What causes a beautiful moment to end, when you walk down the street overflowing with joy, mid-conversation with someone whose company you enjoy, in the midst of playing the piano, listening to the radio, everything is right about the moment, and the moment ends, destroyed by an errant thought from the abyss? One moment, I see leaves greening on the trees in spring. In the next second, the leaves turn over, shimmering steely gray with the fear of an approaching storm. This is what it is like for me with every man I’ve been with. A beginning and an end in one breath.
Now, another man has entered my life. Re-entered really. The kind man I met at the senator’s office so many years ago, the man whose campaign I worked on. John Veranda. I believe he is taking over some of your space in my mind. Will it end as others have? Will I make him leave because I expect him to abandon me? He embodies so much of what I need. I wonder if you would have liked him. Would you have thrown a football around with him, like you did with the uncles? Would you sit in front of the television and scream at the news? Laugh at the comedians? Cringe at embarrassing moments?
I was looking at one of Maya’s paintings the other day. I wanted to hang it in a different place where there is more light and I noticed that amidst the repetitive series of gold diamond shapes, there are letters. Letters that spell the word baklava! I laughed with joy! And then I put it in the back of my closet, so I don’t sob every time I see it.
—Yom tanni fil jannah bin tak
37
September, 2011
He closed the door and choked back the bile. On the drive back to the office, Stuart thought he was going to have to pull over. Vernon Meracle’s smug, self-satisfied, completely unrepentent attitude unmoored him. He sat down at his desk and pulled out Elias Haddad’s file. It had taken months to stitch the whole sordid tale together, and there were still pieces missing. Whole years that had truly been lost in a black hole. Or rather, a black site.
In the 1960s, the FBI and CIA created a task force to encourage individuals from problem countries to come to America. But, while in country, agents kept tabs on them. They were pre-positioned, so the CIA or the State Department could trade them for Americans working in official capacities overseas. The countries behind the Iron Curtain and the Middle East were the prime targets of the program.
Stuart could hardly believe what he’d learned. Human chits cultivated in advance, so they could be used later through back-channel negotiations, like chess pieces hidden in a back pocket or playing cards pulled out of a sleeve. He imagined a space with nine separate dimensions of hell—American espionage, border protection, terror suspect detention, domestic surveillance, rendition—all accelerating under general electorate paranoia and fundamentalist religious fervor.
Where did it all end? How did it all start?
Elias Haddad had lived his entire life as a puppet, protected by his father, betrayed by Moody, conscripted, captured, tortured, traded. And yet he had survived. Somehow, Elias Haddad had survived.
He was one of the intangibles, Stuart thought. The hidden costs. The unintended consequences of the top secret programs of a dozen different agencies, programs started and stopped, tangled and untangled and tangled again. The whole horrible weight of it pressed down on him, the four walls of his office collapsing inward, his brain pyrolyzing, consuming itself. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He stumbled from his office toward the rest rooms. He saw the cleaning lady down the hall and focused on her, steadying himself. She was just doing her job, like him.
No, not like him.
Stuart bent over the drinking fountain and pressed the cold, steel button. He couldn’t get enough of the frigid water, slurping and slurping as if greedily attempting to irrigate the parched crevices carved deep within his soul.
He remembered the first time he’d felt sick like this. He’d been in the fourth grade and had lied to his teacher about how many books he’d read for extra credit. He had lied because he had loved his teacher. He loved pronouncing her name. Miss Bomba. She was not like the other fourth grade teacher who threw chalk and erasers and made misbehaving students stand in the hall. He wanted Miss Bomba to love him as much as he loved her. So he’d lied.
When a student read a book and turned in a short report on it, they would earn a stage in a paper rocket ship. All the good reading students competed, their rocket ships side by side, each square paper section Elmer-glued at the far side of the blackboard for the rest of the class to see. He started writing reports based on the summaries he read on the back of the books. Was he really reading all these books, his teacher had asked him, and smiling, he had answered yes, of course.
It got so bad, he didn’t want to go to school, didn’t want to face Miss Bomba because he knew she would be so disappointed in him when she found he’d been lying. So he told his mother he was sick and as she tucked him into bed, she said, “Poor boy, think about the most wonderful thing in the world, your favorite dessert, presents at Hanukkah, hitting a home run. That will help you feel better.”
But, he knew that the only thing that would make him feel better was to not lie anymore, and he pledged right then that if this is what lying felt like, he was going to do as little of it as possible.
So what was he going to tell John?
Vernon Meracle was there, in Saluki, keeping tabs on the Islamic Information Center. The thought that Holly was there too made him shudder. What would Meracle do when Elias arrived in Saluki? What would happen if the case of Elias Haddad ever went to trial? Who would even take such a case? John, of course. He was a damned good attorney, but he couldn’t take on a case like this and hope to win. So should he tell John now? Or wait? And should he arrange for someone to tail Meracle? See what he was really up to? Make sure he doesn’t bother Holly? Make sure he couldn’t arrange for anything to happen to Elias to prevent a lifetime’s worth of despicable behavior from ever coming to light?
Stuart was deep in debt on favors. He had no idea where he would get the budgetary authorization. His discretionary account was far from limitless. He was already on shaky ground, grounds for termination if discovered, maybe something worse. He’d have to invent a reason, a program, obtain a temporary waiver, transfer funds from an existing program. Hell, he’d use his own money if he had to. Elias Haddad was his wormhole out of what had been eating at him for so many years. And now, he was willing to pay the price for the human externality.
Closing down Gitmo or keeping it open wasn’t the issue anymore. It was the international embarrassment of having to explain who these prisoners were, why they were being detained. Leaks to the media were
bad enough, the detailed reports released from policy organizations and human rights groups beyond incriminating. All the agencies involved with security, the FBI, INS, NSA, and CIA, departments in the Pentagon, and now Homeland Security and One-Eye, had to get on the same page about who would be redirected to the new facility. Each of them had their own obscure, clandestine programs unknown to the other agencies or the elected officials who funded them. It was all well and good as long as the programs remained hidden, but when the personal tragedies that lay at the heart of many of the detainees’ stories were revealed, evidence of illegal or at least morally questionable actions would be revealed, too. And the full scope of that damage sent Stuart reeling.
He knew what it felt like to lie and had structured his life around the pledge to never feel that again. So what could he do? How could he get out from under all this? How could he ignore what he’d discovered? The answer was that he couldn’t.
He sat back down at his desk and picked up the phone. John answered on the second ring.
“John, do you know a woman named Holly Chicago? I believe she’s a member of your Town Council.”
The moment of silence at the other end of the line was potent. “Yes. She was appointed to fill a vacancy almost three years ago.”
“Was she born in Joliet, Illinois?”
“That’s what she’s told me. I haven’t examined her
birth certificate.”
“Did she ever live in Cairo?”
“What’s this about?” Another pause. “Does this have something to do with your visit to Cairo in, what was it, ’03?”
It was Stuart’s’s turn to pause uncomfortably. “She’s why you have me chasing down ghosts, isn’t she? Had dad. That’s what she told me that night in Cairo. A joke about her real last name. Said her father had disappeared. That his last name was Haddad.”
“Jesus. Yes, that’s her.”
“What’s the deal with the two of you?”
“What’s the deal with the two of you?” The jealousy in John’s voice was evident even from halfway across the country.
“Nothing. She plied me with booze and tried to get me to tell her what kind of facility I was doing an infrastructure review for. Nothing happened. I swear.”
“Okay, never mind about that. You’ve found something haven’t you?”
“I found her father, John. I found Elias Haddad.”
John sucked in a lungful of air. “He’s still alive? Where? How?”
“He’s one of the inmates at Gitmo.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“I’m now ninety nine percent sure of that. And he’s going to be transferred to Saluki.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Serious as a heart attack. Otherwise, it’s one of the greatest coincidences of all time. I don’t generally believe in coincidences. And anyway, this one isn’t pretty. This man has been in captivity, tortured probably, most of his adult life.”
With hesitation in his voice, John said, “Is he a … a terrorist?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“He certainly didn’t start out that way. Now, I don’t think anyone knows what he is. It’s been almost forty years. Of all the stories coming out about unfair charges, extradition, extraordinary renditions, torture, trials by military tribunals, stateless captives, this might be the most bizarre case of all, a tragedy of unmitigated proportions.”
“I tried to help her back when I was on Capitol Hill,” John said. “She was just out of high school. Came with a teacher hoping the senator could help her. I couldn’t find out a goddamn thing. Everything I tried was a dead end. Everywhere, a black hole. Then a couple of years ago she shows up at my campaign office out of nowhere. Wants to volunteer. I had no idea who she was until just a few months ago. Right before I called you.”
“And now you two are, what?”
“I don’t know what we are.”
“And Kathy?”
“I don’t know about that either.”
“So how are you going to tell Holly—does she still go by Holly?”
“Yeah, still Holly Chicago. And I have no idea.”
“Why don’t you hold off until I can confirm everything. It’s been forty years. She can wait a little longer.”
38
July, 1959
Father Marwan tapped his fingers on his desk and adjusted his collar. The man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation was late, and the tiny office looking over the rose garden in the side yard of the Syriac church he’d been assigned was much too warm. Maybe he should open a window. But what if the gardner overheard the conversation? What if some nosy parishioner took a stroll and stopped to listen? No, the window would remain closed. Marwan adjusted the pen and pencil set on his desk and ran over the story his fellow priest back in Aleppo had given him. The FBI man wouldn’t have to convince him to work in their program. He was ready.
After living in a country characterized by a volatile political situation, no one needed to persuade him disciplined centralized control was better than competing factions fighting incessant bloody battles, leading to one coup d’etat after another. The last thing America needed was for waves of immigrants to organize unchecked into protest groups morphing into opposition groups, then terrorist cells, bands of revolutionaries bent on overthrowing the prevailing government. He’d come to America for stability and he would do his part to ensure stability ruled the land.
Marwan heard the outside door open and whoosh shut and hurried out to greet the agent from the Chicago field office. Just like in the movies, the man had short, trimmed hair and wore a conservative suit and tie. The look made Marwan smile as if all was right in the world, and he motioned him into his office and offered him one of two low cushioned chairs. Between the chairs, two cups on saucers, a pot of Turkish coffee, and a plate of cookies were arranged on an octagonal table of inlaid stone and wood.
“Our business is information,” the agent said, after Marwan had poured the coffee and they’d exchanged bland pleasantries. “The objective of the Hoover FBI is to get our hands on information before anyone else in the government.”
“Information, it is power,” Marwan said, brightly.
“We’re fighting a war against global communism.”
“I have read this in the papers.”
“Your Arabic will be of the greatest value to us. The situation with Syria has become very complicated.”
“I understand this. It is why I left.”
“From our standpoint, Syria is the one country in the region where an increased Russian presence could counter our influence. We are firmly situated, of course, in Israel, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Iran. Syria and Egypt are wild cards.”
“The Communists do not yet dominate in Syria.”
“Ah, yes, but this is the reason for our program. We develop information networks to counter future threats, not just current ones. We call it pre-emption. Should we come to an agreement, you would be working for the Office of Pre-emptive Domestic and Foreign Programs.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The agent sipped his coffee and grimaced. “Is there dirt in here or what?”
“Ah, you must sip slowly, so the coffee grounds remain at the bottom of the cup. It requires patience.”
“OK. Still, it is kind of like drinking molasses. Only hotter. And not as sweet.”
“The FBI is interested, particularly, in Syrian Christian?” Marwan asked.
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
The agent looked Father Marwan in the eye and straightened up. “The director does not trust the Muslims.”
“I understand there are other groups he does not trust as well.”
“Perhaps, but that is not relevant to our discussion here.”
“It is common knowledge, I think. Mr. Hoover does not like the Jews or the negroes.”
“It is more important to understand that, above all, the director abhors communism, regardless of who supports it.”
Father Marwan looked around his small study. He did not see himself living in such modest quarters in the land of opportunity. He absently rubbed his belly as if anticipating a future full of the finer things in life.
“So, what would be my work, assuming I am okay for the appointment?”
“In essence, Father Marwan, we seek to build a network of like-minded individuals who will report to us regularly on people and activities involved with the Russians and with communist sympathizers here in America. I should emphasize this is an experiment, a pilot program. If successful, it will be replicated for other groups in other areas.”
“Yes, but what specifically would you have me do?”
“Recruit sympathetic Syrians to participate. Listen carefully in the Syrian American, Lebanese, and other Middle East communities. You would be our eyes and ears. You will receive suitable training should you be selected and accept the mission. You will also be compensated handsomely, not always with money, but in many other ways.”
“Would you care for another cup?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Have another cookie. Or could I offer you a shot of Arak?”
“What’ss that?”
“It is a liquor that tastes of licorice, much like the cookie you just ate.
“Sure, Father, but only one. I am on duty, after all.”
/> After the second shot, Father Marwan said, “In Syria, even small luxuries are a problem. You see, every little thing to get done with the government requires one of two things.”
“And they are?”
“Either you know the right person on the inside, preferably a family member, or you have money to bribe from the outside. There are no other ways.” He set down his glass. “I do not need to be convinced of the need for iron-fisted control of government. I have great admiration for the Hoover FBI. From this moment forward, I will be grateful to work in your program. Never would I wish for my new home to resemble the homeland I left behind.”
39
November, 2011
John drove home from the office and saw that Kathy’s car wasn’t in the garage. She was spending more and more time at her parents. He grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and walked toward the clearing at the corner of his property where he hoped Holly would be working. He saw her Mustang parked out front and couldn’t help but smile at the site of the former treehouse, occupied by a set of shipping containers that somehow Penndel had arranged to have delivered and that were now nestled in under the trees, almost camouflaged. Almost. Just like the intimacy he and Holly had been doing their best to ignore since their kiss.
He lifted the latch and stepped inside. The sight of her made his chest tighten. He still hadn’t found the right time to tell her about her father. She didn’t even know he’d asked Stuart to try to find him. At first, he didn’t want to get her hopes up. Now, he had no idea how to find the right words.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He pushed the door closed behind him.
A candle flickered, casting shadows on the steel wall. Electric service hadn’t yet been established. Holly’s battery powered spotlight shown from a corner, with another placed upright on the floor, shining towards the ceiling. She sat in one of the three camp chairs she’d bought at Goodwill.
The Moment Before Page 28