Jihadi

by Yusuf Toropov

  36 In Which I Experience a Period of Great Restlessness

  At key intersections, the streets were choked with white walkers, all of them gathering for the latest in a series of protests against the anticipated release of the American to the U.S. government. A popular sign held aloft by hundreds of white-clad arms read: The American Must Die.

  ‘That’s all they ever call him. Maybe you know his real name.’ The driver’s eyes were uneven in the rear-view mirror.

  Not quite a joke, not quite a question.

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘The American’s.’

  Fatima looked at him, bit her lower lip. What had made the driver so interested in the details of this case?

  Then he laughed and looked back to the road. Fatima resettled her facial veil, which had slipped very slightly when she turned her head to look at him.

  ‘But maybe you do know his name.’

  ‘No,’ Fatima lied.

  They pulled up. She exited the car and made her way up to Ra’id’s office.

  Ra’id informed her she was not to worry. Her driver was a relative of his and had passed a background check. Then he told her about the unfortunate leak and about the importance of her meeting with the American today. Time was an issue now.

  With less than fifteen minutes to prepare, Fatima passed loathsome, talkative Murad Murad in the hallway, and ignored his casually obscene greeting. She could feel him appraising her body even after she turned the corner. She took a moment in the empty corridor, covered her mouth with her hand and steadied herself.

  Distracted – her stomach had nearly rebelled – she made her way downstairs, toward the room she had secured for her private discussion with Thelonius. When she entered it, she sighed and shook her head.

  It was, alas, the very same room in which he had been tortured. The only space available. She left, made her way back upstairs and arranged for him to enter it by a different door.

  cxlix. alas

  Track seventeen. All of what she says is meaningless. Too tired. Turning the CD player off now. Must rest.

  cxl. door

  Astonishing. Past three a.m., and still you will not calm yourself. I have tried every conceivable position. None permit me any respite from your restless dance. All there is to do is work on this. In silence. Far past weary. I am a door at which you beat, but through which you refuse to walk. Let Mother sleep, good gravy.

  37 In Which the Restlessness Continues, and Nothing of Consequence Appears in the Manuscript until Quite Late in the Chapter

  ‘Thelonius, this is your time.’

  That voice he knew. That face obscured by its gold cloth, familiar but a matter of imagination now.

  The same dreary, windowless basement where he and Fatima had first met – if ‘met’ was the word. The same smell of stale, damp cement, the same fluorescent hum. The dead guy telling this story attests to the unlikely reality that the fluorescent lights in the interrogation rooms of the Islamic Republic were somehow tuned to the same brittle E-flat hum of the very cell he now occupies at Bright Light. But instead of a board where Thelonius had been pinned like an insect there were now two wooden chairs on either side of a folding-legged card table. Set upon the table were a dozen or so sheets of blank paper and a gold pen. Fatima occupied one of the chairs. When Morale Specialist shut the door, Thelonius limped to the other seat and placed the Koran on the table. She glanced at it.

  Thelonius said, ‘Hello, Fatima.’

  Eyes, icy, right back on him. ‘Miss A––, please.’

  ‘And I’m Thelonius?’

  ‘If you want assistance from me, you are, yes.’

  He nodded. ‘Miss A––, then. Like kindergarten.’

  ‘Like a prisoner meeting with an attorney.’

  Already. Irritating him again.

  ‘What’s our situation, Miss A––?’

  ‘Your situation.’

  ‘Fine. What’s my situation?’

  ‘We agreed to be honest with each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That of a dead man.’

  A chill ran through him, settled into his vertebrae. ‘Meaning? Worse than yesterday?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A story broke this morning in one of the more strident opposition newspapers identifying you as Davis Raymonds, spy, and detailing the murder charges against you. Someone in this building talked.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Irrelevant. You are once again topic A in this city. The subtopics are blasphemy and murder. And the assault on my village. Someone named Abu Islam is calling for a march on the U.S. embassy tomorrow. All about keeping you from going home.’

  His chest tightened. His fists clenched. Another embassy melt-down. This time about him.

  ‘What do we do?’

  Her eyebrows went up. We? And down again.

  ‘You repent. I am to type and deliver your signed letters to the families personally. It would be good for us to resolve all of this today.’

  ‘Why today?’

  ‘The people who run the paper that broke this story…’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They have unintentionally accelerated your schedule. They call themselves the Defenders of God, and their newspaper is known as God Defended. The editors have decided that Abu Islam is the man of the hour. They like to put his image on the front page. A month ago, no one knew who this Abu Islam was. We still don’t know who he is, but now he’s apparently the “infallible deliverer of the Republic”.’ When she made quote marks with her fingers, it was like talking to a teenager at the mall.

  ‘He believes you’re being held at the U.S. embassy.’

  ‘So much for infallibility.’

  ‘His aim is to surround the embassy with two hundred thousand people tomorrow. The prime minister’s office has moved up your court date so it can occur before this demonstration. The trial will take place at four this afternoon.’

  Six hours.

  ‘Half of the government, the half that’s well connected with itself, wants to avoid any further complications with the Americans. They want you out of the country before that demonstration takes place. The other half, the half that reads God Defended, wants you dead this week. Today, preferably. The imam who will be hearing your case is aligned with neither side.’

  ‘Six hours.’

  ‘Yes. These two factions are playing chess, with you as a pawn. I have been assigned to help secure your acquittal. Get you off the board. Alive. Calm down, please.’

  He unclenched his hands. ‘Less than six hours now, with all our talking.’

  She cast a wary eye his way.

  He said: ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘This imam will convict you of both blasphemy and murder unless you do exactly as I say.’

  Thelonius swallowed, rubbed his hands together. Just Get Started.

  ‘Fine. What do I do?’

  The blue eyes – they were, again, all swimming-pool blue – settled into a cold, appraising stare. No fear. All business.

  ‘Your employers, those busy men at the Directorate, have identified a way out of all this for you, and it is just clever enough to work. I suppose it was your backup plan. I suppose you already know what it is.’

  Thelonius shook his head. ‘No idea.’

  She glanced again at the little Koran he had brought with him. It sat there on the table, a silent participant in the conversation.

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘I have no clue what they’ve come up with,’ Thelonius said. ‘That’s the truth. I said I would tell you the truth and I did. Now, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Here is the scenario. You send off the three convincing, repentant letters that we write here, and your government pays the blood money with the agreement of the families. You remember that part, I think. That vacates the murder charge.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then comes the clever part, the part your employers cabled to my superio
r. In court, you make a public statement of remorse and you follow up that performance by reciting the profession of faith, accepting Islam as your religion.’

  An odd sensation, the feeling of a trickling, gaining force, of inevitability, of something nearly bursting under pressure, gathered in Thelonius’s chest. By the time she spoke again, it was as though a foot or so of water were surging through open hallways.

  ‘That would clear you of the blasphemy charge you incurred upon admission here. Clever, yes?’

  Thelonius felt the waves in his chest rising, rushing harder.

  ‘I said, that’s clever, isn’t it?’

  Thelonius nodded.

  ‘But there’s a logistical challenge we would face in implementing it, Thelonius. Something none of those clever Directorate men predicted.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I believe,’ Fatima said, ‘that it would be a mortal sin for me to help you make a false profession of faith. And I am not going to hell if I can help it, Thelonius.’

  There was a flickering shadow, and the sound of something passing overhead.

  Sergeant USA landed in near-silence on two sets of outstretched boot-toeguards, the great red-white-and-blue Expand-A-Shield strapped to his outstretched left arm. He found his balance with absurd ease, executed a smart forward somersault, curled into a ball and set up secure watch from the corner of the interrogation room, peering over the top of his shield. Fatima pretended not to notice. Morale Specialist inspected his fingernails.

  ‘I would let you die here rather than commit a sin like that,’ she said.

  The water kept rushing, breaking closed windows now, flattening doors, erasing doorways, coursing down the halls, pounding past everything in its path. It roared and cascaded and drove and pushed its way through every gate and every alley of his heart.

  Sergeant USA said: ‘Tell her to go straight to hell, kid.’

  Thelonius must have fallen silent for longer than he should have, because then she said, ‘Where do you want to go, Thelonius?’

  His skin tingled. ‘I don’t know.’

  The eyes: Decide, then.

  The various blues in her eyes softened until certain, tiny compartments of the iris held deep reservoirs of hazel.

  ‘Once you’re sure you want to say something, once your intention is good, just say it. Speak Justice. Come what may.’

  Thelonius grabbed the arms of his chair with both hands.

  ‘I woke up from a bad dream last night trying to run,’ Thelonius said, ‘trying to physically run out of my bed, but my legs wouldn’t move. I was locked in my own body.’

  Fatima whispered something low. It wasn’t in English, and he didn’t ask her to translate it or repeat it.

  ‘Raghead doubletalk,’ Sergeant USA hissed from the corner. ‘She’s a machine. Take her out.’

  ‘I think I might be going to hell,’ Thelonius said. ‘I honestly don’t know if I’m a Muslim or not. I might be. I don’t know.’

  And it was true. At that moment, he didn’t. He didn’t know anything for sure. He felt only the rushing of a great river in his heart gathering force, a flood getting longer and stronger.

  Thelonius said: ‘Don’t take that veil off, okay?’

  Her ‘Okay’ soothed him, and not just because it reminded him that she was an American. She, too, wanted him to keep his wits about him.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, kid,’ came the voice from the corner. ‘Mission-sensitive information stays inside the team.’

  ‘I want to know what happened on Malaika Street,’ Fatima said.

  ‘How’s it feel to want, sister?’ said Sergeant USA.

  Thelonius drew a deep breath. Let it out again. And nodded.

  ‘Wha–??!’ Sergeant USA spun around. ‘We’ve been hit by a LIVING BATTERING RAM!’

  As Sarge turned to fight off the Mutant Machines, Thelonius began to talk.

  cxli. began to talk

  Those secrets T revealed were far more damaging than he admits. A second Tums tablet appears to have distracted the insurrection at last. We are calming down again.

  38 In Which I Wonder Whether I Have Finally Caught a Break

  Mike Mazzoni, having parked outside the alley and used the mounted bullhorn to issue the order to halt, approached the scrawny, terrified motherfucker who had pelted his vehicle with rocks.

  The staff sergeant held aloft Hajji, the standard-issue M16 that had MIKE painted on its grip. Hajji fired into the air a 5.56 x 45 millimeter NATO cartridge, an image of which Mike Mazzoni now bore on his right hand, in the same spot the pentagram occupied on his left.

  He shouted, ‘Enemy fire. Stay in the vehicle.’

  Dayton ignored this and followed behind. The others stayed in the vehicle.

  ‘He’s scared. That’s enough,’ Dayton said.

  ‘Fuck you, Bobbler,’ Mike Mazzoni shouted. ‘On the ground, doggie! Let me hear you bark! Let me hear you say WOOF WOOF!’

  The kid did nothing. He only looked back, blank, having reached the old brick wall at the end of the alley. Too sheer to climb, too high to jump.

  ‘Don’t do it, Mike.’

  Mike Mazzoni came within three paces of the kid and used the muzzle of the rifle to push him downward, onto his knees. The kid seemed empty with fear, light with it, about to float away. His chest heaved. He put his hands on top of his head without being asked to.

  ‘You know goddamn well what I’m telling you to do, bitch. Say WOOF. Say WOOF WOOF, Jimmy Two.’

  The kid tried to bark, but his throat was too dry.

  ‘What’s my name?’ Mike Mazzoni demanded.

  The kid said nothing. His lower lip was trembling.

  ‘Don’t do it, Mike,’ Dayton said, louder this time.

  ‘What’s my name, asshole?’ And Mike Mazzoni pounded his own chest and used his face to form a question mark. The kid’s expression shifted, as though he finally understood. He nodded. Mike Mazzoni said again: ‘Hey, asshole. What’s my name?’

  ‘America,’ said the kid, his lower lip still out of control. ‘America, thank you. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Wrong, asshole,’ said Mike Mazzoni. ‘My name is Allah.’ And he pounded his chest again. ‘Allah!’

  The kid’s face was pale now.

  ‘No, Mike,’ said Dayton.

  cxlii. No

  No no no no no. I thought we had done it. Thought I had in fact caught a break. I had hoped you were asleep. I even started toward the bed. Now you are kicking again. Four eleven.

  39 In Which You Object to an Insult

  ‘So what do we do?’ Thelonius asked.

  ‘You say what happened and I write it down. I know you don’t want a recording. So: You talk. I write, fast as I can. I type it all up and I bring it back to you to sign.’

  ‘About Islam, I mean,’ Thelonius said. ‘What do we do about that?’

  cxlii. About Islam

  The manuscript’s great moment of betrayal. When I read those words aloud just now, I felt you shudder, as if in protest.

  She remained a moment without speaking. Then she said, quickly: ‘Well, how much do you know about Islam?’

  How much did he know? He breathed. The big current rushed stronger inside.

  ‘I know everything we do can be worship, given the right intention. I know Muslims worship the Creator and not the creation. I know a man will only have what he strives for.’

  All he could say. Maybe that was enough. His heart bursting. Water everywhere. His eyes wet. Maybe he would not go to hell after all.

  ‘Do you know what our Prophet, peace be upon him, brought?’

  ‘The Koran.’

  She leaned in and studied him. ‘Where did he get it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Don’t know.’ Hard to breathe.

  ‘No?’ As though she were talking to a small boy.

  ‘Angel,’ he said as he wept. ‘It was an angel. Gabriel.’ She gave him a clean handkerchief, whic
h he used and pocketed.

  She opened the Koran and showed him the part about being guided to the straight path. It was at the very beginning, and everything in the book was in English and Arabic. You could read the English. The Arabic had colours: white with flecks of blue and hazel, like her eyes, marking some of the pronunciation. He looked at the Arabic, then read the English.

  She asked him if he wanted to become a Muslim. He said he still didn’t know. He really didn’t.

  He said he knew there were things he regretted in his life.

  She asked him if he had had anything to do with the flechette attack on the village of D—.

  cxliv. attack

  Darling. You and you alone know my troubles. You cannot possibly mean to shred me from within. Let Daughter rest.

  He couldn’t talk for a time. Then he said:

  ‘Yes.’

  He asked her if she would pray for him.

  Sergeant USA flung his Expand-A-Shield at a trio of Mutant Machines. The shield skidded across three metallic android metal heads.

  PLOOF. THWOCK. KA-THOK.

  Fatima said a prayer: Lord, grant him forgiveness and salvation.

  He told her he was one of twelve people in a working group who had signed off on the flechette plan. He had had misgivings about the target. He had made a note to push the project leader on the accuracy of the intelligence the plan’s attack data was based on. He never did that. He wondered now whether he had wanted the project leader to fail. Even if that meant people dying who shouldn’t die.

  The project leader was a man named Dick Unferth. He knew this man.

  Fatima was breathing too hard. She suspected there were tears in her eyes. When she saw him looking at her, she looked down and started writing.