Hot Spot

by Jim Carroll

  Khadim then proceeded to give a too-detailed-and-painful-for-me explanation. He and Esau had made their plan around the time I had procured the nuclear weapons. Khadim had shuffled their paperwork around in such a way that he had created a bomb shell game, so that the whereabouts of all the weapons was known only to him. Thus, it was no problem to set aside one of the bombs for their own vile purpose. In essence, no one else actually knew this bomb existed. The only question was how to use the weapon to achieve their aim: the destruction of any and all religious movements in the Middle East. Khadim went to speak to his secretary, as I sat dumbfounded and in shock.

  I had been a fool. I had come to Iran as a shallow Christian believing I could make a difference, but really relying on myself more than God. Along with the dreams of Jesus, I thought I was a star, with my insightful interpretations and the like. Now I was in the center of a mess designed to eliminate religion altogether. What had I done? Reality pierced me to the marrow. I felt ill. I would be the one, not remembered for my wisdom and skill in encouraging others to know Christ, but for the destruction of His people. Ashamed and emptied, I bowed my head, aghast.

  But I was not alone. When my pride finally submitted itself to God, He met me in an instant. In my mind’s eye, I saw Jesus sweeping through the Gulf as He had in my recent dream. I blessed my mother for those psalms she had forced me to memorize as Psalm 2:4 echoed in my mind: “He who sits in the heavens laughs.” Indeed, the Bible said the Lord scoffed at His enemies. Only God was in charge of this, not me. I never was. Not then and not now. Further, God was not shocked and surprised about this great threat to His own. What was the solution? I did not know. Finally, I saw I had to wait on the Lord.

  Khadim told his secretary to cancel his remaining appointments and returned. “Here’s the plan: Our story is that the bomb has been planted in Kuwait City by Christians as an example to Muslims in the Middle East. You may go home and inform your ancient Emir of the same. Then, we’ll see what happens.” Khadim dismissed me with a hand flourish. As I left, he packed his black leather briefcase for an early departure for the day, perhaps a reward to himself for a job accomplished.

  I took the next flight to Kuwait. Who would be blamed if the bomb exploded in Kuwait? I knew the answer to that question all too well.

  CHAPTER 18

  GO FETCH THAT BOMB

  As I pulled out of the Kuwait airport carpark, my eyes snapped from one large building to another. Where would they put the bomb? As if I could figure it out by guessing. What came next? Where was the answer? Esau had no reason to tell me anything, so there was no point in contacting him. No, the answer still had to be with Khadim, but how to get it from him? After I proceeded though the gate of our Ahmadi home, I found my father sitting in the flower garden planted by mother. He held his head high to catch the fragrance.

  “How was your trip?” Surely no sarcasm from my father. At first I couldn’t muster a response but my explanation, overly clear, spoiled his afternoon. Mine too. “Yusef, you have the upper hand.” Why hadn’t I seen this? “If he betrays your secret, it’s embarrassing to you, but your secret about him could result in his confinement and probably execution.” Courage rose slowly, so slowly, in my heart.

  My father was correct. It was just another example of my lack of courage. How could I have failed to see this during my recent meeting with Khadim? I had been too overwhelmed with my own shame. I had to throw down the challenge to Khadim and bring this matter to an end. By the next morning, my pluck was up, but there was no point in returning to Tehran to threaten Khadim. A text was enough. “Do what you will. If you don’t assist me, I’ll release the info on your bond money diversion.”

  Two hours passed with no response. Then a possible surrender, “I’ll text you the location tomorrow. The detonation is scheduled in two days. It will happen. There’s nothing you or I can do. We’ll see you’re blamed, if you’re still alive.” What a mess. I had delayed too long.

  Another night of uncertainty and then the location: Al-Masjid Al-Kabir, the Grand Mosque, the site designed to yield the greatest symbolic message, the worst possibility for the Christians who were to be blamed. How could we stop the explosion? I called on Thawab for help. Could he interrupt the process already set in motion, and then deal with the bomb itself? I didn’t want Thawab involved. I was still jealous of him, but he was my best option.

  When Thawab and his men arrived at the mosque, Esau was already present and hovering over the weapon, which had been placed in the innermost location under the large central dome. He pressed the button located on the rear third of the gray weapon, but nothing. He pressed again. Nothing. Esau was apprehended by Thawab and his four men and taken into custody. Thawab knew nothing about the bomb’s operation, but God had prevailed. The Kuwaiti Secret Service took possession of the bomb and, after loading it into a brown, unmarked van, drove away rapidly. Where was the bomb headed now? Who was really in charge of it.

  Why had the bomb not detonated? A miracle or another trick? Khadim had come through in order to preserve his life. He had given the wrong codes to Esau. Khadim still had much to reflect upon, many problems remaining, but this immediate disaster had been averted. I had underestimated all parties on both sides, and overestimated myself as usual. Khadim was the champion-betrayer this round. And did he still have some control over the bomb?

  In view of Thawab’s apparent, successful intervention, the news media came to interview our family. I explained how Esau had been thrown out of Iran and how he had procured the bomb by his own devices, not an entirely complete or even truthful explanation. I was careful to keep Khadim’s name out of it. (I might need him in the future.)

  For a brief time, Esau was the focus of scandal. The bomb was one thing, of course, and that was enough, but the current Emir had used Esau as an agent to transfer illicit funds out of Kuwait on many occasions. That was clearly the reason he had been observed on occasion at the palace. However, the Emir’s staff leaked information to the newspapers, and it was reported, not accurately, that Esau had been the sole instigator of illegal fund transfers. The transfers had been in progress for much longer than Esau’s tenure, and under the thumb of the Sabahs as well. Binyamin had already uncovered much of this information.

  In addition to Esau’s being the instigator of the recent bomb crisis, the Emir set up Esau as the financial culprit. In the Emir’s plot to regain control of the situation, Esau became the fall guy for all the ills of Kuwait. He was taken by security forces with camera entourage to the airport, placed on a flight to New York, and summarily deported. He had the haggard look of a trapped thief on his way to prison. His poor family with his two wives and six children were left crying behind the airport window of the departure area. Our Al-Tamimi family watched this televised spectacle, happy it was finally over, but sad for his family. It was the end of a great spiritual soccer match, but we were thankful it was done.

  The Prime Minister of Kuwait went on TV, where he delivered a most unusual speech. Until this time, the royal family had never bothered to explain anything to the citizens. “My fellow Kuwaitis, I must sadly report we had a thief and killer among us, one Esau Allison. Unbeknownst to us, he has systematically stolen funds from our oil revenues. He has carried out this theft through computer hacking for many years and taken much from us. We have discovered this after his role in an attempt to set off a nuclear weapon in our country was reported. He has been deported and the matter is now brought to a close.” The Prime Minister thus made it seem that Esau was the thief and not the Sabahs themselves. That Esau could not have done the fund transfers without the Emir’s approval was obvious to all. Minister Nawaf’s explanation failed in any logical sense, but the great mosque and the country were freed of the bomb.

  For the time being, Esau’s Kuwait career was finished. The Emir and Prime Minister did not wish to deal further with Esau for reasons that remained obscure to me. He was ceremoniously flown to the United States, his arrival there huge in the Kuwait TV
evening news, cameras on hand at the airport. But the bomb or its presence in Kuwait was never explained. Would I be connected?

  Since Esau was still a U.S. citizen, Nawaf said Kuwait didn’t want to get involved in his prosecution. A local trial would have been the proper way of handling the situation, but his immediate expulsion avoided any more output of information. Suddenly, and with no direct action on our part, we were rid of at least one vermin, at least for the present.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE LORD PROCEEDS WITH HIS PLAN

  In the midst of the preservation of Kuwait from the nuclear weapon and the failing ISIL probes, my family resumed its rise to prominence. My father said, “We’ve not been so respected since the days before oil. And now it’s because our country is under attack by ISIL and Iran.” I nodded at my father’s irony.

  My father was right. The Al-Tamimi promotion came first through the military success of Thawab. His photograph, with jaunty military hat, multicolored medals, and high boots, graced the front page of the Kuwait Times. Thawab was taller than his comrades, and always managed to be in the foreground. I was put off by his achievements, first in the church and now in the military. After all, I had been the favored son. Hibah called me to task about my self-centered attitude. “Yusef, as our mother would have said, ‘You’re doing it again.’” I dropped my chin. She was right.

  Gradually, as ISIL moved out of the immediate picture in Kuwait, Thawab’s photo appeared less often. Attention turned to me when I least felt the need for it. My taste for fame had dulled, but after Esau was gone because of my imprisonment in Iran, I became somewhat of a folk hero. The ill will between Iran and the Arab side of the Gulf served to exaggerate my role. These were strange reasons for fame, which I now shrugged off. In contrast to my former modus operandi, I found I no longer needed or wanted the adulation of others. Had the Lord removed that burden from me? I was also developing a respect for my brother. I needed to get to know Thawab, and it was not too late.

  I had wandered to Iran to pursue my own ideas of success and created problems for myself instead. This had set off the Esau skirmish in the process. The fortune I anticipated there never materialized, but I had heard the dream stories, and they left their mark on me, just as they had on those who had dreamed.

  A shift occurred within my heart. I recalled my mother’s dying words: “my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you” (Psalm 63:1). Even with her last breath, she had sought God. I looked for answers inside myself, but the answers were elsewhere. I saw that now more clearly than ever. The knowledge that the solutions were external freed me. God could be trusted with my future, and the future of little Kuwait. I couldn’t.

  I was interviewed on the Kuwaiti television station, Al Araby.

  My assertion, “No, I don’t want makeup,” was ignored, and the makeup man dabbed my face. I was unaccustomed to the odd sensation of a man’s touch on my face. The lights of the TV studio burned bright, and I was concerned the makeup would melt.

  My experiences in Evin prison provoked the greatest interest. Although there were details I would not share, the impression that emerged elevated my position. The TV interviewer asked foolish questions. “Were you afraid at Evin?”

  Of course I was afraid, every hour, every minute. “Yes, there were days I was afraid,” I responded. If it happened again, would I fear? “Yes, of course, but I would no longer depend on myself for the remedy.” My confidence had shifted to Jesus, by the working of the Spirit. “No, I never wanted to return to Evin; but if I did, with God’s help, I would tear up any letter offering me the coward’s cup.”

  “Tell us what it was like at Evin.”

  “The prison was a place of torture. We never knew what they would do to us next. One brand of torture would end only to be replaced by another.” I shared nothing of my life living amid the pleasant bustle of the city in a Tehran apartment.

  “What did you do during those long days and months in prison?”

  “I prayed for release. I prayed for my family.” In actual fact, prayer had comprised a tiny fraction of my time there.

  “Tell us about the torture.” He wanted gore for his viewers.

  “The psychological torture was the worst.” This was true, because it was, in a way, self-inflicted, not God-caused or prison-caused. I refused to elaborate on the physical torture. The interviewer looked disappointed, and I imagine his viewers switched channels.

  I didn’t disclose that I spent most of my time on the streets of Tehran, all the while carrying out deeds that were traitorous to Kuwait and the rest of the world. I was a hero through non-heroic acts, which is the story for most “heroes.” My mother was a real hero: She had depended on Someone beside herself. Now, I knew the difference.

  The peculiar result of my imprisonment and the TV appearance was an exposure of my personal appeal, which was for me an unneeded, unwanted affirmation, completely undeserved. I knew the praise was foolish, and I lapped it up (the old habit); but I began to see God’s purpose in these events as they unfolded before me.

  Hibah came to me the next day as I sat in the garden by the yellow arfaj blossoms. “Several I spoke with yesterday saw you on TV. I forgot how winning you can be. As your sister, I don’t really think about it, but it was pointed out to me again by my friends, and TV brings it out. I’m curious. Did you wear makeup? Your skin looked so smooth.” Now she was laughing at me. Just like a sister.

  “Why are you telling me this? You know I don’t need any compliments.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, but God has a purpose for you, or He wouldn’t have designed you this way. You’ve seen how prominent Thawab has become. Any of this is only good if it serves the Lord’s purpose. I think you should enter into politics here in Kuwait. If a known Christian could win a seat in the parliament, then who knows where it might lead.” She came near me and placed her hand on mine as we sat together on the iron garden bench. She loved me for all my faults, and finally I saw those crevices, too.

  “I’m not going in that direction,” I answered quickly, perhaps too quickly.

  “Whose desire are you following? What’s your direction? We know what happened in Iran. Even as a prisoner, you achieved much, though we don’t know the results yet. You must think about the whole picture and God’s plan. If you don’t join His work, then He’ll get someone else.” She lifted her hand from mine.

  For a week I said nothing more about Hibah’s words, but thought of little else. I thought back to my dream about Jesus sweeping the Gulf and how I had rejected it as an impossibility. I remembered how God had brought it to my mind again in Khadim’s office. Once more I envisioned the services crowded with Jesus worshippers, the overflowing parking lots, the stacks of Bibles being plucked up.

  I was of two minds: I loved the attention and feared the cost. But my spirit began to change. For God it must have been agonizingly slow. I was a slow student of faith. Hibah was gentle, but prompting. “Yusef, you know you have a role.” Was my confidence in the Lord increasing? Perhaps.

  Then Mohammed Al-Bader from the National Democratic Alliance phoned me on my cell. How did he get my number? Hibah had apparently contacted him through her connections at the university. “Yusef, we want to support you for parliament.” He proposed my candidacy in the Ahmadi district with the support of his party, but there were complicating factors. The party’s constituency was Muslim, which was no surprise, but there were other differences as well, not the least of which was their hard line policy against Iran. Despite my experiences in Iran’s prisons, I still held a positive view of the country and its people. The party’s favorable view of women and popularity among younger Kuwaitis appealed to me, and frankly I had no other good options. The idea of running for office was both a curse and delight for me.

  The campaign was rougher than anticipated. The main opposition candidate, Ri‘ad Al-Hasawi, dug into my family’s history. My chief regret was his muckraking attacks on my father as he reminded everyone of my father’s fl
ight from Kuwait during the Iraqi invasion more than thirty years earlier. He was quoted, “Yusef was spawned by a coward. How can he be any different than his deserter father?” Such was the language of the campaign.

  My father didn’t care. “Let them say what they say.” He sat in his great chair reading Mahfouz’s Cairo trilogy, the Sugar Street volume. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He was long past any remaining guilt over the matter.

  The next attack was on Hibah for her active, vocal, and successful legal defense of two Christians who had fallen into the clutches of the Kuwaiti court system. Likewise, Hibah was unperturbed, and I suspect what was most upsetting for the opposition was her triumph in that defense. But the greatest threat to my candidacy and me came from an outside source. The e-mail arrived on October 22, 2021, two weeks before the election:

  “Dear Yusef,

  I know it has been a long time since we spoke, and now I am no longer a child. I owe you much for explaining my dream and procuring a Bible for me. You told me to keep my belief in Jesus secret, and for a long time I was able to do so. But the secret is out, and my little family and I are in danger. (I am married now to a beautiful believing wife and we have one small child.) There are many believers in Iran, and they are allowed their religious freedom as long as their families don’t interfere. As you know, my parents are strong Muslims, and my conversion is considered apostasy. My father has agreed to have me killed, and I fear this sentence will be carried out soon. Can you help me somehow? I must get out of Iran. I have tried and cannot get a visa for the United States or Europe, and even if I could, I would be blocked at the airport here in Isfahan or certainly in Tehran. I don’t know what to do or where else to turn.