by Jinkang Wang
“After 9/11 and before the Afghanistan War, they fled to the United States to avoid the fighting. My uncle, a Pashtun tribal leader, gave me a sum of money to buy this farm for them to live on. They haven’t managed to learn English, so if there’s a problem it’ll have to wait till I’m back for a visit.”
Rosa insisted on carrying out her inspection, and the man said to wait a moment, he’d talk to his cousins. He called again a few minutes later. “All right, you can go in. The gate has a combination lock, just enter the code 219. Someone will be waiting at the entrance to show you around all the areas you need to see. If you need to speak to them during your inspection, give me another call.”
She entered the code as directed, and drove into the farm. A Central Asian man around thirty-six or thirty-seven was waiting for her, dark skinned and wearing a scarf, in a long garment that reached to his knees. He remained expressionless and silent as he showed her around the grounds. Rosa made a big show of inspecting for termites, though actually she was studying everything on the premises. By the time they’d made a complete round, she hadn’t detected anything suspicious, just sturdy stalks of corn, dairy cows and alpacas mooing in their pens, edible fungi in hothouses. A perfectly normal farm. In the courtyard, another dark-skinned man was learning how to drive a tractor. He didn’t seem very confident, and the vehicle kept swerving here and there. Rosa signaled for him to stop and come down from the cab, then proceeded to show him how to do it. He practiced for a while and thanked her in ungainly English.
Finally, they went to the living room, which had been set up as a place of worship, with rush mats on the floor and a crescent moon above the altar. Zia Baj called again to ask if there was anything else he needed to communicate. Rosa answered that the inspection was over, and she hadn’t found any termites, but thanked him for their cooperation. They exchanged a couple more pleasantries before hanging up. It was lunchtime, and there were no restaurants within dozens of miles of this remote location, but neither Zia nor the two men asked her to stay. Silently, they saw her to the gate.
After that search, Rosa abandoned her suspicions of the farm. It might have been unreasonable of the two men to refuse Hoskirk’s visit, but on the other hand it made sense that two newly arrived non-English-speaking immigrants might withdraw into themselves. Back home, she looked into the two men’s immigration status, and found all the paperwork in order. Zia Baj had personally brought them over before the war in Afghanistan. Baj was an accomplished virologist at the University of Idaho’s Biology Department, a second-generation Afghan American. As for Hoskirk’s other suspicion: Why were the three buyers of the farm so unconcerned about its business prospects? She could understand that better now—Zia Baj himself knew nothing about agriculture, and had just bought the place on his uncle’s instruction, with the aim of supporting his two cousins rather than of making a profit.
Nevertheless, she continued keeping an eye on this place. The following year, and the year after that, she visited again with the same excuse, and again found nothing suspicious. By her third visit, the two Afghans had switched to American-style clothes, and had a basic grasp of English. They seemed comfortable driving the tractor and with the farm chores. In other words, they appeared to be content to keep their heads down, settle in, and farm. She called Hoskirk to explain this to him, then turned her attention away from the farm.
Yet now, lying in bed again, clouds of doubt appeared on the horizon. She was more or less certain that the two silent “Indians” on TV were in fact the Afghan farm workers. If she was right about that, then why were they dressed as Native Americans? Surely not just for fun? But then, she might be wrong. After all, it had been seven years since her last sight of them. Drifting in and out of sleep, her thoughts roamed freely, and three numbers jumped up from the murk: 219, 219 . . . the gate code, still clear in her mind. Suddenly, her heart jolted. Reverse that number and you got—912. The day after 9/11. And tomorrow, the day the three “Native Americans” would seek reparations from the American government, just happened to be September 12!
What if all of this—the gate code, and the date of the tour of remembrance—wasn’t a coincidence, but had been chosen for a particular reason, with a very clear message?
What if this was the sequel to 9/11?
If her guess was right, then their plan for revenge had been underway as early as ten years ago, when they’d set 219 as the code on their gate. She didn’t sleep that night, and the next day, after sending Emily to school, she hurried to the office and dug out her records from that year, searching for the phone number of the farm. No one answered when she called, the monotonous ringtone like an ill omen. Next, she found Zia Baj’s number. An unfamiliar man’s voice answered. “University of Idaho, Biology Department. How can I help?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Zia Baj, in your department.”
“Professor Baj has resigned and gone back to Afghanistan. He left two days ago.”
“Did he leave any contact details?”
“I’m afraid not. He said he’d be in touch once he was settled back home.”
Rosa hung up, a chill sweeping over her heart. Zia Baj just happened to have left the country. It was hard to see that as another coincidence. All these little indications were innocuous on their own, but pieced together, they traced a clear and ominous outline. Without hesitation, she drove straight to the farm. Already she had a bad sense that, if her conjectures were right, this was where she would find proof.
At nine in the morning, the colorful “Tour of Remembrance” Ford station wagon pulled into East Fremont Elementary, with a local news van behind it. Instead of stopping at the gates of the school, the station wagon went straight in. Still filming, Elizabeth Ginsburg gasped. “They’ve driven right in! School is in session, and they’re not supposed to disturb the kids. Now someone’s running out of the office, probably the principal. She’s gone around the front of the car to stop them from going any . . . Oh my God!”
Elizabeth’s cry of alarm was broadcast across the whole of Idaho, heard by all her viewers, as well as the county FBI office. That cry was followed by her urgent narration of events as they unfolded: “Two of the three Native Americans have jumped from the station wagon, holding M16s. No idea where those could have come from. They’re threatening the principal, forcing her toward the classroom . . . Big Chief Sealth is following them, holding a traditional long spear . . . Now he’s looking back, flashing a victory sign at the camera. How could he grin at a time like this! They’re herding all the children into one classroom.” The reporter’s voice trembled with anger and fear. “These three men seem to be terrorists, and now they’ve taken dozens of children hostage! Viewers, or someone at the station, call the police right now! We’ll remain here and keep reporting, for as long as we can.”
The classroom door shut, and they could no longer see what was happening inside. The school yard was quiet again, now with the eerie stillness of a graveyard. Within half an hour, Fremont County, the whole of Idaho, and indeed the entire country had stirred into action. The relevant reports had been sent to Homeland Security in Fremont County and the state governor’s office, as well as Homeland Security’s Rapid Response Unit, and to the president himself. In Fremont, a few family members happened to be watching TV and learned about the situation right away, then drove to the school in a panic. One of them was Emily’s grandfather, John.
After a nail-biting bout of silence, Big Chief Sealth emerged, and the camera immediately turned to him. He was smiling broadly, beckoning warmly at Elizabeth. She said dubiously to the camera, “He seems to be telling us to come in!” In a low voice, she asked the cameraman, Francis, for his opinion. Francis nodded, and Elizabeth told her viewers, “We can’t be sure this won’t put us in danger, but we’ve decided to take the risk, and while we’re in there we’ll keep you updated. We’re going in now. It’s unclear how the situation will develop, and our reporting might be interrupted.”
She and the cameraman got out
of their vehicle and, still filming, walked toward the classroom. A piercing siren started up, and a dozen police cars appeared, stopping outside the school. Police officers in dark blue uniforms and the National Guard in camouflage scattered and took up strategic positions as they’d been trained to do, the silhouettes of marksmen appearing a few moments later in the windows of surrounding buildings, while other snipers fixed their sights on the classroom. Elizabeth’s cell phone rang, and a deep male voice spoke. “Good morning, Ms. Ginsburg. This is Agent Hoffman from Homeland Security. I’m at the scene, behind the police vehicle by the school gate. You can go in, but please don’t hang up, keep the line open. Be careful. Thank you!”
Elizabeth relaxed a little and walked into the classroom. Inside, she froze for a moment. The scene that greeted her was not at all what she’d expected: the children laughing and talking cheerfully, the “terrorists” laughing too, even as they strapped explosive vests onto the kids, although the bomb pouches were so small that they were obviously just toys. The children were having a great time, and those who hadn’t yet had their turn cried out, “Mister, I want one too!” Elizabeth stared at them in relief, unable to believe her eyes, whispering into her phone, “They may not be terrorists, this might just be a prank. Agent Hoffman?”
Outside, Agent Hoffman saw what was happening on the screen, and was equally confused. After a brief silence, he said, “We can’t be sure, keep observing them.” Into his other speaker, he said, “The situation is unclear. I suggest we don’t report to the president for the time being.”
In the classroom, only the principal was outraged, sternly scolding all three men for going too far, demanding that they leave the classroom at once. Big Chief Sealth was all smiles as he cajoled her, while the other two Native American men finished putting explosive vests on all the students. At last they approached the principal, waving their guns at her, and she reluctantly shut her mouth. Big Chief Sealth smiled, and motioned for the children to be silent. They obediently quietened down, and Sealth signaled for Elizabeth to direct her microphone and camera at him.
As the events in the classroom were beamed out via electromagnetic waves, TV viewers were dazed for a moment, uncertain whether they were watching a terrorist attack or some kind of comic performance. Hearts in their mouths, they kept watching.
Big Chief Sealth put on a look of exaggerated rage, shook his head at the camera, and proclaimed, “Yesterday, I said I would begin negotiations with the government today on behalf of all Native Americans. At the moment, I have seventy-six hostages at my disposal, which I believe greatly increases the weight of what I have to say. I do hope the president won’t dismiss us! Right now, I have a final diplomatic dispatch for the American government: four hundred years after your despicable occupation of America, you must pay the Native Americans transfer fees for all that land, plus four hundred years of interest. I am going to announce the amount of these reparations, which is not up for negotiation, so don’t try to bargain. And the price is”—he let the pause hang for a moment before proclaiming—“a bison skin!”
A burst of laughter rose from the children. Those watching on TV smiled too. They began to relax a bit—was this a farce? An elaborate prank to make a point; an expression of four centuries of accumulated grievance? Even the stern-faced chief couldn’t help cracking a smile, though he immediately wiped it off his face and barked, “No laughing! All of you—” He pointed at the children. “No laughing!”
The children’s laughter grew even louder. Big Chief Sealth, suppressing a giggle himself, turned to the camera and screamed, “No one laugh, I’m serious! This is a warning. The United States government must agree to my demands at once, or I’ll release one hostage every hour!”
Elizabeth Ginsburg thought she must have heard wrongly, and quickly thrust the microphone forward. “What was that? Could you say that again, please?”
Big Chief Sealth repeated, with emphasis, “Until the United States government agrees to my demands, I’ll let one child walk free every hour, until they’re all gone.” He nodded at the reporter. “That’s right, sweetie, you didn’t hear wrong. I said ‘release,’ not ‘kill.’ But, when all the hostages are free, this offer will come off the table, and the government will be in trouble then! It’ll lose the best deal it’ll ever be offered. A bison skin for the entire country? That’s a much better bargain than back in the day, when seven point two million was enough to buy Alaska from Russia. Think about it. With just a symbolic payment of one animal hide, you can proudly proclaim yourselves eternal rulers of America, and no one will ever be able to blame you again. No more guilt. Is that a great deal, or what!”
He chortled again, and so did all the kids, but Elizabeth and the viewers at home couldn’t bring themselves to laugh. There was a hidden barb in his words, aimed directly at the hearts of all Americans—or at least the white ones. At that moment, a little girl in a vest squeezed her way over to the big chief and asked shyly, “Mr. Sealth, how much is a bison skin worth?”
He looked down at her. “At today’s prices, about thirty or forty dollars.”
“Then I’ll pay for it,” she proclaimed happily. “I have more than a hundred dollars in my piggy bank.”
Big Chief Sealth laughed, ruffling the girl’s hair. “What’s your name, child?”
“I’m Emily.”
“Thank you, Emily. But I can’t accept your money. We couldn’t possibly take money from children. We’re after the ones who really owe this debt.” He straightened up and looked directly at the camera. “In order to show the seriousness of our threat . . . Hey!” he shouted at his two companions. “Fire on the crowd! Detonate this girl’s vest!”
Their hearts froze. The two men raised their rifles, and without another word, aimed them at the kids. Elizabeth and her TV audience instinctively closed their eyes, unable to watch, yet there were no gunshots, no blood-spattered scenes, only an enormous burst of childish laughter. What exploded from the barrels of the guns was not bullets, but soap bubbles, dancing colorfully in the air. The kids giggled and jumped up and down, reaching up for the bubbles bobbing overhead. Elizabeth studied the rifles and exclaimed quietly, “These M16s are toy guns! These bastards. They tricked us.”
Emily was snatching at the bubbles too, when Sealth pulled her in front of the camera and made a big show of pressing a remote control, causing her vest to explode with a bang, shooting out colored smoke and confetti, showering the chief and reporter, not to mention the girl herself. The other kids got even more worked up, running over and surrounding the chief, begging to have their own vests set off too. The big chief squeezed his way out of the crowd, bringing Emily with him, and said to the camera, “This is the first child to be released. Emily, go on, tell your government to hurry up and fulfill our demands. It’ll take three days and four hours to release all seventy-six children, that is to say, at two in the afternoon, three days from now, the offer comes off the table. If the American government doesn’t take this opportunity, they’ll be sure to regret it.”
As he finished speaking, his two companions grabbed at him, pointing at their own waists, pulling up their shirts to reveal their own explosive vests. These vests looked a little more substantial than the children’s. The chief smiled and added, “Oh, that’s right, I forgot one last thing: before all the hostages are set free, the reporter and her cameraman are free to stay here, but the police aren’t allowed in. Otherwise—these two brothers will blow their own vests!”
He pushed Emily outside. She didn’t want to go, but reluctantly walked out. When she got to the school gate, her grandfather rushed over and snatched her up. Several police officers came too, examining her exploded vest to make sure there was no TNT or shrapnel there, but it really was just a few expended confetti cannons. The girl was unhurt. A bit calmer, John thought he should let his wife know all was well. Rosa hadn’t been aware of the news, and sounded stunned at his phone call.
“They really went to Emily’s school?”
&nb
sp; “Yes. And now Emily’s the first one to be released.”
He described the whole tense scene to his wife, like a play, with all the unexpected developments. Emily grabbed the cell phone. “Granny, it was so exciting today! So much fun! I wanted to help the government buy a bison skin, but Chief Sealth wouldn’t let me. Where are you? Why don’t you come see?”
“I’m on a farm a hundred miles away. Emily, give the phone back to your grandfather.”
John took the phone back and asked what was wrong. After a moment, she said, “Forget it, I’ll talk to you after I’m done inspecting this farm. Stay close to Emily. Don’t leave her, and wait for my call. You hear? Be ready to answer when I call.”
She sounded deadly serious. John hung up and muttered, “What does this mean? Your granny’s on edge about something.”
Big Chief Sealth had arranged for the police to deliver food, drink, and toys to the classroom, and now told them to prepare bedding for that night. He organized games for the children, and set one of them free every hour. The kids were so thrilled that those picked for release pouted and went unwillingly. The chief had to urge them to do as they were told, in order for the show to go on as planned. He only got them to go by agreeing to set off their vests as they left. Elizabeth took this time to interview the two Native American escorts, who still hadn’t revealed their true identities. Neither would say a word, and both refused her questions as they’d done for the last few days. The reporter could only turn from them in frustration, and talk to the children instead. Francis looked at the silent men with misgivings, before turning his camera on the kids.
