Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “It is, I feel, a question of battle lines that are now drawn between Islamists and Muslims,” Safiya turned to face the rest of the family, “These militants want to control not just how women dress, but how we think, our very actions and our future, and this is wrong! This bin Laden has grown beyond what would be rock star adoration here! Do you know the name Osama is currently the most popular name in Pakistan for boys? Tens of thousands of stickers and pictures sell daily there to children and adults alike. His books sell off the shelves in hours. He’s like “Superman” or “Rocky” here in America. He has done it by fighting with the Mujahideen, by building roads, offices, hospitals and clinics for children. There is an Osama mosque, Osama poultry farms and clothing manufacturers. He’s the ultimate icon!”

  “You sound incredibly well-informed for someone who has lived here for so long.” Harrison was clearly fascinated by this well educated young woman who practiced medicine for a living but who spoke like a sociologist.

  “I live here yes, but I am in constant touch with my family who live in Islamabad and I also write for the Pakistan and East Indian Students Society Newspaper. I get “Al Jazeera” as well, so I keep up with current affairs.”

  “I’m working on a task force right now Safiya, and I could certainly use a good researcher to help me keep up to date with information on Islamicism in Pakistan and Afghanistan. We’re going to be pretty brainwashed here in the next few months. Would you like to help by reporting stuff?” Emily asked, putting her own tradecraft to work. A voice inside her dictated who was good to glean information from. Students, she knew, were always the key to a good “asset”. One good “in” and she would have all the information she needed.

  “Is that Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan you’re playing, Professor Cowan?” Safiya asked, referring to the voice widely acknowledged as the greatest living master of “Qawwali”, the devotional music of the Sufis.

  “Yes, I love his music,” Emily replied.

  “Do you know,” Safiya began, “he was banned in the more hardcore Islamist parts of Pakistan and pretty much all of Afghanistan because he’s Sufi? Thousands of teenagers showed up at his concerts here, you know. He was such a spiritual man. So beloved. When he died a few years ago, I cried like a baby. His work has always brought me great comfort, being away from home.”

  “Yes, I understand that completely. I play his music all the time. Although I must admit I discovered him because of his association with Peter Gabriel.”

  “I am completely responsible for that,” interrupted Mason, “I bought her the soundtrack of ‘Passion Sources’, the CD that the score for the movie, ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’ was based on. You know, local Middle East musicians combined to give it authenticity, and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and his party were part of that collection. Mother, of course, fell in love with it. She gets quite ‘ethnic’ and waxes poetic sometimes, despite her otherwise western demeanor,” he added sarcastically. His mother’s response in Arabic was neither flattering nor well-intended and he colored at her scathing remarks about his manners in public.

  “I may lack your ethnicity, my son, I am however your mother and as this is the United States I still rule this house!” she added, “for anyone requiring a translation of my comments.”

  “Whoa Mace. Old Mums can still kick butt!” his sister wasted no time in joining in.

  “We’re really quite a happy, normal, loving family, Safiya. Just ask Liam,” Harrison gently refereed.

  “It’s when they bring out the sabers I get a little worried, Safiya. She has perfect aim for an old girl. I hear she kick boxes as well!” said Liam jokingly.

  “Ok. Dinner is now served. Mason, start passing food around from your end, and be a good boy and tell Mummy you still love her even when you’re angry,” his mother said with a sly wink. Surprisingly, Mason did not reply as he passed out the food. His sister covered the silence by asking Safiya where she went to college.

  After the meal, as Mason and Safiya left the others to walk down to the beach and watch the sunset, Emily turned to her daughter and said, “He’s hurting, isn’t he? This has really gotten to him, more so than everyone else, perhaps because he feels so divided.”

  “Mother, Mason is upset because he is now in the negative minority. You chastised him in front of us and now he’s offended. I think it’s a male Muslim thing. We all love Mason, but he enjoys being the center of attention and he always has. Mason’s more intelligent than everyone else, he’s got a photographic memory, he speaks six languages fluently, he’s gorgeous and what’s more frustrating is that he’s likeable. For most people he’s an overachieving pain in the ass. But for him Ma, right now he’s not the leader of the “successful” pack. People are less trusting with this awful 911 thing hanging over them and Mason’s being excluded because of who he is. Really, he has no coping skills for this kind of thing because he’s always been a winner. It’s no fault of yours or mine. It just is! Let him get over it. He’s a man now. He’s resourceful. He can cope.”

  “My dear, I have to agree with Hal. Mason is a grown up. He’ll find his own way. She’s a beauty, that Safiya. What do you think Hal, is this the one?” Harrison put his arm around his stepdaughter adding, “Although you know you’ll always be my best girl.”

  “You see Liam, this is a dysfunctional family. Dad loves me best as you can see. Even more than his other two kids. I always got roses on Valentine’s Day too, right Dad?

  Her stepfather responded with an easy smile, saying, “Get up you spoiled brat and fix us another one. You know, I am worried about Mason though. Who was that phone call from earlier, by the way?”

  “Someone named Ayman Almagid from the medical center,” Haley answered.

  “Oh, I know him from the golf club. OB or Pediatrics, I think. Swarmy little bugger, don’t like him at all,” Liam said

  “Liam Navan! That was a racist bloody statement. Swarmy?”

  “Wasn’t intended to be. He’s just so, er...Have you ever read David Copperfield?”

  “Yes, of course. My Grandma is English.”

  “Remember the character Uriah Heep?”

  “Ah yes, the dreaded ‘Ever so ‘umble Master Copperfield, ever so ‘umble’,” said Emily, reminiscing.

  “That’s Ayman Almagid,” Liam continued, “Ever so ‘umble while he stabs you in the back.”

  Liam stretched his six foot four inch frame over the couch, reaching down to pick up the scotch Haley had placed on the mosaic floor. He was a handsome man in his mid forties with prematurely grey hair, broad shouldered with a ruddy complexion betraying his Irish roots. Nevan was the second son of an Irish peer, Baron Nevan of Burntshurch, an ancient Norman family who, like many of his counterparts, had a somewhat lower ranking English peerage, thereby still allowing him to sit in the British House of Lords. The Nevans had made their fortune brewing Stout, the national drink of Ireland. A fourth generation Etonian, Liam had attended Sandhurst but had cut his military molars in The Kings Liverpool Regiment, where he was found to be a natural choice for the SAS. Liam Navan had served Queen and Country in the Falklands, Northern Ireland and The Gulf War before leaving the service in 1995. On his military retirement, he had began a lucrative career in security consulting, protecting oil and diamond fields from the ravaging rebel forces in Angola, which had proved successful enough to allow him to bail out his family’s tax debts. His profitable company afforded him the luxury of living in South Africa on par with other wealthy British ex-patriots like Phillip Mann, Mark Thatcher and Earl Spencer, brother of the late Princess Diana of Wales. When he returned to Ireland he reentered academia, picked up an international law degree and was now working with a Washington think tank as an expert in International counter-terrorism and security.

  “So you’ve met him before, Liam?” Emily asked as she passed out the after dinner chocolates

  “Oh several times, Em. He’s a crony of your old friend Yassir Shallal,” Liam replied.

  Haley looked very disconcerted at
the mention of the man she understood was her biological father and Emily sensing her discomfort could only add, “Well Shallal and I do go back a long time, but I wouldn’t call him a friend. In fact I haven’t seen him for decades. I had no idea he was back here in the States until two days ago. I’ll be reporting to him on the project I’m working on. Not exactly my ideal situation either. Which reminds me, have you given any thought to working in an advisory capacity along with me?”

  “A conditional, ‘yes’.”

  “What’s the condition?” she asked.

  “That you’ll consent to my sweet talking your daughter into having dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “Just what I need in my life. An almost wealthy second son of an Irish peer. No castle, no inheritance as usual. Nothing, just a business owner like my Dad,” Haley threw her hands up in mock despair, “Of course I’ll go, if you appeal to my baser nature and throw in a few Cartier watches.”

  “Liam, you have my full approval. I’m her Dad,” Harrison said, “But tell me more about this Almaged’s connection to Tony. I find that very suspicious, in light of Emily being approached as well. Do you think they’re up to something concerning Mason?”

  “Wait a minute! Mason was talking about Afghanistan earlier. You know he gets into his Muslim moods sometimes and starts reading us all the riot act for being infidels.”

  “Now that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Haley,” her mother intervened.

  “Well you know, he gets into the ‘holier than thou’ frame of mind, which is, I think the attraction with Safiya. If you ask me, if she wasn’t a Muslim, he wouldn’t bother at all,” Haley responded, a little angrily. “Sometimes he’s just looking for an identity.”

  “Come on Hal. The girl is gorgeous and brainy. What more could he want?” Liam said jokingly, “Another one like you two.”

  ‘She is like them. Very much so in fact. She’s just under wraps, so to speak,” Harrison chuckled.

  “Anyway, I suspect something. I think I’ll talk to him about it,” continued Emily.

  “Leave it Mum. Because anything you say, he’ll simply do the opposite. Let’s just wait for right now.”

  “You know, Haley. You’re certainly more my child than your mother’s,” Harrison said with a smile.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  On the way back from the beach, Mason told Safiya he would be interviewing with a relief organization in Afghanistan.

  “What did you say it was called?” she asked gently.

  “Al-Kifah. It’s a recruitment center,” he replied.

  “You’re right about that Masud. It’s a recruitment center for Mujahideen, run by The Islamic Salvation Foundation and MAK Mekhtal Al-Khidemat al Mujahideen, or, ‘The Office of Service to the Holy Warriors’, part of the al-Qaeda network. Are you mad?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would Ayman put me in touch with people like that? I’m a doctor.”

  “Have you met them yet?” she asked.

  “No. I’m doing that tomorrow, and if it’s successful, I’ll leave by the end of the week.”

  “Masud, let me go with you tomorrow. I know more about these things than you do. I have connections in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t want to discuss it any further, Safiya. There is something else more important that I want to discuss.”

  “There is nothing more important than your life, Masud.”

  “I’m glad you said that, because I’d like to marry you.”

  “Very subtle, Masud!” she said in mock outrage, “Marriage is not what I’m looking for right now.”

  “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do, but I don’t know you.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s a good match. I’ll speak to your parents.”

  “If I agreed, I would tell my parents and hope that they approve. In my culture, that’s what we do. They play an important role in my selection of a husband, but they would not select one for me. There are, of course, certain formalities as well.”

  “I know, Safiya, such as the ‘mahr’. I’m willing to go along with that.”

  “Masud, I haven’t accepted your offer. Let’s not even begin to discuss the financial arrangement! Our practice of a ‘mahr’ is not like an African marriage purchase, or a Jewish dowry. This is a gift before marriage that the wife can have if the husband wishes to divorce her or that she can return if she divorces him. It is a financial gesture of good will. But as I haven’t agreed to your proposal, it isn’t important now.”

  “Will you at least think about it?”

  “Yes, I will, but please understand that marriage to you or to anyone else is not an issue for me to really consider until my residency is finished next year, and I am not returning to Pakistan! I wish to be an American, so I am not traditional by any means.”

  “I understand that Safiya, but I want a woman who is chaste and shares my values, and you are what I want.”

  “Then wait, Masud, and get to know me. You may change your mind. By the way, I like your family, particularly your mother.”

  “I may have changed my mind already,” he answered.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

  Monday, September 17th, 2001

  Masud drove to Washington D.C., ironically parking in front of the D.C. Jewish Center on 16th and Q Street to walk the two blocks to the address given him by Ayman Almagid. The offices were over a fashionable Greek carry out called “Dimi’s”. He had a quick gyro for lunch, thinking that he preferred his mother’s “Farsi” burgers, their family name for ground lamb and Middle Eastern veggies inside pita bread pockets she’d made so often when he was a child. He sauntered up to the office on the second floor and was surprised to find a dark eyed woman in black flowing robes with head and facial covering seated at the front desk. Her beautiful expressive hands revealed expensive jewelry and her voice was without accent. She sat before an expensive computer system, her slender fingers seemingly racing across the key board as she took down pertinent information from Masud. Finally after about fifteen minutes, he was admitted to the office of Amin Zahir.

  “Please be seated. I am most sorry for the delay in seeing you. May I offer you some tea?”

  Masud accepted the offer and mint tea was brought to them by the woman from outside, who was then dismissed very quickly as if she was a servant rather than an employee of the organization.

  “I appreciate your seeing me at such short notice, Mr. Zahir.”

  “Mr. Desai, why do want to go to Afghanistan? This is a dangerous time for our country.”

  “I am a doctor, Mr. Zahir. I want to put my skills to a better use. I want to make a difference.”.

  ‘Let me explain what we do, Dr. Desai. We are formulating a religious struggle in the hopes of uniting the Arab world. There are over one billion Muslims worldwide. It is, you know, the fastest growing religion in the world. We provide manpower, weapons and training for the struggle against oppression. More importantly we provide medical assistance, drugs and supplies to medical centers for refugees. Our founder has even supplemented the income of families who encourage their sons to join us. We are now perhaps the largest recruitment center in the world, housing and sheltering enlistees and taking care of their families in their absence. We are transporting individuals from at least thirty-five countries into Afghanistan, as we did at the height of the Russian occupation. Our struggle continues, with training camps dotted along the borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan and our network is just as crucial now as it was in the war against the former Soviet Union. We brought them to their knees, but we now must prevent anyone else from attempting to move into their place. Our founder has built hospitals, roads, tunnels, and storage depots throughout the Afghan mountain ranges to shelter our men and our supplies. We have also established Command, Communication and Control Centers at these locations, as well as networks all over the world. If you agree to join us, you will go to the Darunta training complex where you
will be assigned to the hospital wing. Your duties will be similar to any emergency room and your remuneration will be commensurate with your ability and experience. It will, I’m sure, be comparable to what you earn here. I understand your father is a great leader. May you be like him in every way. We ask only that you share our belief that we will free all of the holiest lands of Islam from the occupation of its enemies.”

  “You have been very candid with me. How do you know you can trust me?”

  “If at any point we feel we cannot trust you, we will exact the toll. Knowing this, will you join with us, Masud Desai?”

  “Yes. Yes, I will!” he cried out, joy filling his heart. And within a few hours he was in possession of his travel arrangements, airline tickets to Islamabad and then to Jalalabad and instructions he was to follow on his arrival. He was to leave in twenty-four hours.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, September 18th

  Al-Kifah’s ersatz headquarters had been surveilled for weeks by U.S. Intelligence. While it would take the Americans twenty-four hours to process the information and share what they felt was necessary with Washington’s British Intelligence folk, it was seen to be in MI6’s best interest to procure their own leads and gather data themselves. It was, as always, a question of competition. Two British minor players had tailed Desai, who was now perfectly situated from an intelligence gathering standpoint. Unfortunately, Mason Desai, thirty-one year old physician and the only person in his family not to have United States citizenship, solely equipped with a strong desire to be a hero, had no idea that he had been planted in the middle of a terrorist recruitment organization by British Intelligence.