The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  For now let us return to Jeddah in 1989, Yousef’s current world. Let us train a magic magnifying glass on him at the door of the handsome Al-Balad building. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. Once and a second time. Perhaps Sheik Omar’s contact was already en route to the mosque. Suddenly steps could be heard within. The door opened part way and a man with a suspicious look appeared, scanning Yousef from head to toe.

  “What do you want here, kid?”

  “God is great. I come from the war with the mujaheddin in Afghanistan.”

  The man looked him over again. He took in the young man’s appearance and his clothes.

  “Your name?”

  “Yousef. And the name of the one who sent me…” Yousef, looked around him before continuing, “… is Omar Rasoul Sharif.”

  The door closed then opened wide, inviting him in.

  17

  Inside, the decoration was sober, and the light that filtered in faint, helping to keep the space cool. Low tables, tall decorative vases and two long sofas filled the area for receiving visitors on the ground floor, a kind of parlor just within the entrance. The various upper floors were arranged at staggered intervals giving onto the stairway.

  “God is great,” Yousef greeted, after discerning the figure of a man seated in an armchair, his face hidden in the dimness. At Yousef’s greeting, the face emerged from the dimness. It was a dark face, tanned and weary, yet the combination of a well-groomed mustache, a red- and white-checked cloth on his head, and a long white tunic that fell to his sandals gave the middle-aged man wearing them an air of learning and distinction. Yousef found himself prompted to speak again at the prolonged silence of this stranger. He stated his name and mentioned that of Sheik Omar. On hearing it, the man’s face lost its tightness. Yousef was going to say more, but he was abruptly cut off by a gesture from the man and a rush of unexpected words.

  “Maghrib. It’s time for Maghrib.”

  “I realize that. It’s almost time for prayer. I will come back at a more convenient time,” said Yousef, most respectfully. “I must ask you to excuse me, but I’ve just gotten back to our city and thought immediately of seeking you out, as I was instructed…”

  “Have a seat, my boy. There’ll be time enough. What’s more, it strikes me I won’t have to spend much time with you.” Yousef took his seat again. “Besides, the mosque is nearby. Did anyone see you come in? No? Are you sure? All the better.”

  Yousef sat down on a sofa directly beneath a mirror with a golden frame. The apparent owner of the house summoned the servant who stood waiting at the threshold, grave and alert, and when the servant drew near, the man murmured something in his ear. He ascended the stairs to the upper floor behind the master of the house and vanished.

  “So then, you’ve been in Afghanistan these past few years?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are the mujaheddin really winning the war against the Soviets?

  “Yes, we have won it. With the blessing of God.”

  “Yes. And the blood of men.”

  “Of course. That’s the price. That’s war.”

  “Would you really be willing to endure martyrdom if you were put to the test?”

  “I was put to the test.”

  “Did you kill any kafrs?”

  “Kafrs and Afghans loyal to the Communist Government.”

  “It destroys the heart to have to kill Muslims to free the country from communist oppression. Sheik Omar tells me that you saved his life when he was wounded on the battlefield, and that the Soviets actually came very close to killing Bin Laden.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Not much of a talker, are you?”

  “I believe I’m more of a warrior.”

  “Well I think you’ll also have to be a talker to succeed in what awaits you.”

  Yousef didn’t really understand these last words. The servant arrived with a tray carrying a pot of tea, two shallow cups and a high rectangular box the volume of a shoebox, with gold edging.

  “Fortunately the kitchen still works here and there is still tea, God be praised! You seem confused, lad. Surprised? Of course I don’t live here – what do you take me for? No one wants to live here anymore since the fabulous advent of oil. Anyone who can manage it changes his house in the old quarter for one in the new city that just keeps on growing beyond the walls. This house belongs to a poor old thing who let me borrow it for our meeting and who, by the way, must be in the mosque by now for the maghrib.” The man glanced at the servant and said, “Leave us.”

  The servant complied and went out into the street.

  “He is a good servant. All the more so because the kitchen in these houses is on the top floor!” Saying this, the man burst out laughing though Yousef did not join in – more out of indifference than any sort of antipathy.

  “Well then, let’s get to what brings you here, lad. Pay attention. I’ll be brief. You will go to London to take a course in Electrotechnical Engineering. From now on your name is Fahrouk. In this box you have a plane ticket and a number of bank cards that give you access to more money than you would earn in a lifetime. As soon as you walk out this door you can get at it in any bank. There is no need to say who is supervising this account. They tell me you’ll know how to put the money to good use, so as far as this matter is concerned, I’ll let it go, though I think it’s a waste to put so much money in the hands of such a young man, but I guess every man can look after himself and his money. In this same box there’s a piece of paper with a name and address on it. It will be your next contact once you get to London. When I leave, you’ll go upstairs and change your clothes. That’s all.”

  “And what is my mission in London?

  “That will be told to you there. This was all I had to tell you.”

  “Then why did you tell me I’d have to be more of a talker?”

  “Well, because you’ll be mixing with other cultures in England. And I presume that you’ll have to mix with westerners as much as possible so as not to attract unnecessary attention, but this is not my concern. My mission is just to deliver to you what’s inside this box and essentially to make sure you’ve got the money, the plane ticket, and that you’re on your way to your next contact abroad. I hope you enjoy your new life, lad! Now I’ve got to go to the mosque. Ah… and of course, never come looking for me again or approach me under any circumstances. Don’t even so much as look at me if one day you happen to run into me. We never met, we never knew each other. I wasn’t even here today.”

  Yousef saw him rise from the armchair, and he also got to his feet out of respect. He thought that everything was going too quickly and he should probably be asking something else, looking to get hold of some additional information. But what? Nothing occurred to him. He confined himself to respectfully saying goodbye while the mysterious man, undoubtedly of high standing in Saudi society, went to the door and closed it behind him without another word, leaving Yousef immersed in the solitude of the old house. He looked around, drank the rest of his tea then made his way upstairs.

  On the upper floor he found a bedroom with a bed, and on it a set of clothes in expensive fabrics, soft and cool, including the trousers and jacket of a suit, a shirt and tie, both of pure silk, the shirt white and the tie crimson. At the foot of the bed was a pair of very shiny black shoes. On the bedside table there was a watch and a pen, both golden, both luminous. Yousef inspected the adjoining bathroom, undressed and took a long shower. He relaxed under the tepid water streaming over his naked body. Then he put on, one item at a time, the clothes and accessories that had been left for him, and checked his appearance in a very tall mirror, almost his own size, leaning against a wall. He felt odd in this formal attire. A warrior donning the attire of an affluent businessman. His beard caught his attention. Up until that moment he had no notion of the size it had attained. He trimmed it carefully with a pair of scissors. He looked himself over in the mirror again, slowly this time. Reflected in the glass he saw what struck him
as some kind of oil tycoon. He was transfigured, though fully aware that it was nothing more than an outer covering. He was not this man. Inside he felt like the same humble and determined mujaheddin. On the bed were the old clothes, dirty and frayed, that he had arrived in. All he took from them was the photograph of Nasser’s sister that he always kept with him, placing it in the pocket of his new jacket. He went down to the floor below and examined the contents of the box with gold tracings that had been given to him. Inside there was one British Airways ticket that said, ‘place of departure, Jeddah,’ and ‘place of arrival, London,’ with the respective departure date in just a few days. The ticket was issued in the name of a certain Fahrouk. Inside the box there was also a passport. He took it and leafed through it. It was a Moroccan passport, and here was his new identification and photograph. The same name that appeared on the plane ticket, Fahrouk, plus the respective surnames that Yousef attempted to memorize. This was who he was now. And the rest? He would invent whatever was needed. He would stay in Jeddah for just a few days, judging from the departure date he saw printed on the plane ticket. Things were happening so abruptly. In the box there was still a fine leather wallet full of various cards and some cash. Some of the cards were bank cards, others not, and Yousef wasted no time analyzing them all. He still remembered to remove the photo of Nasser’s sister from his pocket and put it in the new wallet. He then put all the contents of the box in the jacket pockets of his new suit, and finally, left the house.

  18

  The sun was almost going down as a flood of people invaded the streets in small groups, as though they were all headed for a secret club. It was time for maghrib! How could Yousef have forgotten? Everything stops. Prayer before all else. It was important for him to go to the bank, but this would have to wait until the next day, and in any case, he still had money. He also had to visit his parents. And he had still one other important task that was battering his spirit. All at once he felt he was about to lose control. Weariness, hunger and an over-excited brain besieged him. He would concentrate on prayer alone. After prayer he would go straight to a hotel, have a good meal, and the next day he would take care of the rest. The comfort of his parents’ house passed through his head, but he rejected the idea. He couldn’t. What would he say? He would have to think it over. He would have to sleep on it. Perhaps enlightenment would come through prayer. He hastened his step and finally arrived at the closest mosque. The call to prayer dispensed from the loudspeakers of Jeddah’s many mosques was already echoing through the entire city – a very familiar sound that rang out severely as a summons to duty. People rushed to the beautiful mosque with its rectilinear architecture and very white walls that were now lit up by street lights in the fading light of day. The weather was somewhat stifling yet the onset of evening was balmy and agreeable. Yousef mingled with the crowd. The clothes he had put on were bothering him now. He didn’t feel like himself. He didn’t feel right wearing a disguise before God. He unfastened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. He was sweating. The hour of Salat, prayer, was impending, preceded by the first initial stage of purification. As he went into the mosque, he took off his shoes and placed them on the shelves along with those of the other faithful. Then he went to a sink that was like a shallow gutter, running all along one wall, fed by a number of faucets. Kneeling before a faucet, before washing himself, Yousef tried to determine the object of this coming prayer. His mind was too confused to pray for anything other than his own complete peace and inner concentration. And for wisdom. Illumination to follow the path of faith. Now his mind was working better. Kneeling at the level of the faucets, he washed his hands three times, then his mouth, all with running water, then sniffed repeatedly until he felt his nostrils were clean. He felt he was doing everything in too great a hurry and tried to relax. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he proceeded with his purification. He washed his face three times, his right and left forearm three times, his head, passing his hand through his somewhat unkempt mane, washed his neck, and finally both feet three times in a row. He now felt purer, lighter and free of any sort of worry. It was not like him to lose control. Around him, other Muslim brothers were going through the same ritual of purification. Yousef walked to his place in the midst of the others, turned towards Mecca, ready to hear the speech of the Imam. It was time to do a complete mental cleaning, preparing his mind for solitary dialogue with God, in the magnificent domain of the metaphysical. He closed his eyelids. Yet in that place in his mind where there had always been a peaceful and idyllic metaphysical world, he found anything but inner peace, and not a trace of the metaphysical. There was just a roiling sea of confusion, contradiction, anxiety and tension. Concentration, concentration Yousef, he told himself. It was time to be with God. It was time to be at peace. Absolute peace. Total harmony. All things fitting together. And yet he was assailed by images of Afghanistan. Nasser, Said, Sheik Omar, the enemy, Bin Laden, Sheik Tameem, Abdullah Azzam, the Egyptians… He couldn’t bear it, and opened his eyes abruptly, soaked in sweat. Around him he saw that he was getting looks of disdain. Someone asked him if he felt all right. He said he did. Just then, the Imam’s talk began and the time of maghrib had arrived at last.

  19

  He left the mosque stunned and frightened. He felt a tremendous fear that he had lost his bond to God – the feeling full of faith that arose at any Salat in a mosque. He was very hungry but even so, he wondered if what was indicated under those circumstances might not actually be a prolonged fast until his faith returned to normal. He summoned a cab and asked the driver to choose for him a good hotel facing the Red Sea. The cab driver took him to the Sheraton Jeddah Hotel in the beautiful coastal zone of Jeddah’s northern district. On inquiring at the reception desk, Yousef found the prices exorbitant. Even though he knew he now had a lot of money, it was still hard for him to spend so much in one throw, he disliked the idea of squandering Sheik Omar’s money on unnecessary extravagances. Beyond this, dealing with such high prices he easily lost a critical sense of the fair value of things. He became aware of the effect of oil on the city’s economy, since it was largely due to this that luxury hotels were now proliferating in the coastal zone. Despite the doubts that beset him and the modesty he felt about spending Sheik Omar’s money, he didn’t think he was capable of being very selective, and decided to reserve a room at once. He returned to the taxi waiting for him outside and at the hotel door he observed a group of business men passing him and getting into their long luxury cars. He reflected that it would be best to start noticing the habits of these tycoons to learn how they behaved so he could replicate it convincingly, but then he remembered that he already knew one example better than any other: Sheik Omar. All he had to do was imitate him, which was much easier, because Yousef was quite a bit like the Sheik in various respects, principally in his sober demeanor, given to few words that were spoken only when they were felt to be necessary. After paying the taxi driver, Yousef went back into the hotel, and soon immersed himself in the comfort of his room. He ordered a meal. He watched a little television. He ate and felt more relaxed. He prayed again and felt peace returning to his soul. Then he went to bed and quickly fell asleep.

  He spent the next day trying to recover his composure. He had a week in Jeddah – now one day less. He ate well, walked around the city, went to the bank, took out some money and said his prayers on schedule. When he saw the balance on the bank account they had given him, the length of the number nearly gave him a heart attack. It seemed that all his composure was about to disappear again, yet he managed to quiet his spirit. He got a hold of himself. He was dizzy at this new life he was diving into, and perhaps what was most disorienting was the fact that these latest events were taking place right here in the city where he had always lived, where nothing of even the slightest importance had ever happened to him until these last few days. He reminded himself that he was a warrior, that nothing could get to him unless it came by the will of God, and if that were the case, eve
n if His will were for Yousef to die, it would be the most honorable of martyrdoms. Everything else should be a matter of the utmost indifference to him. He was certain that he would not disappoint Al-Qaeda, Bin Laden or Sheik Omar, who had placed so much trust in him. That afternoon, he also had time to stop at a barber shop and trim his hair and beard. He was now unmistakably a Moroccan businessman. He made a few more purchases of clothes following the suggestions of the sales clerks in the stores. All in the finest fabrics and best brands available, bought with the recently acquired bank cards in his name, or rather, in the name of Fahrouk, whom he had now become. The second day in Jeddah went by without any major upsets, as Yousef strove to recover his composure, once again managing to say his prayers with his usual ease. He fell asleep determined to visit his family the next day.