Escape

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  However, she did know more than that village. There was a world of possibilities for her in America that she could have never pursued in Kenya.

  Here she could still be a good Muslim and go to college and have a career. She could even enjoy art and music in the more liberal Islamic community of the United States.

  Jamal Khalifa wasn't exactly the man of her dreams. She didn't care for his pockmarked face, or worse, that he worked for the imam as one of his "security team." However, after they were formally introduced, he seemed nice enough, so she agreed to go for a chaperoned walk with him to see if they got along. "As long as I don't have to marry him if I don't like him," she told her father.

  "I would rather return to Kenya and fish for the rest of my days than for you to be unhappily married," Mahmoud replied.

  So she and Jamal went for a stroll in Central Park as one of the older women from the mosque stood in for Miriam's mother and followed at a discreet, but visible, distance. Jamal was shy because of his scarred face, but she thought he had pretty eyes and a nice smile. It went better after he started telling her about his dream of maybe owning a business, or even studying to become an imam of his own mosque.

  After the first meeting, she'd agreed to see him again, and after a time the older woman had deemed the escort unnecessary; everyone could see that the couple were growing closer. They were walking one early summer evening in 2002 through the neighborhood where he'd grown up, so that she could visualize a game of stickball or kick-the-can, when he stopped. "Listen," he said. "Do you hear that?"

  At first, she heard nothing, but then in the distance, she heard the first few notes of tinny, happy music, which soon grew louder. "What is it?" she asked.

  "A miracle," he replied with a sly smile. "Look!"

  At first all she saw was a city street at the end of a hot day, but then a white truck appeared with a loudspeaker playing music above the windshield. Yelling with delight, children came running from the stoops and out of the buildings, abandoning their games and rope-skipping to swarm around the truck.

  Laughing like a little boy, Jamal Khalifa pulled her by the hand until they stood at the side of the truck. "Choose one," he insisted, pointing up at the pictures of the various treats.

  At first she demurred, but he wouldn't order for himself until she did. So she pointed to one, mostly because it was pink and pretty. "Strawberry Shortcake and a Drumstick," Jamal told the man inside the truck. He then proudly handed her the ice cream bar.

  It was the most delicious treat she'd ever eaten. By the time she got home that evening, she had made up her mind to marry Jamal. She still didn't like his politicizing of Islam or defense of extremists who talked about jihad. When he tried to defend the attack on the World Trade Center as an act of war, she'd told him about the bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi.

  "Even if it had been a military target, and it was not," she argued, "it killed more Muslims than anyone else, and that is certainly against the teachings of the Qur'an. It was an act by cowards who were picking and choosing and misinterpreting the Qur'an to achieve their own selfish, evil ends. I don't want to marry a martyr; I want a good Muslim husband and good father for my children."

  Occasionally, Jamal had put his foot down as the man of the house, such as when she wanted to send Abdullah to public school and he insisted that he attend the madrasah. But that was his right in accordance with the Qur'an. And he at least had not said no when she mentioned that she might want to attend night classes to get her G.E.D. and possibly even go to college "so that I can help contribute to our family's prosperity."

  However, that might have been because he was struggling to make ends meet. His felony record and lack of education weighed heavily against him. Bankers just laughed at him when he went in to ask for a business loan; they laughed at him again when he asked for a loan to go back to school.

  Over the years since their marriage and the birth of their son, Jamal had grown increasingly bitter. He started spending more time at the mosque, which meant less time looking for a job. That past spring he had begun taking the imam's night classes, and she had welcomed that at first because he told her they were special religious classes. But later she grew suspicious and started asking questions, especially after he started talking about going on jihad. When she noted that his "classmates" were the young radicals from the mosque, he became more secretive. And then there was the night he came home drunk.

  Stumbling in the door, he'd started raving about how "one little mistake" had spoiled everything. He wasn't going to be allowed to participate in some "big plan." As he carried on, he took swigs from a bottle he kept in a brown paper bag. When she tried to take it away from him, he pushed her down. The fight frightened Abdullah, who started crying, but that only seemed to make Jamal angrier. When she got back up and tried to get the bottle again, he hit her.

  When his rage was spent, he fell asleep. Miriam then packed a few belongings and, with Abdullah, left for her father's apartment.

  Mahmoud listened to what had happened and became angry. He grabbed a knife and said he was going to go over to her apartment and slit his son-in-law's throat. Only her pleas stopped him.

  "Perhaps, he has become possessed by jinn," her sister, Ayaan, suggested as she rubbed ice on Miriam's bruised ribs. Jinn were evil spirits who loved to cause problems for humans.

  "No, he is possessed by the hatred of those who corrupt the teaching of the Prophet," her father answered.

  When Jamal arrived at the apartment the next day to speak to her, Mahmoud stood in the doorway and wouldn't let him pass. Tearfully, Jamal tried to apologize, but her father would not listen. "Go tell it to Jabbar; he is the one who set you on this road."

  Then came the terrible day in July when she dropped Abdullah off at school. The mosque was buzzing with fear and questions. A suicide bomber had blown himself up in a synagogue on Third Avenue. No one knew who had done it. "But we'll all be blamed," one woman wailed in the courtyard. "Life was hard enough without this!"

  Miriam was talking to several of the other women when one of Jabbar's bodyguards pulled her aside. "The imam needs to see you," he said, but he offered no other information as he led the way to Jabbar's office.

  Inside the office, Jabbar asked her to take a seat. He said he had important news. "We have learned that Jamal has gone on hajj," he said. "He will be gone for several months, maybe longer."

  "Hajj?" she asked. "Where would he get the money for that?"

  "A scholarship fund established by our friends in Saudi Arabia," Jabbar explained. "A sort of educational fund to help poor Muslims in America take the pilgrimage. It is a great honor, and since the two of you have ... separated ... he felt this was a good time to go."

  "Why didn't he say anything to me?" she asked. "Or say goodbye at least to his son?"

  "Apparently, you haven't been willing to talk to him," Jabbar said. "And it is probably for the best. I believe that after Mecca, he may be seeking martyrdom as a jihadi in Afghanistan or Iraq."

  Miriam didn't know what to say. He had talked about going on jihad, and now he had. She felt tears well up in her eyes but willed them to stay put. She didn't want to cry in front of this bad man.

  "In the meantime, Jamal asked that we look after you, so we have decided that you will be the new receptionist for the mosque," Jabbar said, smiling as if he'd just given her unbelievably good news.

  "I don't want the job," Miriam said flatly. "I think you're an evil man, and this is because of you."

  Jabbar looked at her for a moment with his big bug-eyes blinking angrily, but then he smiled again. "I'm sorry but I really must insist," he said.

  Miriam knew a threat when it was stuck in her face. It made her mad, but she also had to consider her father, son, and sister, who was getting married in September after Ramadan. "As you wish," she hissed.

  Jabbar's smile widened. "A wise choice," he said. "I'm sure we'll get along well together.... And by the way, not a word of this.... Jamal has g
one on hajj.... You're not sure when he'll be returning."

  Then I learned the truth, Miriam thought as she stood outside the dark alley off of Rivington. She felt for the package in her handbag. And now I have to do something about it.

  As she peered into the shadows, she became so frightened that she thought her bladder might empty. But a quick glance down Rivington and the sight of the woman and man who had been following her convinced her that she had no choice. She stepped in and was swallowed by the shadows.

  When Miriam disappeared from sight down Rivington, Malovo sprang forward, worried that she'd lose track of her. She rounded the corner and ran into the enormous belly of the panhandler she'd seen begging from Miriam.

  He was well over six foot, and, she guessed, at least 300 pounds, but even if the man's size hadn't been intimidating, the odor wafting off his body and the multiple layers of filthy clothing would have been more than enough to repulse her. In fact, his whole appearance resembled that of a large, bedraggled bear. The parts of his face that were not covered with hair were dark with grime, and two small, beady eyes completed the metaphor. He held out one enormous paw, while the other supported the hot-dog-sized finger inserted up one nostril.

  "Can u 'pare um change?" the giant mumbled. "Booger 'ongry."

  Malovo's stomach heaved when the finger left his nose and was inserted into his mouth with a loud sucking noise. "Ugh, what's he saying?" she asked Hazzan, trying to sidestep the monster so that she could see Miriam.

  "I think he's asking for money," Hazzan replied. "He says he's hungry." He began to reach inside his pants pocket.

  "What are you doing?" Malovo demanded.

  "The Qur'an teaches us to be kind to beggars. Did not the Prophet, peace and blessings to his name, say, 'Therefore the orphan oppress not; therefore the beggar drive not away?"'

  Malovo's instinct was to poke the idiot in the eye. But she had to rely on him and his ignorant comrades to provide the cannon fodder for the plan, so she held off. "Then give him something and hurry up. Our friend just went into the alley."

  The beast lurched in front of her again. "Come on 'ady, 'pare um change? Booger 'ongry."

  "Get away from me, you filthy animal."

  "Hey!... Fuck shit... don't talk to my ... crap piss ... friend like that," said a voice. The smaller beggar appeared at the other one's side.

  "Get away from me," she repeated.

  "Fuh-fuh-fuh-foreigner, eh?" the little man stammered. "Well ... bitch mother fucker oh boy ... there's no need to talk to people like that; he's just hungry ... eat my ass oh boy."

  Malovo's mouth dropped open and stayed that way. In her career, she'd tortured and killed many men who had screamed profanities in their torment, but she had never heard (or smelled) anything quite like this.

  Her companion came to the rescue. "Here," he said, holding out two dollar bills. "Now let us pass in the name of Allah, the most merciful."

  "Allah eh?" the little man eyed the bills suspiciously.

  "'lah eh?" repeated the hairy man, who reached out and snatched the money before it could be withdrawn, saying " 'ank you." He and his friend let them pass.

  Malovo cursed under her breath as she moved quickly to the alley. "I don't understand why garbage like that is allowed to live. Hopefully, they won't in the new world."

  "Blessed be the..."

  "Shut up," she snarled. "Or I'll cut your tongue out and take it back to that animal for his dinner."

  Hazzan swallowed hard and nodded at the alley. "She went in there?" Malovo didn't answer as she stared into the gloom. The alley might as well have been a mineshaft it was so dark.

  "Go after her," she ordered. "I'll circle around the block and intercept her on the other end."

  Hazzan licked his lips nervously. "Why don't we both just go around and pick her up on the other side?"

  Malovo glared at him. "Are you disobeying me?"

  Hazzan glanced at her and shook his head. Whatever might be in the alley, he figured it couldn't be any more dangerous than Ajmaani. He put his hand up under his sweatshirt and grasped the handgun in his waistband. It made him feel a whole lot braver. "What should I do if I find her?"

  Malovo thought about the question for a moment. She had no proof that the woman was doing anything to betray them; for all she knew, Miriam Khalifa was whoring herself in back alleys to make extra cash. But with only a few days to go, she didn't want to worry about it anymore. "Kill her. But make it look like she was robbed. If you want to rape her that's okay, too."

  Hazzan looked shocked. Bombs and guns and knives were part of jihad. But rape? However, he was not about to question Ajmaani any further. He pulled the gun out and walked into the alley.

  Malovo watched for a minute and then turned to walk around the block. But she hadn't gone far before she heard Hazzan shout something. There was a gunshot followed by a scream. A man's scream.

  Almost immediately upon entering the alley Miriam had regretted it. The darkness and the smell had enveloped her like a grave. She jumped when a voice whispered in her ear. "It's all right, child, I am here."

  "Aalimah?" Miriam asked the dark. Although there was no reply, she was comforted knowing she wasn't alone.

  She walked what she estimated to be halfway down the alley. Something scurried in the dark. Rats, she thought. She looked back in the direction she had come and saw two people, a man and a woman, standing at the entrance, then the man entered.

  Miriam turned to run but a hand went over her mouth and an arm around her waist. Her assailant didn't hurt her, but neither was she able to resist his strength. He pulled her back into what was apparently a back entrance to one of the buildings. Allah, help me, she prayed. I'm going to be raped and murdered.

  The man released his grip around her waist but kept his hand on her mouth, moving around until he was in front of her. She couldn't see his face, though she could tell he was wearing a hood. She started to cry, but when he spoke, his voice was kind and soothing.

  "Hush, sister," he whispered. "You've been followed by an evil woman and her companion. They mean to do you harm. But in case there is any doubt as to who your friends are, God is great."

  Miriam relaxed. Yet another strange character had given the password.

  "Stay here," he said, "while I deal with our visitor. If I don't return, remain in the shadows of this doorway and someone will come for you soon."

  She reached out and caught his sleeve. Odd, but she now thought of him as her protector.

  "I'll be back," he whispered and disappeared into the gloom.

  Miriam thought she saw shadows moving. There was a shout, a flash followed by the loud report of a gun, then a scream.

  She waited until her protector appeared in front of her again. "It is finished. We are safe for the moment."

  Her protector led her farther into the alley until they reached a handrail. "Careful, these are steps leading down," he said. "Don't be afraid, friends are waiting for you. When you reach the bottom, knock three times on the door."

  The man turned to leave but was overcome by a fit of coughing—a heavy, wet sound. "Are you all right?" she asked, as he caught his breath and appeared to wipe his mouth on his sleeve.

  '"The earth is suffocating. Swear to make them cut me open, so that I won't be buried alive,"' he replied, then coughed again so hard that she could tell his whole body shook.

  "I don't understand."

  The man barked a laugh. "Neither do I, Miriam," he said. "But never mind. It was just something Frederic Chopin said about a similar medical condition. But I must leave the rest of this conversation to another time. Please, go to the bottom of the stairs—watch your step—you'll find a door there. Knock three times."

  "Wait," she said. "You know my name. What is yours?"

  "David."

  "Thank you, David," she said, but he was already gone.

  Miriam felt her way to the bottom of the stairwell until she found the door. She knocked three times.

  T
here was a grating sound as a deadbolt was pulled back from its rusty berth and then the sound of a latch being lifted. She braced herself for some new fright, but was pleasantly surprised when the door creaked open, bathing her in the soft light of the interior, and she was greeted by the smiling face of the translator, Marie Smith.

  At the sound of the scream, Malovo had run back to the alley as other pedestrians who'd been passing by or were near at hand gathered at the entrance.

  "Did you hear that?" a young woman asked. "It sounded like a gunshot!"

  "Yeah, and how about that scream?" her male companion said. "I about shit."

  "Somebody should call the cops," said an older man who was out walking his dachshund.

  "I already did."

  "It's too late for whoever was screaming," said a teenager with a skateboard under one arm. "That was sick, dude."

  Malovo waited to see if Hazzan would return. When he didn't, she considered going in herself, but something about the scream had unnerved her. It was a feeling she'd never experienced before in her murderous career.

  At the sound of the police car siren, she backed away. She didn't know what had happened to Hazzan, but if she ever saw Miriam Khalifa again, she'd torture her until she found out.

  "Jambo," Marie Smith said.

  "Sjambo," Miriam replied. They entered a comfortable, if plain and apparently windowless, basement room. Standing in front of a chair was the man she'd seen from the security firm. He held out his hand. "Espey Jaxon. Thanks for coming. I'm sorry about the trouble. Please, have a seat."

  Miriam gratefully accepted the tea Marie had prepared on a tiny stove in the corner of the room.

  "I think you know that you were followed by someone from the mosque," Marie said. "If one of the people, a woman, is who we think, you are in great danger."

  Miriam nodded. "I know," she said.

  "What about your son and the rest of your family?"

  "My son is with my father, who has made arrangements to go visit friends after the start of Ramadan. My sister will stay with the man she intends to marry. They are very modem."