by Bill Evans
He presumed that Raggedy Ass knew that he worked in television, but Suicide Sam hadn’t paid any attention to Birk’s laminates, so the correspondent was doing all he could to draw the man’s attention to them. He wished he could actually point to the goddamn things—I look like a fucking bobblehead doll—but this was not possible. And what’s with the plastic cuffs anyway? he wondered. Not what he would have expected from jihadists. Bailing wire, maybe. Rope, for sure. But plastic cuffs? Weird. Too Western for these troglodytes, although for all he knew, everything, including plastic handcuffs, had gone global. Al Qaeda probably buys them by the gross on the Net. Address? Third cave past the bombed Humvee. Christ, he hated terrorists. Not worth the lice in their straggly-ass beards.
The metal door of the engine room clanged open. Raggedy Ass glanced at him, then eyed Suicide Sam. With a single move of Raggedy Ass’s head, Suicide Sam left. Birk figured he was off to keep watch on the captain, who was probably hogtied in the wheelhouse.
Higgens would be right at home here.
Keeping to his soft-spoken strategy, still equal parts desperation and near delirium, Birk looked pleadingly at the top banana jihadist: “Please Mr. Scum-fuck Terrorist, could you rub your two brain cells together just long enough to realize that I’m your greatest asset?”
Hopeless. Raggedy Ass stared at him like he was from Mars. Birk nodded with what he thought was an idiotic grin, trying his damnedest to conform to the jihadist stereotype of a typical American: “CNN. BBC. Pee.”
He spoke slowly and loudly, consciously reinforcing the caricature of an American trying to make a foreigner understand him, but this asswipe seemed incapable of even the most basic civilized discourse.
Raggedy Ass walked over to him, shaking his head just like Suicide Sam had.
“Oh, of course, the poor terrorist is all befuddled,” Birk baby talked to him.
Raggedy Ass must have picked up on Birk’s poorly hidden hostility, because he abruptly kicked apart Birk’s legs. The old man became immediately uneasy, having his privates so wantonly vulnerable. Raggedy Ass placed the muzzle of his fifth appendage—the AK-47—right on Birk’s balls.
The reporter’s spineless smile morphed immediately into a wince, and he rued having alluded to his privates. Then Raggedy Ass exerted serious downward pressure, and Birk was overwhelmed by sickening pain. Turned into a writhing mass of wrinkled, tormented flesh. Even so, Birk managed to keep his gaze pinned to the man’s trigger finger.
Oh, God.
“Now you listen to me,” Raggedy Ass said in shockingly clear English. Not just English, but English with a thick Southern drawl. What the fuck? “You think you’re real funny, Rick Birk, but you want to know something?”
That I’m in the deepest shit ever? But outwardly, all Birk could manage—and only barely—was a nod.
“I’d have killed you back in Malé along with the other infidels, if I didn’t think you could help us, so stop your blasphemous swearing or I’ll send you straight to hell.”
“You … speak … English?” Birk gasped out.
“You’re a regular Einstein.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who grew up in the Great Satan. I found my true faith nine years ago on a pilgrimage to Mecca.” Raggedy Ass’s eyes rose briefly to the stained ceiling. “English is my first language. Heard enough? I know I’ve heard all I want to from you. I’ve heard every foul word and insult you’ve spoken.” He grabbed a fistful of Birk’s white hair, forcing the codger to look up at him at a painful angle. “You’re everything I hate. You’re everything Allah hates. But I’m going to spare you the horrors of eternal hell for a few more days, as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”
He pulled out a menacing combat knife, and Birk thought, despite the man’s words, that the jihadist was about to slice off his head. Instead, Raggedy Ass cut off the plastic cuffs and dragged the newsman to his feet. Birk’s legs almost buckled from a seizure of pain in his lower back, but he ground his teeth and confined evidence of his agony to a single moan.
The jihadist shoved him toward the door. “Out. Walk in front of me. Try to run and I’ll shoot you in the spine.”
“Where are we going?” Birk couldn’t forget what had happened to every member of the crew after Raggedy Ass dragged them to the railing.
“You’re going to go ‘live.’ That’s what you want, right?”
Birk staggered from the engine room like he was drunk. Never had he misjudged a man so severely. Mr. Scum-fuck Terrorist? Is that what you called him? Ai-yi-yi.
He’d found his own Omar Hammami, whose Syrian immigrant father had married an Alabama belle. They’d given little Omar a small-town upbringing in the heart of Dixie—Bible camp, high school class president, blond girlfriend, drunken Friday night fights—but despite all the advantages that American life could offer, Omar had turned to Islam. And not just any old Islam-in-a-mini-mall-mosque, but Islam in Somalia, where sweet, baby-faced Omar became a leader and spokesman of the Al Shabaab, one of the most brutal Islamist insurgencies.
What’s with the South? Birk asked himself in his newborn panic. Could growing up around crackers actually be worse than he’d imagined?
He looked back over his shoulder. “I can help you with your message.”
The hometown boy from hell shoved the barrel of the Kalashnikov into Birk’s wattled neck. “Shut up. When I tell you to talk, talk. Otherwise, don’t say a thing.”
Birk had heard those very words before—from an executive producer of Nightly News, back when he was still being invited to the set for live tête-à-têtes with the anchor. He’d love to obey, but his rampant and torturous thirst could not be denied.
“Could you spare me a drink, you suppose, from the captain’s private reserve? I don’t expect he’s making much use of it at the moment, and I, for one, work much better when I can wet my whistle.”
Raggedy Ass whacked Birk upside the head with his rifle barrel. The correspondent yowled.
“I should kill you now and, inshallah, I will when you’re no longer needed.”
I guess that means no.
CHAPTER 17
Parvez watched the two Al Qaeda operatives drive up to the small stucco house where he had been waiting for twenty minutes. Palm trees towered over the single-story home just three miles from downtown Malé. Parvez peeked out from behind a curtain, smelling meat grilling nearby, perhaps in the small, enclosed courtyard next door. He recalled the veiled words about storms that the short Mohammed had spoken at the café. Storms only Allah could see, the taller one had added. But there would be real storms, too. That was the forecast. Electrical storms to claw the sky. They were a divine sign, coming on this most propitious day. He saw great clouds already forming off the coast.
The two Mohammeds had given him the address of the house and told him to go directly inside, but said nothing about who owned the squat one-bedroom residence. Parvez knew better than to ask about that, or about how they had obtained permission to use it. He still didn’t know the men’s real names and he doubted he ever would. But whoever they were, they would report to their leaders in Pakistan that the humble cleric in the Maldives had performed bravely.
The jihadists were driving a windowless van. Parvez assumed they had rented it using forged documents and a stolen driver’s license. They were smart to have rented a van that looked like a delivery truck.
They backed the van into the driveway, got out, and hurried through the front door. Parvez stepped forward to bless them. But they seemed impatient with his prayers, and the cleric silently forgave them, knowing they were intent on their mission.
Short Mohammed carefully laid aside a pack, the kind university students used the world over, while tall Mohammed headed into the small kitchen and threw open a cabinet. He reached deep inside it, much farther than the space appeared to allow. Parvez heard a metallic sound, like a latch, and watched the man carefully retrieve a cardboard box. When he brought it over, Parvez saw a fu
se the color and shape of airline cable. He’d expected to see C-4.
“What are you using for the bomb?” Parvez asked.
“Ammonium nitrate. Nitromethane,” the shorter Mohammed said quickly.
Parvez nodded. Now he knew why they needed the van. The ANNM bomb would contain a thousand pounds or more of its murderous ingredients. Parvez smiled when he thought of how the blown-up van would become the principal item of interest in the next few days as investigators combed through the rubble of the Golden Crescent Hotel. An American veteran had used just this kind of bomb in a rental truck to attack his own people in the heart of America. Allah worked in ways as wondrous as they were mysterious.
If they were using a fuse, there would be no martyr for this attack. Parvez told the two Al Qaeda operatives that he regretted that a man would miss this opportunity to become a martyr. He said that he would have blessed the man and recorded his statement, as he had Adnan’s, for all the world to see. In his mind, Parvez knew that he would have provided great comfort to the martyr; he had even rehearsed his descriptions of the paradise that awaited the brave jihadist.
Short Mohammed turned around holding a vest. “There will be a martyr wearing this vest. After the van blows up, there will be rescuers…”
Of course, the one-two punch. Parvez almost said so aloud, but decided to let them think they were enlightening him. Sometimes a real leader had to treat men this way to get the most out of them. Look how much he, a simple cleric, had accomplished with his insight, understanding, and courage.
Consumed in his thoughts, Parvez had missed part of short Mohammed’s speech.
“I’m sorry, would you please repeat that?”
“When hundreds gather to help,” the man said, “you, Parvez, the great cleric of the Maldives…”
Parvez beamed with pride.
“… the Islamist who came up with this great plan, you will become the martyr of the Maldives.”
What! Parvez wanted to shout. “Tha-tha-that’s Adnan’s name,” was all he managed.
“So there will be two great martyrs of the Maldives in paradise. You, too, can become the jihadist of your dreams.”
Both Mohammeds smiled at Parvez and nodded enthusiastically.
Parvez smiled, too, but his face felt frozen. This cannot be, he said to himself. Not for a man so wise as me. A man with insight, understanding, and … courage.
* * *
Jenna felt flash-fried as soon as she stepped from the Gulfstream, brow and bare arms beading instantly with perspiration from the heat and humidity of the Maldives. Even after drought-stricken New York, the tropical sun felt nasty and brutish on her skin. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so hot in the archipelago. The tarmac radiated heat like a backyard grill. But the text she’d just received from Dafoe put a smile on her face: “Hi, Jenna, IMU so MCH. So do d cows! Dafoe.” She quickly texted him back: “I ms d cows. O, + U2! Ha-ha.”
She pocketed her phone and, exerting as little effort as possible, walked slowly to the private plane terminal. She had no desire to be drenched when she saw Rafan for the first time in ten years. As she approached the entrance, she noticed cumulus clouds forming in the distance. She’d have to keep an eye on them.
Oh, just relax, she told herself. You’ve got bigger fish to fry right now. She took a deep breath, unsure whether Rafan would even be waiting for her. He hadn’t responded to e-mails or texts noting her arrival time, and she hadn’t reached him by phone. She found his silence puzzling because he’d reinitiated contact with her, but his sister had perished in a ruthless terrorist attack, and Jenna could not fathom how the loss of someone so young and vital might have changed him.
The terminal doors opened automatically, and a rush of refrigerated air welcomed her. As the coolness settled over her moist skin she spotted Rafan. Her heart skipped, and she saw his dark eyes gleaming at the sight of her. He was as slyly attractive as ever, a man whose distinct features matched his mannerisms so seamlessly that she’d been drawn to him as soon as she’d spotted him at a party in Malé, the city to which she had now returned. In the months that had followed their first meeting ten years ago, she’d become even more entranced by his alluring appearance, whether in bed, on a starlit beach, or in the cozy breakfast nook of the condo he owned by the sea.
His beard remained black and closely cropped, and his face and waist were as lean as ever. The decade, despite the loss of his parents and sister, hadn’t bowed his back with grief or rounded his square shoulders. But his eyes looked laden, as if they bore all his pain, and when he opened his arms to receive her, she knew that it was he who needed holding.
The rest of her news team might have recognized this, too, because they edged past without a word.
“I’m so sorry,” Jenna whispered. “Basheera was an amazing woman.” More than once, she’d wondered if Rafan’s sister would someday become her sister-in-law. He’d been her first real love, but she was eight years younger than he and had wanted to experience more of life before settling down. His carefully penned letters had trailed her all the way to New York, conveying his passions and desires. Even now, with the memory of their love as alive as the man in her arms, she didn’t regret her decision to leave him, but she did rue the pain that Rafan had suffered, and she felt so much more deeply for the agony of his most recent and far greater loss.
“Thank you,” he said softly, still holding her and trembling noticeably. “She never forgot you.”
He stepped back and took her hands. He spoke softly. “I lost more than Basheera. I lost the woman I loved. Her name was Senada, and she was murdered two days ago.”
Without letting go of Jenna’s hands, he led her to a couch in the waiting area, moving them away from a long line of Saudis streaming into the terminal from one of the royal family’s wide-bodied jets.
“Murdered?” Jenna said with the same disbelief that she’d felt after Dafoe had told her about GreenSpirit’s death.
“The police found her shot to death next to her husband. They think Senada was killed by the men who took over the tanker.”
Jenna found herself reeling from the news that Rafan had been involved with a married woman. This was the Maldives, not Manhattan. An involvement with a married woman could have gotten him killed. “How could what happened to that tanker have anything to do with your friend?”
“Her husband was a fisherman. The police are saying that he helped the jihadists by taking them to Malé on his boat. Then something went wrong,” he spoke those last words slowly, “or they killed him to keep him quiet. Her, too.”
“Do you think she was involved somehow?”
“No, she never would have helped jihadists. She believed in her faith but she thought the Islamists were insane. She hated what they were doing to Islam in the eyes of the world. And she never would have done it for him. It was an arranged marriage. They didn’t love each other. They barely spoke to each other.” Rafan let go of Jenna’s hands. “I might have caused her death. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I may never know.”
“How could you have been involved in any way?”
“I called her. I’d given her a phone so when he was at sea she could call me and not have to worry about him checking phone bills. Or I could call her. She turned it off whenever he was home, so if it went straight to voice mail I’d know that he was around.” Rafan took a choking breath. “Two days ago I called and a man answered. He started yelling ‘Who is this?’ I think it was her husband. I hung up immediately. A few hours later, I tried again, but there was no answer and Senada never got back in touch. I called the police anonymously.”
Rafan’s pooling eyes overflowed.
“Had you known her long?”
“Forever, but we didn’t really become…” He hesitated.
Jenna said, “Romantic?”
Rafan nodded and continued, “Not till a few years ago. She was Basheera’s closest friend from the time they started school.” He turned away, voice failing. Jenna handed
him a tissue.
“I don’t know if I can help you much.” Rafan’s shoulders rose and fell in the weakest of shrugs. “I’m not strong. I wasn’t sure I could come out here to see you.”
“Rafan, don’t worry about us.” She reclaimed his hands. They felt cold, chilled by the brute reality of violent death.
“I can’t even bury her,” he said. “A woman I love, and I can’t go near the funeral. ‘Why is he here?’ her brothers will say. They always had their suspicions. Her oldest brother even threatened to kill her.” He sighed. “And now the police are questioning me.”
“What?”
“They found Senada’s phone and saw the last call that she got. Now her brothers will want my blood. They won’t blame the jihadists—they’ll blame me for loving her.” He groaned. “I had to sneak Senada into the cemetery to say good-bye to my sister. Can you imagine that?” He looked so piercingly at Jenna that it felt like the walls that had separated them for so many years had burned to cinders in a flash of sorrow. “And now I’ll have to sneak into the cemetery to say good-bye to her. I just want to die.”
She pulled him close, and when he tried to retreat, she held him tighter.
“No,” she said to him. “You can’t die. There are people who love you, who will always love you. People like me.”
His soft hands—the result of a life spent paging through books and writing densely analytical papers about coral reefs and encroaching tide lines—rose to her face. He held her cheeks in a cool clasp.
“I have to go back to my mosque and talk to God.”
Jenna nodded. It’s what we do when we’re grieving, she thought. We hold on to whatever we can.
Rafan continued, “I can’t let them hijack the faith of my father and mother and sister the way they took that ship, with guns and rockets and murder.” His voice staggered under the pressing weight of that final word.
He sounded like the Christians she knew who stood up to the fanatics in their churches—the deniers of science in all its forms, who’d begun by denying evolution, moved on to denying climate change, and would, if left unchecked, denounce the very core of reason itself.
