“Well?”
Not knowing how long he had been distracted, Rashid stuttered, “Uh-umm-that is..uh...” Then as quickly as he could, the teen recovered and responded, finally aware of the area of the diagram the man was indicating. “That end of the building is the cafeteria, where the students eat lunch.”
“Where do the teachers eat?”
“They have a room next to the cafeteria,” the youth said, his finger on a space next to the rectangular block with the C.
“When do the students go to the cafeteria?”
“Uh...I don’t know,” the teen faltered and then went on, ”we get sent to lunch in two groups. The first around 11:15 and the second about twenty minutes later, I think.”
“Are all the students in this eating area at the same time?” Yassim asked.
“Well, like I said, we come in at different times, but yes, for a few minutes, around 11:30 I think, Group A is just moving out as my group gets in line.”
For a while, the cell leader said nothing, pondering the answer.
“Okay...and this area with these x’s?” the older man continued, indicating the pie-shaped area attached to the end of the building design.
“That’s a balcony that is connected to the cafeteria,” Rashid explained, “ and I drew the x’s to represent the benches and chairs on the balcony.”
“Benches and chairs?”
“I have been told that students sit out there at lunch and after school in good weather.”
For a moment, Yassim stopped again as if considering options, then he asked, “And beyond this balcony?”
“There is the water they call Lake Harold,” Rashid replied. “And at the other end of the water is the HBE prison.”
“Very good.” The cell leader nodded. Glancing up from the diagrams for the first time, his eyes bored into the teenager’s. “Tell me about these people.”
“Who?” answered Rashid, his voice faltering for the first time.
“The teachers, the students, those in charge. What are they like? How will they respond?”
“Uh, I’m not sure how to describe them.” Seeing the impatience in his leader’s face, he continued. “The teenagers are quite spoiled. They all have places to live and plenty to eat, but all they do is complain.”
“Complain?”
“Yes, complain about the food and their school work. They do not respect their parents or other elders.”
“And the teachers and others in charge tolerate this disrespect?”
“Most of the time the students complain when the elders cannot hear. But, yes, sometimes the elders hear it and ignore them.”
“Do you think they will be brave when the time comes?” Yassim scratched his stubble. “Do you think the young men will show courage?”
“No, I don’t think so. Some of the students talk tough. I have been threatened several times. But I found that most of their threats are just empty bragging. Most of the time the teachers hide behind the principal and threaten to throw out any offending student. They are not allowed to use violence on their students.”
“They do not beat the students for misbehavior or disrespect?”
“No. They cannot put a hand on a student. I have learned that it is against their law.”
“The cowardice of this society is incredible. How have you been treated?” Yassim asked.
“About as I was told to expect. Most of the students either ignore me or treat me with contempt. They often whisper as I walk by. They think I cannot hear but many times I do.” Rashid waited a beat and went on. “I can tell that most teachers seem to harbor some kind of suspicion toward me.”
“You think the teachers may suspect something?”
“No, it’s not that,” Rashid started again. “Even though they talk about accepting all students, deep down the teachers are all racist and prejudiced against me and as a result don’t trust me ... all except one teacher.”
“One?”
“Yeah, I haven’t figured her out. Her name is Danielle Sterber. She is my English teacher and she has treated me better. She seems different from the others.”
Rashid watched as the inside edge of Yassim’s eyebrows climbed the cell leader’s forehead forming a brown arch. “Different. How?”
“Well, first of all, she knows the Koran.”
“She what?” Yassim said sharply.
“She even knows much about our culture and speaks some Arabic. And, she seems to treat me with respect.”
“It sounds like you favor this American woman?”
Catching the disapproval in the leader’s glance, Rashid responded quickly. “That is not true. I serve no one but Allah and our cause!”
“Perhaps this woman bears watching,” Yassim said.
“Yes. I will do that.”
“That is not your concern.”
“What is it you want me to do?” the teenager asked.
“Continue what you are doing and wait. You will be notified when it is time.” The leader paused and then went on. “And Rashid?”
“Yes?”
“Allah will not keep you waiting long.” “I will be ready,” the teenager responded immediately.
Rashid thought the cell leader was about to extend his hand when they heard a hard knock on the hotel door. In three seconds, the cell leader’s right hand moved to his side and reappeared with a Makarov pointed directly at the teen’s chest. Rashid gaped at the cell leader and then at the gun in his hand. In that split-second, he studied the polished wood handle and steel barrel aimed at his rapidly beating heart. His breathing stopped.
Chapter 20
“Into the bathroom!” hissed Yassim.
“What?” Rashid suddenly pictured his body lying in a pool of his blood on the bathroom tile.
The hand with the gun jerked toward the closed door. “Now. Hurry!” The heavy knock echoed through the metal door again. Yassim swiveled his head toward the door and he noticed the backpack lying on the floor. Grabbing it, he threw it to Rashid. “Take this!”
When Rashid caught the hard toss, he staggered backward, realizing he was physically out of his league. Before he could get another word out, Yassim shoved him roughly through the now open bathroom door.
“And say nothing,” spat out the cell leader, just before the door closed.
Rashid stood frozen. He released his breath, trying to get his heart to slow its racing. He told himself he was safe, at least for now. The adrenaline rushed out of him like a liquid through an open drain. He exhaled a third time and collapsed on the tiled floor. His fear dissipating slightly, his mind edged back to normal and he became aware of voices he could make out from the other side of the door. Ear to the door, he listened intently.
Two voices, both male. The first was Yassim and the second Rashid thought he knew.
“I told you three o’clock,” Yassim said, his voice tense with anger.
“Sorry, Sayeeb. I think it good to be early,” the second voice responded.
“Sit down.”
Rashid listened and heard the rustling of papers and then more conversation.
“Hey, thees look like the layout of Thurber. I thought you said I was inside man.”
“That is not your concern.”
“Where did you get these?”
“Also, not your concern. You will learn that Allah provides all to those who believe,” Yassim responded. “You are being well paid. Do you have the information we need?”
“Right here,” the second voice responded with a short laugh.
It was the quick laugh that gave it away to Rashid. “Jose!” he said aloud in the small space and his glance darted to the door. When he heard the voices continue, he relaxed a bit.
“...not like that screebled paper. I bring you real building plans,” Jose announced.
“Where will we enter the building?”
“You come in through the delivery entrance, right here. I will be there to make certain that you are not seen. No one else goes there ex
cept me. I am your ace in the hole.” Rashid could hear the broken tooth smile in Jose’s words.
“That will work for us.”
“When will you be in need of my services?” Jose asked.
“We will let you know when the time is decided. It will be soon. You must be ready.”
“I will be ready. You said you had sometheeg for me.”
“Here.” Rashid could hear nothing for a bit. And then, “Do not count it here! Now you must leave and I will contact you in the normal manner.”
Straining, Rashid heard footfalls and the hotel room door open and close. Realizing that Yassim would be coming soon, he scooted quickly away from the door and started to rise from the floor. Before he was up all the way, the door flung open and he caught his breath. Yassim was standing directly in front, but the pistol was nowhere in sight.
“Come out.” Yassim’s voice was neither harsh nor angry. “I assume you heard?”
Rashid somehow knew that to try to deceive this man would likely cost him his life. He said, “Yes.”
“It would be better if you did not.” The cell leader paused, studying the youth.
For a few torturous seconds, neither man spoke and Rashid could feel his heart rate accelerate again. He struggled to keep the terror from his eyes.
“It would have been better if you had not,” repeated Yassim, “but it could not be helped. Perhaps it is Allah’s will. We will not speak of it and you must forget it.”
Rashid’s mouth was so dry he could force no words out, so he simply nodded again, this time more slowly to indicate his submission.
“It is time for you to return. Do you have anything else to report?”
“Perhaps, one more item, leader,” said Rashid, his confidence slowly returning. “This teacher I told you about, Ms. Sterber?”
“What about her?”
“She has asked permission for her students to interview Asad.”
“You will go and interview Asad?” Yassim asked.
“No, I am not one of these students.”
“I thought you said she was one of your teachers.”
“I am but I am not in the Journalism class. Those students are the ones who have asked to go to the prison to talk with Asad. I have heard the students say it is not likely that they will receive permission this close to the execution.”
The cell leader scratched his chin with his thumb. “I think this can work for us. I will arrange it so the students are permitted to come and I want you to be among the visitors.”
“How can you do that?” Rashid was unable to hide his incredulity.
“You have only been in the land of the infidels a short time and you have forgotten your lessons already. Allah makes all things possible for those who are faithful.”
Finally the second part of Yassim’s statement sunk in with Rashid. “How am I supposed to become one of the student visitors? I do not even take that class.”
A small smile crossed Yassim’s lips. “Allah cannot do everything. We must all do our small part, and this is yours.”
“Leader, I will do whatever I can, but I am not sure that this is possible,” Rashid said, looking tentatively at Yassim.
The older man did not speak but his eyes never left the young soldier. Then he went on, “I was told to deliver a message to you. The Sheik says to tell you your family is doing well and being cared for. Your brother has joined the camp at Baku Valley. The Sheik said that you should rest easy at night knowing that your family are in his hands, and he will keep all harm from them if you are faithful.”
The terror returned to the teen’s eyes and he managed, “What do you wish me to do?”
Yassim nodded. He stepped across the room and grabbed a small pad from the nightstand. He said, “Give Asad this message,” and scribbled six words on a small piece of paper. “Memorize this and then burn it.”
The teenager accepted the piece of paper and nodded, not even bothering to look at the words.
“Now you must leave,” Yassim said and walked across the room.
“May Allah bless you,” the teen said as he stepped into the corridor.
“And keep those you love safe,” Yassim responded and closed the door.
Chapter 21
Days later I sat at the Formica lunchroom table, my gaze alternating between the scrawny piece of pizza in front of me and the slashing sleet on the windows. As if foretelling the upcoming events, the weather had turned suddenly bitter, beautiful autumn days mutating into the cold misery that northern Ohio often became in late October. The wind whipped the water off the lake and drove it onto the Commons. The massive oaken deck that was such a student haven in friendlier weather had been glazed into an 80,000 square foot sheet of ice. Under the onslaught of the hostile weather, the tranquil lake had metamorphosed into an angry, frothing monster.
On the soundless TV mounted in the corner, the weatherman seemed to take delight in endlessly warning of approaching doom as a cold front muscled its way down from Canada. As if to demonstrate his point, the accompanying live footage featured some shivering demonstrators outside the HBE prison, slashed by wind and freezing rain even as they tried feebly to use their waterlogged placards as makeshift umbrellas. Several teachers in the room took notice of the TV report, probably hoping for a snow day. I pulled my glance from the window and TV and focused my concentration back on my plate. “They call this pizza?” I asked Christie, who sat across from me, fork in hand poised over a wilted salad of mixed greens.
“Well, this ‘fresh special’ looks like it was probably rejected by Mickie D’s three days ago,” she said. The tines of her fork speared the concoction of darkened greens on the plate in front of her. We huddled in the last two chairs at the small table in the teachers’ lunchroom. We were at the end of the L-shaped room, as far away as possible from the door and the throng of five hundred boisterous teenagers. Although we were hardly alone--several other teachers sat at the long table or in the few worn chairs in the room--we had tried to place a little distance between the teens and us. Even in this relative peace, we had to endure the pontifications of Rob Holden, his bald head glistening in the fluorescent lights as he espoused the latest right-wing tripe he had lapped up on Fox the night before. We could hear the low rumble of the students next door in the cafeteria.
“At least your lunch looks like it might have had some nutritional value, at one time. I wouldn’t swear to it, but this,” I held up the limp rectangle for demonstration, “I believe may once have been a piece of tag board that they smeared with ketchup and some imitation cheese.” I took a bite and continued talking with my mouth full. “I know kids’ tastes aren’t very discriminating, but I don’t get what they see in these things.” I chewed and tried to swallow.
“Beats me,” Christie returned, “it just goes to show you that I was right.”
“About what?” I washed downed the red cardboard with a swig from my water bottle.
“I told you we should’ve snuck out and grabbed something at Nicks,” she said with a grin.
“Oh yeah,” I lowered my voice, “not only would we get killed if we were caught, we probably couldn’t even get anything to eat in our measly 37 minutes.”
“Maybe not,” she said, her eyes glancing around then meeting mine conspiratorially, “but I bet we could’ve gotten a drink.” Her smile widened and I laughed. “Anyway, this,” she pointed to the drooping salad, “is just one more concession to the big event. Gotta fit into that white dress.”
I nodded and we were quiet for a bit while our eyes wandered back to the precipitation freezing against the window and we chewed without taste. I was able to manage only about three more bites and threw down the tattered remains of my school lunch. “I’m going to head back to my room to see if I have something more edible stashed in my bag, like maybe a piece of used sandpaper.” I picked up my tray.
“Might as well join you.” Christie dropped her fork on her plate.
We pitched the garbage, stowed the trays
and headed back out into the melee of the lunchroom. In the lead, I opened the door and was met, face-to-face, with a broad, mustached smile perched beneath a pair of gorgeous green eyes. Staring, I stopped short and Christie ran smack into me. I ignored her muffled cry of “Hey!”
When he saw me, Jesus Ramirez’s eyes brightened in recognition and he tried to say something, but his words were drowned out by the hubbub of the adjoining student cafeteria. Shoving Christie behind me, I stepped back into the teachers’ lunchroom, inviting him to follow.
“So we meet again, Miss Sterber,” the visitor said in that crisp, learned English of a foreigner, with only the slightest Latin accent.
“Dee Dee. I’m surprised you remembered.”
“After such a pleasant collision, I could hardly forget,” Jesus said and smiled.
I smiled in return. “It didn’t take you long to get a sub job,” I said.
“Today is my first day, but I think I will be working much. At the personnel office, they said they are always in need of good subs.”
Christie pushed past me and thrust her hand at Jesus. “Excuse the bad manners of my friend,” she said with a brisk nod at me. “My name is Christie Ferguson and I teach science here.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Christie Ferguson,” Jesus grasped her extended hand. “I am called Jesus Ramirez, a science teacher also, an itinerant science teacher, recently from Ecaudor.” Then, looking from me to Christie, he added, “But I am surprised that such a beautiful woman as Miss Sterber would have an equally attractive friend.”
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