in 1963, the year his father made him leave—Amin Al Hafez—declared Hafez Al-Assad the commander of the Syrian Air Force. Ten years later, this Assad guy was now in control of the country. Together with the Egyptians and Jordanians and other Arab countries, they were gearing up to attack the Israelis. No one knew when.

  All the details and names made Elias’s head spin. He had ignored politics his whole life. History bored him. Until, he mused, it had helped him get better tips driving his taxi in Joliet.

  What dizzied Elias even more were all the other suspicions among the men. Those from Hama didn’t trust the ones in the elite units. Some believed the Israeli spying group, Mossad, had infiltrated the Syrian Armed Forces. Others talked incessantly about the Muslim Brotherhood, dissident Christian factions, and even the United States CIA and the FBI. No one trusted anyone. If there was a unifying idea, he decided, it was that everyone trusted each other long enough to remember they all were supposed to hate the Israelis.

  27

  March, 2010

  The Saluki Town Council members filed in, buzzing like kids about to go on a field trip. Something had charged up the room. Holly wondered if it was the change in the weather. The first weeks of spring, although still cold, were mid-afternoon reminders that warm summer evenings were around the corner. Buds had begun to sprout on the trees and shrubs, and daffodils, crocus, and hyacinth filled the air. But from the look on the council members’ faces, she wasn’t so sure the weather had a positive effect on them.

  Holly had arrived early and took a seat at one end of the council table. She’d brought the ten-year-plan binder with her. As the murmmuring grew louder, she gazed about the room to see who was making the most noise. Heather Briggs, who strode toward the table, her silken hair so coiffed not a hair moved with her, seemed to be the culprit. She held her head at an angle that accentuated her pointed nose and angular face, the floor salesperson’s smile. But when that smile was absent, Holly had seen, the woman had a fierce gaze. Her skirt fitted tight against her flat stomach, and she wore a low-cut blouse and three-inch heels. She looked good for having, what was it, four or five kids?

  Holly was dressed conservatively tonight. No flounce in her sweater, a flat, tightly woven knit with a slight plunge to the V-neck. Sensible pants. Flat shoes. She’d pulled her hair back into a pony tail. Professional, but feminine.

  She put her hand on top of the three-ring binder and pretended to look through it. On several occasions over the prior months, she had taken stabs at reading it. When she got to the section on strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats, or SWOT, analysis, and high-, mid-, and low-probability scenarios, she gave up. But one phrase in the report—destination interchange—had piqued her interest. Saluki was indeed in need of a destination locale to attract visitors and anchor local or regional culture. Something to pull them off the interstate. She was certain her museum idea was the ticket.

  John was the last to enter the room, which was unusual. He was always schmoozing with the other members and with the townspeople. And he always made a point to come over to her and shake her hand—and hold it for longer than a friendly greeting, which she had found herself enjoying more and more. For an instant, her heart fluttered, and before she could smile at him, he threw her a look that she could only describe as menacing. What the hell?

  Once everyone was seated, Heather wasted no time.

  “Okay, Veranda, what on earth were you thinking? That you could make a secret deal with the Feds to house Islamic terrorists in Saluki?” The audience hummed, and other council members grumbled loudly. Shock at the reference to terrorists, Holly felt a sudden urge to fling herself in front of John, be his human shield, beat back the barrage she knew would follow. John’s eyebrows twitched, and instead of answering, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  Sargent Douglas, a long-time council member who managed a small fleet of motels and fast food franchises at the interstate interchange, cut through the turmoil with a booming, “Heather’s right. We need to know what this is about, Veranda.”

  John opened his mouth to speak, but Heather wasn’t done. “And we’re not talking about any ordinary Muslims, Sargent, we’re talking about international jihadis!” The buzz among community members in the room got louder, and Heather’s voice rose with them. “It’s not like we don’t already have regular Muslims living right here in Saluki.” She looked out at the audience. “Haven’t you noticed them at Kroger? At the gas station?” She turned to Sargent. “I’m sure you’ve had some of them eat in your restaurants or stay in your motels. In fact, maybe everyone in the community was already aware they’ve just opened an ‘Islamic Information Center’—she stuck her hands high in the air so everyone in the room could see her air quotes—“right on the square.” She slapped her palm on the table and turned to glare at John. “Right across from your law office and just a few doors from my family’s store.”

  John sat forward in his seat and glared back. “Do you have a problem with that? Last time I checked, the Constitution guarantees freedom of religion.”

  “Don’t trot that out again, John Veranda. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “But that’s what some people in this town have been talking about for years. And if you go riling them up, someone may decide it’s time to firebomb the Iranian chiropractor again. Or maybe target the Egyptian obstetrician this time. Or the Lebanese podiatrist.”

  Holly was lost. She had no idea what everyone was talking about.

  A sharp crack of wood on wood rang out as Blake Andrews slammed down his gavel. “Calm down, you two. The Iraq War and the protests against it are off the front page and no one is firebombing anyone. John, we all respect that your represention of Dr. Sayef’s interests back in 2003 was honorable, and Heather we understand you’re concerned about the community’s safety.”

  “Blake,” Heather broke in, “my point is that those good Muslims aren’t the issue. There might even be some of them here tonight.” She swept her arm extravagantly, as if to put everyone in the room under suspicion of being one of ‘them’ and Holly winced as if she’d been struck. “My point is that Mr. Veranda is apparently making a private deal to bring international terrorists to our town. And he’s doing it without telling a soul. Not even his fellow council members.”

  “What makes you think I’m involved in any deal? And if I was, what business is it of yours?” John looked out across the entire room. “It is private property—“

  Sargent cut him off. “What about Homeland Security?”

  John’s face flamed red, the volcano of anger ready to blow. “Homeland Security? Where did you hear Homeland Security was involved?”

  This time Holly did more than wince. She felt like
she’d been sucker punched. With Penndel’s help, she and John had learned through that CSIA was one of the largest privately held companies in the country, taking on defense, security, energy, and environmental projects on an outsouced basis. There was hardly a sector they were not involved in. CSIA employees were often considered extensions of government staff, with offices in and among the bureaucrats. So Holly knew that CSIA was looking at John’s property, but John had told her the project was confidential and that he wasn’t privy to the details. Hadn’t he said he didn’t know for sure what sort of facility the government was planning? So if John didn’t know—or at least he hadn’t told her—then how did Heather Briggs and Sargent Douglas know? And if he did know and lied to her … But, wait. John Veranda was under no obligation to confide in her regarding his family’s property. And although he was a blabbermouth sometimes, he was an attorney and knew the risks of speaking out of turn. So how was it that the whole town suddenly knew?

  “I got a call from Bob at Saluki Construction,” Sargent said. “He’s got a buddy that runs a design-build firm in St. Louis, and he heard DHS was looking at a site for a detention center to replace Guantanamo. His source told him the description of the site fit your medical center property to a T.”

  Holly heard John let out a low, almost inaudible, Shit.

  “He wanted to know about the bidding process,” Sargent went on, “but I had no idea what he was talking about. Don’t you think a matter like this should have been directed to Blake since he’s the town manager? He would then bring the matter before the council.”

  Holly watched as John tried to control his temper. He shifted in his seat and took a deep breath. “OK. Look, I understand the confusion, but this was a private discussion about the use of privately held land. The people who visited the site are employed by a privately held company and—”

  “Wait!” It was Frank Falconer, a schoolteacher who taught civics for several decades in the middle school and who rarely spoke. “You mean they’ve already been here?”

  “Hell, Frank, ever since Saluki Construction called Sargent, rumor’s been runnin’ through town like castor oil through a pig,” noted Roger Mulch, retired sheriff and current hog farmer.

  “Can we dispense with the profanity?” Blake admonished, trying to gain control of the meeting. “We have an obligation to the community to keep a semblance of decorum—”

  “It’s not like this is a shopping mall, Blake,” Heather interrupted. “This is a detention center for terrorists in our own backyards!”

  “They’d be locked up, Heather. And Muslims or not, a big new federal building is tax-base heaven,” Mulch quipped. “We could plug the gap left by Veranda’s failed medical complex.”

  “I haven’t given up on that, Roger,” John said.

  Heather fired back. “Roger, are you crazy? We’re talking terrorists. Islamo-fascists less than a mile from our schools! How can you think of taxes?”

  John frowned. Heather Briggs didn’t give a shit about Saluki schools. Her kids went to Catholic school over in Carville, and she’d fought every property tax increase and school bond measure since she’d joined the council. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together in a thoughtful pose. “My fellow council members, I have worked for years to bring that medical center to Saluki. That’s what I’ve been committed to. That’s what I remain committed to. But if circumstances in the world of finance or the world of … global politics … prevent that from happening, I have to be open to other opportunities.”

  Holly watched him. Over the past few months, she’d learned to read his body language and there was something going on under the skin that bothered her.

  The room fell silent. John picked up his pen and clicked it absent-mindedly. “As I just started to explain, a few months ago I received a call from someone from a private company who relayed the message that a government agency might be interested in my ‘shovel-ready’ site. The medical center was on life support. The banks had all but pulled the plug, so I was receptive to an alternative opportunity. A team from a private contractor working for the government came to the site. They did not say they represented DHS. We provided them with surveys and other infrastructure information we had from the original project. I haven’t heard from them since.” He looked around the table at his fellow council members. “I was asked to say nothing. Told the project was confidential. I agreed and kept my pledge. But apparently someone else did not.”

  “Nobody told me to keep a lid on it,” Sargent said. “And who knows who gave the heads up to the St. Louis contractor.”

  “Regardless, here we are. If an offer comes through, I will have to consider it. Besides, with eminent domain, I may not have much of a choice. But think about it,” John said, warming to his subject. “Imagine we catch bin Laden, or Muhammad Omar, or hell, Omar Sharif.”

  Holly slappped her hand over her mouth to muffle a short laugh. Heather Briggs pinched her lips and narrowed her eyes.

  “Seriously, people, we could put them on display. Folks’d roll off the interstate like we were Dollywood or Six Flags. A regular terrorist tourist trap!”

  John was going off the rails. Holly wondered if this was characteristic of him, then recalled the YouTube video of him losing it at his campaign rally several years ago

  “It’d be like the county fair, when we were growing up. Heather, you remember. We were in the same class. We’d get the day off from school to ride the rides and see the two-headed babies in jars of formaldehyde. Hell, I bet if the Feds put the terrorists in cages, there’d be people willing to pay good money to take a gander, like animals at the zoo.”

  Blake Andrews tried to calm John down. “Okay, okay. Veranda, let’s get serious here. We’ve got real business to take care of. This isn’t even on the agenda.”

  “Who cares about the agenda?” Mulch blurted out. “The tax revenue potential could permanently get rid of the agenda! It would at least help us do some of the things we’ve been putting off for years. And it would raise our profile. Journalists from all over the world would stay at our hotels, eat in our restaurants.”

  “And maybe it would put a target on our backs. Maybe some crazed mullah living in a cave in who knows where will come here and try to break out his long-lost brother.” Heather Briggs threw up her hands. “But I suppose there’s no point even discussing this hare-brained scheme until a formal request is made to the council to investigate or deliberate. Meanwhile, what are we going to do about this so-called Islamic Information Center?”

  “That’s not on the agenda either,” Blake said.

  Heather ignored him. “I mean, it’s one thing to see Muslim women with their heads covered shopping at our grocery stores-”

  “Isn’t that how those sleeper cells get started? ” someone yelled from the crowd as half the council looked at John as if he was privy to the secret Muslim sleeper cell rule book.

  “Well,” John said, “how ’bout we give the First Amendment a try? We’ve already got the First Methodists and the Second Baptists, the Pentacostals and the Presbyterians, the barn-burning Evangelicals, the Christian Scientists, the Mormons, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Did I leave anyone out? We have any snake handlers in town?”

  That set everyone off again, and it was all Holly could do to keep from hauling John off the stage for his own good.

  “I’m not going to let this town be a part of any goddamn terrorist ring,” Sargent shouted over the din.

  “We need to think in terms of dollars.” Mulch tried to make himself heard. He was probably adding up the tax receipts in his head, Holly thought.

  She propped her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands. All this blather while a bonafide American Arab sat in their midst. No one in Saluki even suspected her of having a Middle Eastern connection. Except in her journal, she had set her father’s heritage aside, and now the prejudices of the council members didn’t bother her nearly as much as they forced her to reconside
r her heritage. Well, reconsider her father’s heritage. Her mother’s Polish heritage wasn’t a problem, although she remembered her grandmother saying that in the old days, everyone teased her with Polish jokes. Every new group of immigrants has to be the outsiders, Holly thought. But not every group was painted with the blood-red strokes of the terrorist brush.

  After a few more minutes of pandemonium, Blake slammed the gavel down, harder this time. “Meeting adjourned! We’ll take up new business at the next meeting.”

  John scraped back his chair so fast it nearly fell over. Holly had wanted to approach him to see if he was just upset about the property or if she’d done something particular to piss him off. But before she could slip on her jacket and pick up the development plan binder, he was gone.

  Before John’s regular stop at Egyptian Grounds the next morning, he was on the phone to Sugarman. Driving a nail through hardwood with a toy hammer was easier than getting past the automated government phone system.

  “Sugarman, this is John Veranda. Call me. Immediately.”

  To his astonishment, Sugarman obeyed. “What the hell,” John shouted into the phone as soon as he heard his voice. “It’s all over the freaking town!”

  “I’m sorry,” Sugarman said, as if he were bored, “remind me which site you’re referring to?”

  “Don’t play these fucking games with me, Sugarman. Saluki, dammit, Saluki, Illinois? Here I respected your wishes and kept my mouth shut, and meanwhile I get broadsided in my own town council meeting. Some fucking contractor called one of the council members and spilled the beans about you guys coming to look at the site. Told everyone it was for a terrorist detention center and tried to find out how to get in on the bidding.”