Tony Shallal, trying not to disillusion her, thanked the worker for the story and left a substantial donation for the center. He also promised that he’d arrange for medical supplies to get there without any problem at the borders.
When he returned to the hotel he found Emily as usual virtually attached to her portable typewriter, a Smith Corona she’d had for years, compiling her precious reports. He told her the news very slowly, so that she could assimilate all the information. Her ex-husband certainly could be alive! Moreover, at this point, in some circles at least, he had been elevated to a savior. Emily, with her usual penchant for sarcasm had simply replied, “Bloody marvelous! Two redeemers in one century and neither one is Jewish. Catching up, aren’t we!”
Tony Shallal and Emily stayed in Lebanon for a few days more before returning to London. At the airport there were no long goodbyes; Shallal kissed her politely on the cheek and promised to keep in touch. She watched as he left the departure lounge at Heathrow, noticing with no great surprise that he did not look back.
In the decades that followed she would hear of his exploits and was not surprised to learn that he accepted a position at a ‘think-tank’ in Washington, D.C. upon his retirement from the British Civil Service. Through her parents, she kept in touch with Colonel Beresford, returning to England to attend the ceremony celebrating Anthony Wallace-Terry’s knighthood. Her path almost crossed Shallal’s when she and husband, Harrison Cowan were in Egypt, where they heard the awful news of Princess Diana’s fatal car crash in Paris. Aunt Jack, who had spent hours on the phone with friends in Paris believed that the British Government ordered the “hit” as a warning to the al Fayed family, who were revered in Cairo. The whole city had been in mourning. Diana of Wales had been their Princess of Hearts; she alone had been unafraid of the establishment. She had defied convention, fallen in love with a Muslim and they had died together rather than be parted. The Egyptian worldview was that they now were in paradise together. Aunt Jack, romantic to the end had decreed it and thus it was so. Of course, the Cowans did not take this seriously. They viewed Aunt Jack as the Queen of Conspiracy, all the way up to the arrival of none other than Tony Shallal in Cairo. Shallal, Aunt Jack faithfully reported each evening, was certainly asking questions around the city’s circle of beautiful people. Yet he did not grace the home of Yacouta D’Aboville and despite her natural curiosity, neither was he invited. Not once in the twenty-seven years that passed did he ever visit or ask about Haley, his only child.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
September 12th, 2001
“You are telling me that I have, sorry, that you’d like me to assemble some sort of team of experts, British and American to find out everything I can about al-Qaeda, Osama bin Laden and where they get their cash? Ooh nice! Very nice! I’m a bloody amateur! An academic! I do research on the side for feminist groups to help liberate Muslim women from oppression in their homelands and occasional civil rights stuff, nothing else. I’m not a spy. You have dozens of people who could do this better than I can. They might even want to! No! The answer is no.”
“Amina, listen please. This is very, very important. Many years ago you had contacts. Do you know what they do now? They lecture at colleges and universities all over the world and they still, now listen carefully my dear, they still recruit.” Shallal had still maintained his penetrating stare.
“Look Shallal, this is not my war.” Emily was losing patience. “Yes I understand that thousands of people have died, but our government knew this was going to happen. Al-Qaeda has been active since 1978. Our boy’s jihad against Russia was in 1979 for Chrissake. Where have you all been? I knew. I’ve been harping about this fellow for years. Remember when we met bin Laden in Lebanon? I said then that he had all the signs of a potential dictator. He was what, how old then, eighteen or nineteen? This isn’t the first time he’s developed a strategy to get the World Trade Center. No, gentlemen, this one is clearly your screw up. Sorry, the term is ‘blowback’, at least that’s what I tell my students, and while you’re looking at bin Laden check out Saddam Hussein as well. I know for a fact that your intelligence picked up the exchange of over 100 Yemeni passports to Osama bin Laden at a meeting with little sonny boy Qu’sai Hussein not very long ago. If you all have any sense you’ll watch out for Saudi, because that, gentlemen is the real weak link. The Saudi economy is failing! Its oil revenues have dropped from 140 million to about 18 million since the eighties and the royal family has too many hangers-on to support. Your chap Bin Laden blames you lot for all of this and people over there believe him. Hard line Islamists are springing up all over the place. You lads created this monster, you deal with him. But let me tell you, they can and they will build an infrastructure against the United States, they will raise funds to support it and they will strike again”.
“Look Emily, we’re not asking you to put yourself at risk,” interrupted Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry. “We may already have the man we need to work within the structure, but we do want a less formal government approach in our evaluation of bin Laden and his potential. If we have enough different profiles of him we can better assess what we’re dealing with.”
“Well, if I may be so blunt, what’s in it for me?” inquired Emily as she picked at her lobster tail.
“You get to pick your own task force as a joint project for the U. S. and British Government,” Wallace-Terry replied. “You report to Tony here, and all expenses will be written off as a joint government contract to your company, ISIS Incorporated. In other words, you’re hiring a group of experts to serve as consultants at our expense. We trust your judgment. Do the job without attracting attention. Report back to Tony Shallal and try to make the team as small as possible, five or six people. We’ll provide an administrative aide and the office space.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be somewhere local to all of us, if I accept, that is.”
“Amina, you’ll accept because you’ve wanted unlimited access to information on this chap for decades. We have it. We want you to review it and give us your interpretation,” Shallal broke in.
“What will you do then?” Emily asked, helping herself to some coffee.
“Compare notes with what we, the NSA, CIA, FBI, and Mossad have got already. Somewhere in the middle is the truth.”
“I’ll get back to you in a few days.”
“No. Get back with me tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” came her reply, as she got up and left them with the bill.
When she had gone they ordered another round of drinks. Tony celebrated his success with a glass of Cabernet, happy that he hadn’t ordered a drink in front of Emily Desai, who had never seen him touch alcohol. He raised his glass, “Well, that gets her safely out of the way.”
“When are you meeting with ‘him’?” Wallace-Terry inquired.
“Probably tomorrow afternoon.”
“How do you know he’ll cooperate?”
“Last time I saw him the young man in question expressed the desire to go to Afghanistan for us so now I think it is time he returned to his roots. He’s your basic romantic kind of chap. Honor, the cause, all that claptrap.”
“You know Shallal; you really are a heartless bastard. She’ll kill you if she finds out.”
“All part of the job, Sir Anthony. Besides which, it’s something he’s always wanted to do!”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
Friday, September 14th, 2001
When Mason Desai, M.D. returned to the hospital two days later he noticed for the first time since joining ER that the nursing staff appeared to be giving him the cold shoulder. Their comments usually varied from downright flirtatious to bordering on sexist. He was attractive, single and generally they were hopeful. However, only one woman interested him; Safiya Muhammed. She was from Pakistan and in her first year of residency. She was a Muslim and adhered to traditional dress. For the first time in weeks she was completely alone at the front desk.
“Sa
fiya. How are you doing? This World Trade Center thing is bloody awful isn’t it? My sister was at the Pentagon when it happened. She’s lucky to be alive. Gets home tonight actually.” He looked at her more closely and noticed she was crying.
“Oh Dr. Desai, I’m so upset. A young nursing student called me a terrible name in the cafeteria and not one of them, none of the people that knew me stood up for me. The girl didn’t get a reprimand. Nothing! My God, it was so terrible. They all looked at her. All of them shocked, I guarantee you. But not one of them spoke in my defense.”
“What did you do, get at her in morning rounds or something? Was it some sort of retaliation? Was she assigned to you?” he asked, very concerned.
“Not at all. I was in the cafeteria having a cup of tea. I was in civvies, you know. No white coat, just my ID. She must have known who I was though, the others did. My chair hit hers as I sat down. Her orange juice got knocked over and she turned around and called me a ‘Stupid fucking Arab’. I got up and asked her who she thought she was talking to. And she just looked at me and got up and left, I guess to wipe herself down. So I turned to the others and asked them to give me her name. No one would. As I got up to leave, I heard one of them say, “They think they own the place, don’t they? And then one of them started to mimic my accent and so I just turned around and came back up here.”
“But you’re not an Arab, you’re Pakistani and you’re a physician. How dare anyone talk to you like that. I’ll take care of this.”
“Don’t bother, Dr. Desai. They think we are all the same. I’m a Muslim, it doesn’t matter that Muslims also worked in the World Trade Center and have died too. Now I’m a terrorist supporter because I wear my head covered. I have no other home to return to. This is my home, America. I pay taxes. I’m as good as they are and probably more loyal too. These people are not Muslims, they’re terrorists. Muslims don’t practice violence as a rule, they revere all life.” She started sobbing, “I did nothing wrong.”
“Safiya, it’s ok. Do you have a relief or did you just start your shift? Where do you live? In between shifts where do you go?” he asked her gently.
“I live in Crofton. I wanted to work in Northern, not here, but they didn’t have a place for another intern. That’s why I came here. I usually just stay here in between shifts.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be fresh or anything. I’m a quasi-Muslim, my parents, grandparents are at least. I’m not very good at religion in practice, but I do hold to the principles. I have a townhouse up the road on Bestgate. I’ll give you my spare key. Go there when you get off and wait for me. Don’t worry; no one has ever been there. I don’t have a girlfriend and the only other people with keys are my sister, Hallah and my mum. She’s a Brit. Neither of them are in the area right now. I’m working one day off and one day on. I have to admit that I’ve noticed coldness myself with the nursing staff. I’m going to find out what’s happening. There are other Muslim physicians here; maybe it’s endemic right now.”
“I don’t know, Dr. Desai,” she sighed.
“Please, call me Masud. My mum and sister call me Mason. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I won’t even be there. But at least it will save you having to be here or driving all the way to Crofton. Here’s the key. I get off tomorrow morning. If you go there just make yourself at home and for your own protection, just wear a scarf on your head instead of the white hijab. It will attract less attention.”
“Dr. Desai, the Qu’ran draws no distinction, tradition does. God has said the best garment of all is righteousness. The Qu’ran does not advocate or support the wearing of a headdress. I prefer it as I prefer wearing glasses to contact lenses. God gave me freedom of choice,” she replied somberly. “This is the first time I have felt happy all afternoon. Thank you, Dr. Desai...sorry, Masud. You are a kind and generous person.”
Mason Desai’s heart felt a lot lighter as he watched her walk out of the office and down the hallway. Safiya turned around and flashed him a brilliant smile. She is utterly enchanting, he thought. This is the woman I will marry, he promised himself. All in good time, praise be to Allah I am going to the land of my fathers!
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
Mason Desai contacted Dr. Ayman Almagid, a pediatrician in the other medical building and asked him point blank whether he had noticed any difference in respect level or general treatment from his subordinates in the past two days. His answer was in the affirmative. Not only that, Almagid himself had asked to speak with the Director of Services and the Human Resources Affirmative Action representative Hilary Browne that afternoon concerning racial and religious sensitivity at this special time. Bias against Muslims at present was not only evident but was being ignored by other upper level staff members. Almagid had already had six other calls.
“May I accompany you?” Mason requested.
“Absolutely,” came his well-intentioned response. “As a Muslim, one should not go before them alone. At time like this we must stand together.”
The meeting went reasonably well, drafting a memorandum to all departments encouraging racial and religious solidarity at this terrible time. It emphasized that President George W. Bush yesterday had spoken to the nation from a mosque and that he had urged Muslim women in America not to be afraid to shop for their families wearing their traditional clothes. He told Americans that Islam meant “Peace” and that anyone harassing a Muslim was the worst of humankind. Mason Desai insisted that the memo also mention the words of Abraham Lincoln, “It has long been a grave question whether any government, not too strong for the liberties of its people, can be strong enough to maintain its existence in great emergencies.” The hospital administrator also said that the memorandum must state that the strongest possible legal measures will be taken to anyone harassing Muslim employees at this or any other time.
“What happened to Safiya Muhammad this morning was unforgivable and the student nurse should be not only censured, but fired,” Mason spoke without emotion, trying to remain calm and keep to the facts.
“I know about the incident and we are looking into disciplinary action against the student nurse, but there were no witnesses, which makes our action somewhat limited.”
“Oh come on Hilary. There were at least six people at the table,” Mason responded
“None of them will verify what happened,” she looked up and continued, “Look Mason, I know how she feels. I grew up in the sixties when there were segregated water fountains here in Annapolis. Just tell her to hang in and be cool.”
“That’s not good enough,” his voice rising.
“Dr. Desai, do not raise your voice at me. I’m on your side, OK?”
“Then fucking act like it and do something.”
“Please leave my office immediately.”
“No Goddamit, I won’t! Pick up the phone and get the girl in here. Let her call me a fuckin’ Arab as well.”
“Dr. Desai, please leave now or I will have to call building security.”
“Call whoever the hell you want. I’m not leaving until I get some answers!”
“Desai!” Dr Almagid interrupted, “please get yourself under control and be reasonable. Why don’t we discuss this with the Chief of Medical Staff Affairs.”
“No! I won’t be reasonable at all. I’m tired of being bloody reasonable. In fact, I’m going to be most unreasonable. Either fire the student and press charges or I quit.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hilary Browne stood up, hands on her desk in defiance. “Mason, you’re losing it.”
“You know Hilary, you may be right. You’ll have my resignation by the end of the day.”
Within five minutes of Mason Desai leaving the Human Resources office, Ayman Almagid took his cell phone and called an old golf buddy in Washington, D.C.
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