In the encroaching darkness there was little evidence of the handsome face and smug smile that had stolen so many maidens’ hearts. His mother had often told him that, with his looks, he would be a heartbreaker and when he was young, he had been only too happy to prove the accuracy of her prophecy. At least, until Fatima. Beautiful, charming, sexy Fatima. At that thought, his heart leapt and then plummeted, his chest feeling as if he had been slammed with a hammer. He winced and then tried to move on the seat, to stir some life into his thighs, numbing against the cool vinyl.
He glanced across the seat toward the long, bulky form of Fadi curled uncomfortably against the door, snoring through a partially open, ugly mouth, his long beard dropping onto the seat below. Yassim could not blame him, he too was bone tired, but he resented Fadi grabbing the sleep denied him. Then he reminded himself that according to the Koran, the man who was able to deny himself the pleasures of this world would be rewarded with delights in the next. He realized, once again, that life had given him far too many opportunities to practice that denial and he groused a weary thanks to Allah.
Angling the visor mirror, he studied the small boy, lying quietly, his head of bristly brown hair sticking out from the edge of the tan blanket. They had said his name was Asim but Yassim did not know the boy. He was a lad who had volunteered--been volunteered, Yassim thought surely--to ride with two of Allah’s soldiers. The Sheik had determined that two men from the Mideast with a young boy would draw less notice from the authorities. The boy, a clever prop in the drama, would be driven back to his home soon after they had reached Cleveland, so Yassim could not get attached to the boy.
Perhaps it was the nest of dark hair lying beyond the edge of the blanket or the whimpered sigh the boy made as he turned toward the seat. Or maybe it was a trick played by the light or even simple exhaustion, but just for a moment, when Yassim stared in the mirror at the boy on the backseat, he could have sworn the figure was Jamal.
Jamal and Fatima. His heart ached at the very thought of their names. He knew it could not be Jamal lying there on the back seat, but for a moment Yassim wanted desperately to believe it was. He was seized by an almost uncontrollable desire to pull the car over, wake the sleeping boy and hold the small body in his arms. The desire gripped him like a sudden fever, and then it passed--he forced it to pass. He glanced out the window and forced his eyes to study the landscapes rushing past. As if reflecting his heart, all was darkness and shadows. Then a brightly lit driveway flew by and he caught sight of a spotlighted American flag. He spat on the floor of the car.
He stole another quick look at the backseat. More than two years ago, he had last held the burnt, blood-smeared body of his four-year-old son and cried. He wept so heavily that he had drenched the small, charred, rag-doll body with his tears as he cradled him that final time.
On that crisp fall morning, Jamal and Fatima had been walking down the Shuqba hill, heading home from the market with fresh fish for him. Johana, the toothless neighbor woman across the street, said she looked up from her sewing and watched Fatima and Jamal playing a counting game on the broken stones of the road. She told him afterwards she never even heard the Israeli gun ships until the helicopters had crested the rise. She heard the swoosh of the two rockets as they were released and sizzled through the cool autumn air. A second later, both missiles struck their target and the building Fatima and Jamal were passing exploded, sending fireballs into the air and raining debris below. After the rockets struck, the explosives inside the building echoed the initial blast with repeated volcanic eruptions of fire engulfing mother and son. Stunned neighbors tried to rush to help, using their own burqas to try to extinguish the burning bodies of the woman and child. But all they could do was drag the now lifeless bodies away from the blazing inferno.
By the time Yassim arrived, it was too late. He could only wail and grieve, and swear revenge. Standing on that scorching pavement, holding Jamal’s limp body in his arms, he made an oath to Allah. American money and technology had built that gun ship, so American children would someday pay. One day American parents would feel his grief, his burning anger. Now he was honored to have been anointed by the Sheik as the instrument of Allah’s revenge.
The sudden blaring of a horn jerked Yassim back to the present and he looked up in time to wrench the steering wheel, sending the car back into his own lane just in time, jostling both passengers. He cursed himself for indulging in such daydreaming. He had important work to do and he would need all his resources to achieve success. Both Fadi and the boy adjusted their positions and then returned to their slumber. Yassim himself took one long, deep breath, then another and began to regain his calm.
He could not believe how smoothly their plans had gone thus far. The Sheik’s genius was in the meticulous planning and coordination. In spite of all the heightened “antiterrorist” efforts of the West, all four members of his team had entered Canada without a hitch. Arriving on different flights, the men had been met by different members of one of the Ontario cells--Yassim himself didn’t know which one--and each had used the few days to effectively establish his identity in Canada.
Mohammed and Hassan joined other Arabs from the Saudi Oil Company and even participated in some of the negotiation talks with Western executives. Fadi, the fawning tourist, had excelled in his role. In his loud, boisterous manner, he made a dramatic fuss in public about the North American “Water Wonder of the World” at Niagara Falls. Yassim himself got to sit in on the opening talks on the World Peace Conference, all the time marveling at the fools and cowards in the gathering. Then each man had disappeared unnoticed and, with help from the Ontario cell, was delivered to the safe house outside Toronto.
From there it had been only a short ride to the marina at Crystal Springs. Just as the Leader had promised, a small boat and captain were waiting for the men and their gear. They boarded and after several rough hours on the choppy lake waters--Fadi got sick twice and vomited compulsively over the rail, all to the jeering of his traveling companions--they arrived at another nondescript marina in Dunkirk, New York. Just like that, they stepped off the deck of the battered cabin cruiser and onto American soil. No border guards, no customs, no searching, no questions.
At the dock the four soldiers had been met by their new “family members.” He and Fadi were joined by the boy, and they were riding together to their next stop in a white Trans Am. The Western woman, Patti, joined Mohammed and Hassan as Mohammed’s wife and the three were following at a discrete distance in a weathered black Chevy Blazer. They had been careful to travel on I-90 only briefly and then had stayed on the smaller state routes.
The entire process had gone so smoothly that, when little Asim had complained of being hungry, Yassim had agreed to stop and get something to eat. From the notes he had memorized, he had remembered that a half-hour down on Route 5 was a place called the Parkway Tavern. This out-of-the-way restaurant, in a small town named Northeast just across the state line in Pennsylvania, was known for its Mideastern menu and, since it was a favorite of many Arab Americans in the area, his group would likely go unnoticed. Even there, though, the two groups were careful not to sit together. Mohammed, Hassan, and the woman sat at stools at the bar eating and smoking, while he, Fadi and the boy took a table in the back. The food, especially the Fattush and the Kefta Skewers, was quite good and the men, who hadn’t eaten since leaving the safe house, had their fill. No doubt the full stomachs were why Fadi and the boy had collapsed so quickly into slumber.
Sighing audibly, Yassim glanced back at the rearview mirror. After they had left the restaurant, the group had turned onto Route 89, a rural route, to travel south through part of Pennsylvania. This road was narrow and wound through the rolling hills, curling around bends like an endless serpent. He studied the headlights in the mirror again. He had memorized the configuration of the Blazer, so he could recognize it quickly. But because the direction of the road ahead kept shifting, Yassim had to alternate his gaze from the road to the mirror and back to the road a
gain. Looking intently at the small mirror, he examined the sets of headlights as the two cars rounded the bend behind him. Suddenly he realized that neither matched the signature of the Blazer lights. The longer he studied the lights behind him, the more certain he became. He fought to control a rising apprehension and made an instant decision.
Sighting a wide driveway off to the left, he turned the wheel sharply and the sports car leaped from the paved road onto the gravel drive. He turned the car in a sharp arc, ignoring Fadi’s muffled complaints and Asim’s whimpered cries as they were tossed about by the sudden maneuver. Within seconds the car made the 180-degree turnaround. Yassim suppressed a desire to speed, alternately watching the road, the rearview mirror and the speedometer. He knew he couldn’t allow a stupid mistake like being caught speeding to put his name and description into some police log. How long had he been traveling without keeping them within range? Yassim cursed himself for not knowing the answer. Like some lazy schoolboy, he had allowed his mind to wander.
He glanced at his odometer, watching the tenths roll by. One mile. Two miles. How far back had he lost them? Had they turned off for some reason? He pushed the car as much as he dared, cautioning himself about the winding road and possible police patrol. Three miles. As he drove, his eyes searched the shoulder of the road, darting back and forth, frantically scanning both sides. Adrenaline shot through his body instantly extinguishing his fatigue.
Just ahead, he noticed a turnoff to the right, heading west. Could they have turned there? He caught a sign with the words, “Findlay Lake, 3 miles” and an arrow pointing east. He hesitated just a second and made an instant decision not to turn off. Four miles, still no sign of them, but he had passed only two other cars on this back road. He thanked Allah for small blessings.
Then, as the “0” of the fifth mile crept past on the odometer, he spotted the Blazer just off the highway, its wheels sitting unevenly on the gravel and mud with a marked car of the Pennsylvania State Police behind it. As he passed, he was alarmed to see that the blue light atop the police cruiser was flashing, but he couldn’t make out the silhouettes of the officer or his own men. Not yet daring to stop, he drove past and followed the road around the bend ahead until the blue strobe disappeared behind him. Checking to be sure there were no cars behind him, Yassim eased the Trans Am across both lanes and onto the left shoulder and beyond onto the soft soil between a pair of denuded trees. He extinguished the lights and barked to Fadi and the boy, “Stay here out of sight!”
Keeping just inside the second row of trees of what he now recognized was an apple orchard, he followed a path parallel to the road to get to where Mohammed and Hassan had been stopped. In the darkness, the flashing blue light made it easy to keep his destination in sight. As he crept through the small growth, a branch, invisible in the dark, almost stabbed his eye. He turned his face quickly and let out a quiet curse as the limb etched a red slice across his chin. He listened intently and at first heard nothing. Then a muffled sound hit his ears and he shuddered. A string of words were uttered in quick Arabic, though he was only able to make out some of what was said. This was followed by another voice in English and he at first thought it must be the policeman, but then heard the squelch of static and realized it was the squad car radio. From the sounds he figured he was in the orchard just opposite both cars and he began to approach, keeping low to the ground.
Before he was through the first row of trees, the shrill voice of Hassan, this time in English, bellowed, “Oh, I’m so sorry! I know we’re supposed to speak in English. Okay, what do you think we should do?”
Mohammed said, “We had better ask Yassim,” and then the satellite phone buzzed alive.
Hassan squealed, “We don’t need--” and, before he could finish, Yassim came through the last of the trees and was upon both men.
“Ask me what?” Yassim asked even before he reached them. Suddenly his eyes stared wide at the large, squat figure of Hassan, one knee on the ground, as he wiped the long, curved blade of his knife on the clothes of the Pennsylvania State trooper. The body lay lifeless, blood pooling from his neck, staining the dirt and grass.
“Allah, save us!” Yassim said between gritted teeth.
Chapter 10
“You know, there are a good many adults who believe you shouldn’t be allowed to read this book!” I announced to my 7th period students that dry autumn Tuesday, holding high a tattered copy of Huckleberry Finn. By the time these teenagers wandered into my room around one o’clock each afternoon, they were usually drowsy, apathetic or antagonistic. I was counting on the final, hoping my ploy might engage or even enrage them. “Several groups have even tried to have this book banned from schools,” I continued, dangling the bait.
“I didn’t know a book could be banned because it’s boring,” offered Brian, angling for laughter and agreement from his peers. He got both. Brian, a blond-haired, blue-eyed jokester, was one of the smartest students in the class but wore a feigned disdain for all things academic like a shield. I knew the truth anyway.
You might not know this but if high schoolers find a book or story too dated, too demanding, or just too far from their own experience, their automatic response is, “It’s boring.” However I’ve found that, with a combination of prodding and taunting, you can hook many adolescents into literature they would at first dismiss. And with this class I was desperate. I hoped I could pull off this little trick with Huckleberry Finn and reel them in.
My gaze wandered to the desk in the back corner of the classroom. Christie, my friend and teaching colleague, smiled at me. The two of us had volunteered to participate in the school’s Peer Coaching program, and this was her first visit to my classroom. I stopped to introduce her briefly to the class and, it took a bit, but I managed to get the students past their visitor. You see, while I don’t think I’m a slouch in the looks department, Christie has the kind of looks my male students delightfully refer to as “hot!” Last week I had overheard Brian claim “Ms. Ferguson looked like the May model in this year’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.” So, after the introduction I had to wait a while till the stir passed and the guys put their tongues back in their mouths. Then, as Christie and I planned, I ignored her and carried on.
“Well, you’ve read about 150 pages so far...” I started again and spotted Heather leaning sideways, ready to mouth something to her neighbor, Kim. Heather and Kim were two female “buds” in the class, using their make-up and jewelry to create cosmetic twins, right down to the six earrings in their right ears. Even their hairdos were black and brown imitations of each other, or rather weak imitations of the latest teen sensation from American Idol, Athena something. And like most of my girls, they were about a hundred times more interested in the guys in class than in anything I’d say. I tolerated it all and even let them sit together because, well, I wasn’t too old to remember what I was like then.
I met the gazes of both girls and went on, chuckling slightly at what they thought was going to be their private joke, “Well, most of us have read about 150 pages.” Letting my glance drift back over the class, I then dropped the lure into the tepid water of Room 124. “Why do you think certain groups might believe you shouldn’t be allowed to read Huckleberry Finn?”
This caught them off guard, just what I wanted. For a long moment my question hung in the air, like a slow bubble waiting to explode. Briefly the twenty-four teenagers were speechless, a beautiful thing when it happens.
“Well, maybe it’s because it’s about slavery?” James offered tentatively. I love James. With his ardent green eyes behind black-framed glasses, he is always ready to offer an answer in his soft-spoken voice. He’s often not right and sometimes completely off base. But he recognized the awkward silence and was eager to fill it.
“That’s a possibility,” I returned, trying to dignify his answer before one of his peers could belittle it. “But I can tell you that these groups don’t have any such concern with students reading other books about slavery, Unc
le Tom’s Cabin, for example. So I think their concern may be something else.”
“It’s ‘cause it’s about a white kid and a black man hangin’ together,” Ted offered more as an assertion than a suggestion. Ted had flaming red hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles across his face. He was from a redneck home and, even though he shared some of the same attitudes, he kept a few black friends mainly, I suspect, to antagonize his parents.
“Why do you think that, Ted?” I challenged.
“Because lots of people have big problems with black and white guys being together, especially when the black guy is the older one. You know, a black guy having ‘influence’ over a white kid.” He winked at me to be sure I couldn’t miss the innuendo.
I didn’t dignify the insinuation with a response. Instead, I asked if anyone else had an idea why some may have wanted this book banned. I strolled down the center of the room and placed my hand on Ted’s shoulder, a light touch with heavy implications, and waited. I was pleased when Jeremy rose to my challenge and lifted his hand hesitantly.
“Before we could say what they didn’t like about the book, wouldn’t it be important to know who wanted it banned?” he asked, absently brushing one long blond bang out of his eyes.
“Very good question, Jeremy,” I said, rewarding him with a brief flash of teeth. “Any ideas who they might be?”
Kristen’s carefully manicured hand came up for the first time. She was a sleepy, petite little thing with a brunette pageboy cut who had quite a good head atop her shapely shoulders. For a change, today she wore a jersey from the Indiana Fever, the women’s professional basketball team. She and I had a silent, though understood, mutual compact. As long as she agreed to continue thinking, I agreed not to betray the secret of her intelligence to the boys. I too remembered what it was like to be smarter than some of the guys you liked. I edged around two clusters of desks till I stood directly in front of her. I read in her now-awake blue eyes a sight most teachers live for--the unmistakable evidence of inspiration. “Kristen?”
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