Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  “I’m part of a counterterrorism unit. Or at least I was until tonight. The Hand of Allah hit us hard, in Paris. Jack and I made it out with just this key.”

  “This is incredible,” Faisal said. He smirked. “Surely this is a joke. A prank. And I’ve fallen for—”

  “Believe me, I wish it were,” she said.

  “So you’re not Muslim?”

  “I am Muslim, but this isn’t about religion. Religion is just an excuse these radicals use. You are part of our community. You should know that.”

  “Of course,” he said. It was almost an apology.

  Jack thought of all the heartache the U.S. Congress got for its radicalization hearings of American Muslims. Dammit—a lot of ordinary folks did know more than they let on.

  “Look,” Sara told him, “I’m sorry to spring this on you but we really do need your help.” She waved the key in front of his face. “Will you try to decrypt this, or not?”

  He looked at the floor, at a photograph on his desk, at the floor again, then at Sara. He took a long, slow breath. “If I do as you ask, who’s to say that the next knock on my door won’t be the Hand of Allah? I have a wife and young boy back home.”

  “No one knows we’ve come here, and there’s no reason they should. You have my promise that this will remain between us. You, Jack, and me.”

  Still, he hesitated.

  “We really do need your help, Faisal,” she went on. “The Hand of Allah is planning an attack. A massive one, and that can only be bad for all of us.”

  “Not just Muslims,” Jack added. “We’re talking about the future of Western Civilization here. Your own son’s future.”

  Faisal still looked torn. Jack wasn’t sure whether he’d help or kick them out. Apparently, Faisal wasn’t sure, either. But then he took the USB key from Sara and got to his feet, moved to his laptop on the table.

  He pushed the key into a slot and waited for the file system to recognize it. Then he called up the e-mails and studied them.

  Time crawled. Jack was tired and he felt sleep encroaching, his eyes shutting. He may even have drowsed off. He didn’t know how much later it was when Faisal finally spoke.

  “This is very sophisticated,” the young man said. “I have some code decryption software that might help, but even with that it could take hours to break this.”

  “But it’s possible?” Sara asked.

  “If the software can ferret out the proper keys, yes. But I offer no guarantees.” He paused. “You swear to me no one knows you’re here?”

  “In the name of Allah,” she said.

  He studied her carefully, as if weighing her sincerity. Then he slowly nodded. “You may as well make yourselves comfortable. We are in for a long night.”

  * * *

  Sara was asleep on the sofa, Jack slumped in the armchair across from her, only half awake, when Faisal said, “I know who you are, you know.”

  That got Jack’s attention. He pulled himself upright unsure what to expect.

  Faisal sat at the dining table, reading one of his textbooks. A clock on the wall said it was approaching two A.M. The decryption software had been running on the laptop for close to an hour, numbers and symbols skittering across its screen.

  Faisal looked up from his book. “It took me a while to remember you. I saw your photograph in the newspapers some time ago. There was an article about the home secretary banning you from travel to this country. You’re an American television host.”

  Jack shrugged. “Close enough.”

  “I remember because we talked about you at the college. About the things you’ve said, your hatred of Muslims. Your desire to kill a hundred million of us.”

  Jack didn’t like the direction this was heading. “That was taken completely out of context. I don’t hate all Muslims.”

  “Just a few, then?” It was an accusation, not a question. “I saw the mistrust in your eyes when you first looked at me.”

  “You have to understand my perspective,” Jack said. “There are a lot of radicals out there. Like the Hand of Allah. People who want to destroy America.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I agreed to help you and Sara. But don’t you see that when you say such hateful things, it makes men like me feel as if you’re talking about us as well.”

  “I understand, but it’s a very delicate balance. And I’m sure you have even more to fear from radicals than I do.”

  “You’re a hundred percent right about that.”

  He was quiet a moment as he closed his book and stared at the laptop, watching the software do its magic. Then he said, “But it isn’t just the radicals. My mother is Indian, and my father is Pakistani, and our extended family is a mix of many different beliefs. Some are liberal Muslims, and they may well be the worst curse there is.”

  “Worse than those who want to kill people? Bomb them?”

  “I don’t condone such actions, and I never will. But the liberals are nearly as dangerous in their own way. People who think that pornography and degeneracy and gay marriage are normal, acceptable. To my mind, that’s a bigger threat to the stability of Pakistan and the world than anyone can imagine.”

  Jack relaxed a bit and had to stifle a smile. He almost felt as if he were in a bar back home, talking American politics with Tony or the Reb.

  “When I’m not at school,” Faisal said, “I work in a mobile phone store. There’s another man who works there, a fundamentalist Christian, and we’ve had many conversations about our beliefs. And when it comes to social values, family values, we’re in total accord. We agree on almost everything with regard to how life should be led.”

  The laptop beeped and he checked the screen, then typed in a quick entry and started it running again.

  “The point I’m trying to make to you,” he said, “is that there are many varieties of Muslim, just as there are Catholics or Jews. There are Muslims who are not religious, yet use Islam as a political weapon. They have no interest in following the teachings, yet they’re willing to kill for their own self-advancement. Do you realize that in some of our Muslim schools—right here in England—they’re teaching young students how to properly chop off the hands of thieves?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wish I were. It’s right there in their textbooks.” He paused, clearly disturbed by the thought. “But there are other Muslims, like me, who are very religious yet have no taste for violence, no desire to harm anyone. While I may detest what the liberals believe, and think that their view of society is dangerous, I don’t want to hurt or convert them, I simply want to be left alone. There are many of us who feel that way.”

  “And how do you feel when one of these radicals sets off a bomb?”

  “Just as frightened as you do. Just as terrified.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Point taken,” Jack said.

  “What I want to stress to you is that when you go on television and speak of Muslims, you should be very careful to separate us, not lump us all together.”

  “That’s true, but this isn’t one sided, you know. How do you think it feels when Americans are all seen as infidels?”

  “Those who say such things aren’t speaking for me,” Faisal told him. “All I really want is peace throughout the world. That’s all any true Muslim wants. We believe in the blessed words of all of the prophets, from Moses to Jesus. We respect others and their religions, and all we ask is that they do the same in return.”

  Jack knew all of this, of course. But it didn’t hurt to have a face to attach to it. He had stereotyped Faisal, mistrusted him, the moment he’d walked in the door. And he regretted that.

  “That’s good to hear,” Jack said. “And you’re right. I will be more careful.”

  Faisal nodded, satisfied to have had his say. He rose from his chair and gestured to the laptop. “This will take some time and I need to sleep. I’ll check its progress in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Faisal. I know you didn’t have to hel
p us, and I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  Faisal gestured to Sara stretched out on the sofa. “She looks comfortable there, but you can’t sleep in that chair. I have a spare bedroom for when my family arrives. There’s a bed. You are free to use it.”

  Then he stepped into the hallway and disappeared.

  29

  Exhausted as he was, Jack couldn’t sleep.

  It was nice to be on a mattress again, and have the warmth of a working radiator, but he spent the next two hours unable to stop thinking.

  There were big thoughts. He was unable to put aside the pieces of the puzzle, the disaster waiting for so many people if he failed. His tired brain told him to drop the whole thing in the lap of the FBI or the CIA but he didn’t dare. For one thing, they probably wouldn’t believe that “wacko” alarmist Jack Hatfield. For another, by the time that machine got into motion and up to speed, the event could well be in their rearview mirror.

  There were smaller thoughts. He wept inside for his watch, violated by Swain and necessarily discarded like so many other parts of his life. He kept telling himself that it was only a watch, that he’d always have his memories, the good and the bad. It was like death. Be happy for the time you were together, the memories you built, rather than mourn the future that was never guaranteed.

  Yet that watch had brought him comfort so many times over the years. A sense of calm. There was nothing that could ever replace it, and he cursed Swain for using him, for knowing instinctively that Jack would never leave something so valuable behind and using that knowledge against him.

  Against all of them.

  He remembered the violence and death that had descended on that apartment house and was overwhelmed by survivor’s syndrome. He took no solace in his own relative comfort and security. Despite his admonitions that Sara not blame herself for what had happened, Jack couldn’t fight off his own guilt. People had died because of his failure to realize he’d been used. And it was quite possible that many more would die before they saw an end to this.

  “Stop it,” Jack finally said through his teeth. “You’re going to save lives!”

  It was a tragic corruption of his comment about preferring the death of a hundred million Muslims to a hundred million non-Muslims. The lives of dozens of people had to be surrendered in the hope of sparing millions more.

  That was the math of modern-day antiterror activities. It was only a waste if he failed. That kept returning him to the biggest thought of all:

  “The infidels will soon see destruction that will make 9/11 seem like child’s play.”

  Operation Roadshow, coming to a city near you.

  When? How? That question had yet to be answered.

  Jack was finally starting to drift off when he heard the faint flush of a toilet down the hall. A moment later a silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway—Sara, barely visible in the light from the window.

  “You left me alone,” she said softly.

  “You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Probably happy to be rid of me for a while.”

  “Never,” he told her.

  She came into the room. “I said some terrible things to you last night. Sometimes I speak without thinking.”

  “You’ve already apologized for that, even though you didn’t need to. You had a right to be upset. We both did. Nobody should ever have to see what we saw.”

  She closed the door behind her now, then moved to a small television in the corner and turned it on, tuning it to an Arab station, which was playing only Arabic music at the moment. Jack wasn’t sure what she was up to but he didn’t protest when she came over to the bed and lit the scented candle that was sitting on the nightstand. Her long brown hair was highlighted against the window and he saw a light snow falling outside.

  He didn’t know if he should trust this, or her motives. It didn’t matter. He instantly felt himself stirring.

  “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she said, then reached a hand under the back of her T-shirt and unfastened her bra, dropping it to the floor. Her breasts shifted, reacting instantly to the brush of the fabric.

  He didn’t look away this time. “Neither do I.”

  “I want to forget for a while, Jack. Can you help me do that?”

  “You have no idea how much I’d like to try.”

  He hadn’t bothered to take off his clothes before lying on top of the bed, and she came to him, reaching for his belt and unbuckling it. She unfastened his pants and pulled them away, freeing him, then took him in her hand, gently kneading him as she leaned forward and kissed his lips.

  Then she pulled away, whispering softly against his cheek. “Make me forget, Jack. Please make me forget.”

  As he drew her nearer and removed her T-shirt and panties, she began to moan deeply and loudly. Loudly and deeply. In the midst of their heat, such a state of abandon was reached that the normally voyeuristic Jack, who liked to watch himself make love, actually fell from the bed onto the hot radiator. But, like the Indian fakirs who can be on a bed of nails without later showing puncture marks, Jack did not scorch or burn, nothing visible remaining except a small soreness days later.

  Once he was inside her, she began to cry and shudder in a series of small convulsions. He had never been with a woman who reacted like this and was both surprised and excited by her abandon.

  Her cries became veritable screams as she moaned, and her eyes became glassy with passion. As Jack continued to bring Sara to an increasingly greater state of tension and release, tension—a violent begging for release and then the convulsive wave—her screaming became threatening.

  He tried to quiet her by putting his hand over her mouth while continuing to stroke with his loins and lips.

  “Quiet, quiet,” he tried to command hoarsely. “Faisal will hear you.”

  He reached for her T-shirt and couldn’t believe himself as he pressed it over her mouth, holding it down hard against her lips by pressing it against the sheets, one hand on each side of her face.

  Their hips were in perfect synchrony and she continued her cries and screams, now muffled beneath the shirt, as Jack made love to her as he had never made love before. Sara bucked and arched and was in a world he could never see.

  Then it was over and they collapsed onto the bed, sweating, chests heaving. Sara rolled toward him and snaked a hand across his chest as she nuzzled his neck.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

  She smiled, kissed his neck. “It couldn’t have been that long. We barely know each other.”

  “This’ll sound crazy,” he said. “But I think I’ve wanted you most of my life. Even before I knew who you were.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” she said, then moved atop him, reaching a hand down to take hold of him again. He put his arms around her, running his own hand along her spine, brushing his fingertips across her flawless skin—

  —until he felt something there and suddenly stopped: the long thin puckered flesh of a scar, just above her right hip. He hadn’t seen or felt it before, had somehow missed it in the darkness and the heat of the moment.

  “What’s this?” he said, before he realized the words were out of his mouth.

  She stiffened against him now and he knew he’d made a mistake. She rolled away from him and stared at the dark ceiling, as all of his efforts to make her forget vanished in that instant.

  She seemed to go away for a while, lost in a memory, then said, “You asked what happened to me. What made me join Brendan and the others.”

  “I’m sorry, Sara. Really. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  She turned toward him and ran her hand along the side of his face. “I do want to tell you. I want you to know everything there is to know about me.”

  He studied her. “I’m listening.”

  It took her a moment to gather herself. “When I was a young girl in Yemen,
I was just like Abdal al-Fida. A true believer. I think that’s why it was so easy for me to convince him that we were kindred spirits. I knew that fervor, that hatred. It was a hatred that had been nurtured in me by my own father.” She paused. “But I was female, and sickly, and when my brother Kafir was born all of my father’s hopes for a great soldier of Allah landed on him.

  “But Kafir was an unusual child. Intelligent, very wise for his age. And he was a disappointment to my father because he didn’t share our passion. He was always questioning us. Why did we believe the things we did, when a careful reading of the Koran showed that it clearly preached peace?”

  Tears filled her eyes now. “My father beat him, but Kafir never gave in. Never compromised his own beliefs. And I found myself coming to admire him for it.

  “When I turned seventeen,” she continued, “I got very sick. One of my kidneys failed and the other required regular dialysis, and it was clear to the doctors that I needed a transplant. Neither my father nor my mother were a match, and the thought of going to a thirteen-year-old boy seemed wrong somehow. But Kafir volunteered—insisted on taking the test—and when the results came back it turned out that he was the perfect donor.

  “Two weeks later I had this scar, this gift from my brother. Without him, I wouldn’t be here.”

  She paused again, as she wiped her tears with her forearm. “A year went by and both of us had grown strong again, bound together not just by blood, but by flesh as well. Then, on a warm afternoon, Kafir left school early one day. Call it fate or coincidence or simply bad luck, but as he walked past a synagogue a car parked in front of it exploded, taking half the building and my brother along with it.”

  “My God,” Jack said.

  “No,” Sara told him. “Not God. Not Allah. This was simply the work of men, men like my father whose hatred was so strong that it took the life of an innocent young boy. A boy who had more potential, more nobility, in his small body than any of them would ever understand.”

  Jack held her as she sobbed. Her tears were warm and dear against his chest. As much as their lovemaking, that gift of trust was precious.