by Suzi Weinert
In his madrassa, youths competed to memorize verses from the Quran while learning the 3-R basics. In training camps, they competed with weapons, mastering skills for recognition and advancement. He didn’t know how this applied to business.
“Value Five,” Khadija pointed to the heading on the page, “is material wealth. Americans want to achieve a better life and raise their standard of living for themselves and their children. The quality and quantity of a person’s material possessions are a measure of social status.”
Muslims accepted their condition as God’s will. Changing it challenged Allah’s plan. Ahmed owned no material wealth. He never had. Allah provided for his needs at every juncture. His small exposure to merchants offered little understanding of accumulating tangible wealth.
“We’re almost at the end. Value Six: the cost of material wealth is hard work. Most Americans believe in the value of hard work. They see material possessions as a reward for their work.”
Ahmed had no possessions, but he understood hard work in schools and training camps to earn Allah’s blessings.
“This is the last one, the American Dream. It’s the determination by American parents to provide their children with a better life than their parents were able to provide for them. According to this philosophy, with hard work, courage and determination, anyone can prosper and be successful.”
The melodic sound of her lilting voice entranced him. He didn’t want this interlude to end. Her pleasant smile, graceful movements and unmistakable femininity fascinated him—against his will. But with this thrill of awareness and desire came confusion and anguish. She was the daughter of a colleague who would enter Paradise with him in a matter of days. What was wrong with him?
“Would you say more about this American dream?” he asked in spite of himself.
“All right. In a land of freedom like ours, you can choose your religion, question authority, say what you think and do what you want so long as it isn’t a criminal act. You can marry any adult you can coax to agree. Education is free from kindergarten through high school, and afterward you can work your way through college on a campus or on-line at your computer. You have opportunity to educate yourself, learn skills, choose a job, work hard and achieve a good life for yourself and your family. Individuals are valued over groups. Do you understand this ‘freedom’?”
“Perhaps not.”
Her smile dazzled him. “Don’t worry. Many of my students come from countries with cultures very different from America’s, so your answer is not unusual.”
In the camps, Ahmed had met men from others lands such as Syria, Egypt, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia. One said he was Lebanese-American but he spoke their language and mentioned none of these “values” Khadija described. “From what countries are these students in your class?”
“This semester’s students are from the Congo, Ghana, Mexico, Colombia, Brazil, Korea, Senegal, India, Pakistan, the Dominican Republic—and one is Polish. Do you know of those places?”
“Some.”
She unfolded a small world map tucked in the back of the book to show her students’ countries.
Added to her lyrical voice and undeniable womanly appeal, his host’s daughter displayed knowledge and accomplishments that astounded Ahmed.
“Do you agree with anything the book says?” she asked. Confusion showed on his face.
“In America you don’t need to agree. You might, but only after you decide for yourself. Freedom lets you make your own choices, but with freedom comes responsibility. To think what he wants, an American must reason things out for himself, decide what is true by using his mind and his heart to process information. He must think for himself and live with the results of his decisions.”
Like a thunderbolt, Ahmed heard his mother’s parting words: “use your mind and heart.” Now nearly identical words came from Khadija, a girl her father dismissed as “lost to American ways.” How did his mother know such things in a village so far away? His radical sect found such talk disrespectful. How could his mother know about freedom? Why would Americans murder his parents if their ideas sounded so similar to their own?
“Ahmed, are you all right?” Khadija put a concerned hand on his arm. The warmth of her palm, the gentle touch of her slender fingers produced a visceral reaction. How could a woman so lovely acquire enough knowledge to teach at a college? In his country, a woman of twenty-three years would have married years earlier and have many children with the man to whom she belonged.
“Sorry, I…I was, how do you say, making the day-dream?”
“Something good?”
“Something…from childhood.” He changed the subject. “Thank you for the book, Khadija.” There, he said her name out loud. “I will read it.”
“You’re very welcome. If you have questions, I’ll try to answer them.”
“Goodbye, Khadija,” he said.
“Goodbye to you, also.” She stood, smiling. As she walked from the room, he felt an acute loss.
Lengthy mental indoctrination prepared him to follow religious orders given in Allah’s name, blessings upon Him. Training camps prepared him to construct and plant improvised explosive devices, to fire guns, trigger grenades, launch rockets and survive gas attacks. Torture prepared him to withstand painful enemy interrogations. But nothing prepared him for the primitive, irresistibly magnetic attraction of a desirable, available woman to a normal, healthy man.
24
Friday, 1:46 PM
His action-packed first twenty-four hours in McLean had recharged Ahmed’s energy, but now he felt grateful to retire to his room.
Khadija’s explanation of her textbook both stimulated and confused him. Her book in his hands felt like a tangible extension of the beautiful girl whose smile and grace drew him with such magnetism.
Men in his country might dismiss their responsibility for such a reaction as the woman’s fault, eluding blame by arguing she used her wiles to entice him against his will. But Ahmed saw this self-serving argument as one to avoid blame. Each generation must replace itself with children, requiring men and women to find and embrace each other. In his culture, family-arranged marriages often forced newlyweds to face mates for the first time on their wedding day. Adjusting to this stranger, who they might not even like, superseded any concept of attraction or love. Not so with Khadija, to whom he felt profoundly attracted both physically and intellectually.
With reluctance, he lay the book on the upholstered chair in his room. To push Khadija from his mind, he took out the maps he and Mahmud obtained that day. On the bed he spread open the large map of the State of Virginia and located McLean. Next, he opened the book map of northern Virginia. The front page showed how the collection of inside map pages fit together like puzzle pieces into a whole picture. He turned the pages to McLean and searched until his finger touched the location of this very house.
He then familiarized himself with the target location, studied routes to it and formed a plan.
Next, he opened the desk drawer and assured himself the envelope containing ten diamonds remained where he’d left it.
Smuggled into the U.S., Ahmed had forged ID papers for emergency use only. To the American government, he did not exist. He intended remaining invisible. He knew well how to operate cars but wouldn’t drive to avoid risking any inadvertent stop by police, through his own error or another’s. Thus his host would chauffeur him where he needed to go. The downside of this inconvenience meant Mahmud had access to information sooner than Ahmed preferred.
The more time he spent with Mahmud, the less he liked the man. Team members needn’t like each other to work effectively together, but it helped. Ahmed thought his host smug and cocky, a braggart who craved limelight and took credit for more than he contributed. Yet the man also possessed critical knowledge and skills for the task ahead. Thus Ahmed couldn’t exclude him but didn’t relish his proximity while driving.
As he removed his shoes and opened the closet to put them away, he did an anxi
ous double take. Where was the toy box? A twinge of panic coursed through him. With a trembling hand, he reached high to inch his suitcase forward on the closet shelf. The doll lay right where he’d left it. Relief flooded through him at the sight, but, to be sure, he pulled the toy down and opened its clothes to check the slash he’d stitched together. No change. A gentle squeeze of the doll’s torso confirmed the packets still inside. Good. Just as he’d left it.
He tucked the doll safely again behind his suitcase, turned on the bedside table lamp and opened Khadija’s textbook. The Table of Contents listed twelve chapters. He flipped to the end: 296 pages total. Every page required concentration because of the language difference and because these new ideas seemed more foreign than the words themselves.
He read all afternoon, finished half the book and laid it aside. These new developments—what did they mean? If Allah had indeed prepared him for this terrorist assignment in McLean, why distract him with this lovely young woman and her information about America? Was it a test? If meant to heighten his resolve for his task here, why did it have the opposite effect? Was the longing for a wife and children he would never have on earth meant to increase the greatness of his sacrifice? Would the reward of virgins in Paradise compensate for this loss on earth? Was he to ignore the girl and her message or was he to listen and learn? What did Allah want him to do?
His mother’s last words foretold Allah would guide him, to look for His signs, to seek truth and to use his mind, to think for himself and listen to his heart. Were her words a map from Allah or well-meant but irrelevant ramblings of a dying woman? If he listened to his heart, was this powerful attraction to the girl a sign pointing him in a new direction? He longed to court her, marry her and raise their children. Impossible if he exploded himself into a million fragments within a week. How to resolve these two powerful influences pulling him in opposite directions?
To seek truth, to use his mind, to think for himself—how did that apply here? From childhood he blindly accepted Islam as the one true religion and pledged himself to it, as did all Muslims he knew. But he inherited this by default, not as a deliberate, independent choice like Zayneb’s conversion. Did other religions mentioned in Khadija’s book also think they understood the only truth? All couldn’t be right at the same time, so some must be wrong. According to Islam, they all were wrong, whatever else they thought. Yet believers of those other religions must think Islam wrong? Who was right?
Yesterday a TV news broadcaster discussed demographics. “And so,” he said, “as the Muslim population grows faster than the residents in the countries they’ve adopted, like England and Denmark, they will eventually take over without firing a shot.” Even among Islam’s faithful, some approved radical extremism and some did not. If an Islamic future was inevitable, would killing women and children now hasten the world’s acceptance? Would their planned terrorist attack prove to non-believers the futility of resistance?
Ahmed hadn’t felt the pangs of such bitter confusion since he was five years old.
25
Friday, 1:59 PM
Wrapping an under-the-pillow-gift in newspaper for the soon-to-arrive Grands, Jennifer reached for tape as the phone rang. Instead, she grabbed the receiver.
“Hi, Mom,” said Hannah’s familiar voice. “Have you a minute to talk?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because I have news. We did the home inspection. He came only a few hours after we called yesterday, bringing a checklist covering basement to roof inside and more outside. The original structure is over a hundred years old with some updates along the way, so dozens of criteria don’t meet current code. But when Adam explained we only want to camp there a few months, the inspector said even this ancient house offered more protection and amenities than a tent.”
“What did he say about the water, septic and electricity?”
“All okay, if we don’t overload the electrical system with too many appliances. Well water is good quality, but he suggests we recheck it monthly for the short time we’re here or use bottled water if in doubt. Septic works, so it’s a go. We made the snap decision to move in.”
Jennifer heard the caution in her voice. “Happening fast, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we started yesterday. I’m here in the kitchen on Winding Trail Road. Adam’s excited and I am, too. We’ve ordered baby chicks for next week—to start a hen house.”
“What about your plan to sell the furniture there and re-decorate the entire place?”
“We’re on it. Adam’s off-duty police buddies were wonderful. A bunch of them pitched in to empty the house, and they even painted some of the rooms, including that dreadful cellar. They had to dismantle the awful human torture crate to get it up the steps. What did you call it?”
Jennifer flinched at the memory of a demented Ruger Yates imprisoning her in the crate. “They…their family called it the ‘confinement box,’” Jennifer said in a voice becoming fragile.
Missing this change of tone, Hannah continued. “They worked until midnight last night and came back again today. We stashed our garage-sale stuff in the barn and trashed the rest. Then I cleaned the place inside. We brought Adam’s bedroom furniture from the bachelor apartment at his mom’s house and put a card table and chairs in the kitchen. We’re using paper plates and plan to sleep here tonight. Mom, this is so different and such fun!”
“I…I can hear you’re excited. Let us know if we can help. You know we’re baby-sitting Kaela’s children this weekend, but they don’t come ‘til 4:00. Meantime, I wrote down craigslist and newspaper ads for local garage sales if you want to visit some. I can make you a copy or look for things you need. Just tell me what and I’ll phone you if I find something promising.”
“Thanks, Mom. Would you like to come by to see our progress?”
She hesitated. Could she finish the rest and this, too, before the Grands came? “I’ll dash by but can’t stay long because I’m still getting organized for the weekend.”
“Why not bring over the copy of the sales you mentioned around three o’clock and I’ll give you our look-for list? Since we live here now, you know where to find me.”
“Got it. Love you, Hannah.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
Unfolding more newspapers, she finished wrapping the Grand’s gifts, put a name on each one and marked them for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. Three Grands times three nights meant nine presents + three for in-the-car. She counted the finished packages and had it right.
A glance at her watch confirmed that, if she hurried, she could make it to the farm and back in time for the Grands’ arrival at four o’clock. Locking the house, she jumped in her car and sped toward her daughter at the house she’d hoped never to see again.
26
Friday, 1:46 PM
Déjà vu gripped Jennifer as she turned her car into the driveway at 3508 Winding Trail Road. She hadn’t been back since the wee hours of that awful night when she showed police the horrors she discovered while Ruger Yates had imprisoned her here. She felt her heart accelerate. Could she handle returning to this place where she’d once expected to die?
She inched forward up the driveway, reliving her headlong race down this very gravel path, gasping for breath, dreading that her maniacal pursuer’s fist might stretch out to grab her.
At the top of the driveway where the level parking area spread between the house and barn, her hand trembled on the door handle. She sat behind the wheel, fighting to regain control. Had she the courage to enter this dreadful house, never mind accept Hannah’s decision to live here?
A rap on the window jerked her back to reality. She forced herself to look out the car window, fearing Ruger’s evil leer. Instead, Hannah’s eager face smiled through the glass.
“Hi, Mom. Your car door’s locked.”
Jennifer fumbled for the “open” button. Hannah jumped in, leaning close for a hug. “I know you can’t stay long but hope you have time for a quick tour to see what we�
��ve done.”
Jennifer knew what had happened to her here was her problem, not Hannah’s. Her daughter shouldn’t pay for her mother’s inability to discard the past. She forced a convincing smile and said as brightly as she could, “Okay, let’s have a look.”
“Since we’re outside, you’ll notice the sheds are gone except the chicken house. The barn’s big enough for both our cars plus the old furniture from the house we’ve kept for the garage sale, but in this case a ‘barn’ sale. Here, I’ll show you.” They peered into the structure’s dim interior, lighted in daytime by sunshine from open windows and doors.
A good place to start, Jennifer thought. Never there, she held no bad memories of the barn. As they turned toward the house, she asked, “Have you set a date for this sale?
“No, we wanted to check with you, our resident expert, to pick a day you might help us price it in advance. Some pieces look antique—like the old sewing machine, wringer wash tub and farm tools. Here we are.” She opened the back door. “Welcome to our new home.”
They entered the laundry/mud room where the dog had guarded Jennifer. The kitchen, newly painted, looked bright and cheerful. A card table and chairs stood under the window. “There’s no furniture in the other rooms, Mom, except for one bedroom, but I can tell you our plans for them.”
Hannah led the tour and, as they moved through the house together, Jennifer thought the empty rooms gave the place an open, almost inviting look—one she hadn’t expected—untarnished by the previous furniture she’d cleaned and dusted during her captivity.
“Here’s our bedroom.” Tastefully furnished with an attractive bedspread, rugs, lamps and TV, it lacked only window curtains. In the bathroom, aqua and yellow towels, rugs and shower curtain created a cheerful décor. In the room where Ruger had kept his exercise machinery, Hannah said, “We kept a few pieces of the equipment for our gym.”
Jennifer gazed about. Should she tell Hannah about the closet’s ceiling trapdoor to the hideous place where Mathis and Ruger endured imprisonment? No.
