by Moses Roth
In the front passenger seat is the man from the broadcast. I can see him better now. Maybe 40? Handsome, very tan. He looks familiar.
The man next to me sniffs, then sniffs closer to me then pulls back in disgust, saying something and laughing. The driver curses angrily and the man sitting shotgun laughs. He turns to look at me and I keep (one) eye contact.
He says, “Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head.
“My name is Khaled Urdunn.”
The terrorist.
“Ah, you do know me. What do you know about me?”
I shake my head.
“You can say.”
I say, “Ter—” and sputter out a dry gurgle.
He grabs a water bottle from the cup holder, twists it open, puts it to my lips.
I suck on it, drinking, I cough, spurt some out, keep drinking, drinking, all of it, like a baby, not enough, just sucking air.
He takes it away and I cough and cough and sputter. He opens his window and throws the bottle out.
He says, “Well?”
I say, “Terrorist.”
He says, “I’m the terrorist? You blew up the Qubbat As-Sakhrah.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your men claimed credit.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“So your own men are lying!”
I shake my head.
He says, “That’s all? No response?”
“A man I work with did it. I told him not to. It was my idea, but I didn’t want— I didn’t want it, he didn’t listen to me.”
“So you’re just a weak leader instead of an evil one. Maybe it’s worse.”
I nod. “Maybe.”
“And now, because of your idea, because of your weakness, there will be war. How many will die? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? All their deaths on your head.”
I nod. “You’re right.”
He says, “You call me a terrorist. I killed a few people, for freedom for my people. I killed a few oppressors. You? You’ve killed countless innocent civilians.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all? You’re sorry?”
I shrug and shake my head.
He says, “Why your men do this? Why they want to blow up the masjid, the mosque?”
“They want the war. And for the Temple. It’s one of the prophecies, the messiah must rebuild the Temple.”
“Ah, so you did want them to do it. You’re just passing the blame.”
“No. I didn’t want it. I’m the messiah for all people. Muslims too. The mosque is my holy site as well. I’m not the dajjal. Not Satan. The mahdi.”
He laughs and says something in Arabic and the others laugh. He says, “Okay then, Mahdi.” He turns on the radio and Arabian music, whatever it’s called, plays. He says, “Allah will judge you and you’ll get what you deserve. Either way.”
Chapter 83
I look around at the countryside we’re driving through. “Where are we?” I say.
“Syria,” Urdunn says.
“How did we get across the border?”
“They thought it was only heroin in our trunk.”
I lean back in my seat and stare out the window.
We approach a small, run-down town and head into it. We stop in between bombed-out buildings.
The man next to me gets out and comes around to my side and pulls me out of the car. Urdunn gets out too and I’m shoved down the old dusty, ruined street.
We turn a corner and a few blocks ahead is a huge gathering of people in the town center.
“Where are we?” I say.
Urdunn says, “Palestinian refugee camp.”
We reach the crowd and enter. Thousands of people, yelling at me, jeering, shoving, and grabbing at me.
I stumble to my knees, gouging them on rocks, and the man with the gun grabs me by the armpit and pulls me to my feet and keeps dragging me.
Ahead is a wall, pocked and ragged. Graffiti all over it. Chains hanging from it. Bolted to the wall recently, it looks like.
He pulls me through the crowd and to the wall. He turns me around, uncuffs me, and he and Urdunn chain me up by my wrists to the wall. Too weak to struggle.
There are video cameras set up at the front of the crowd.
Urdunn holds his hands up, quieting everyone. One of the camera crew puts a boom mic above Urdunn’s head. He yells something in Arabic. The crowd cheers.
He yells some more.
People pick up rocks.
He points at me and yells something else.
He and the man with the gun walk toward the crowd.
A rock comes flying and just misses my head, smashing against the wall.
Urdunn yells, “Intazer!” and holds his hands up for them to wait. Once they reach the crowd, I’m dead.
“Allahuakbar!” I scream. Urdunn stops. “Allahuakbar!” He turns. “Allahuakbar!” As long as he’s standing there, I’m safe.
He says something in Arabic.
“I’m not the dajjal. Please…” I don’t know Arabic. Even if I did, what would I say? I knew some, why didn’t I practice? Say something, remember something.
Urdunn walks into the crowd. It’s just me.
“Please. No. Please.” They understand, but it doesn’t matter.
Please God. Please.
“Allahuakbar.”
One guy throws a rock but it misses.
A seconD HIts.
Oh God.
PlEASE.
Another hITS.
Please.
I only pray when there’s nO OTHther hope LEft.
It mEAns I’m alrEAdy dead.
Hnnnnnhhh. Can’t breathe. Stomach. Breathe. Breathe.
I gASp. Gasp.
One of them flings a rock at my heAD—
I surrender. GOD, please. I suRREnder.
I yell, “La ilaha ila Allah, Muhammad rasulu Allah!”
A murmur rises.
A stone flies past my head.
Urdunn holds up his hands.
Another rocK HIts me.
“Intazer!” he yells. “Intazer, intazer!”
No more stones come.
He walks back to me and bends down, putting his face next to mine, “You wish to be Muslim?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Or are you a jackal, chewing its own leg, to escape a trap?”
“No. Yes, I’m a jackal, but please forgive me. Allah forgive me.”
“You admit your responsibility for destroying the Qubbat As-Sakhrah?”
“Yes! Yes, it was my fault, yes.”
“And you ask forgiveness.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“And you admit all your sins against us? You renounce your wicked ways. You will change? You will fight for us, not against us?”
“Yes. Please, yes. Yes, yes. Please forgive me.”
“Allah does forgive you.” He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “And yes, we too forgive you. We are your brothers now.” He turns to the crowd and shouts something in Arabic.
There’s a murmur and loud boos.
He shouts something else and the crowd starts to disperse.
He says something to the men with guns and they come unshackle me.
Chapter 84
The shower streams down on me, the best shower I’ve ever had.
I open my mouth for a sip, no, I’d have diarrhea for a month, I spit it out.
I pee. I rub my hair and my body. Blood and grime mix with the urine and flow into the drain.
I soap up and shampoo and rinse and just soak.
My fingers are getting wrinkly, so I get out.
I take the penicillin and oxycodone from the packages on the sink, get dressed, including an eye patch, and go out.
Urdunn and the man with the gun, now with a pistol in a holster instead of the machine-gun, are waiting for me in the living room on a couch. “Salaam alaykum,” Urdunn says. “Please sit.”
; “Alaykum salaam,” I say and sit across from them on a cushy chair.
A woman comes from the kitchen and brings me tea. “Shukran,” I say and she disappears back into the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” Urdunn says.
I nod. “Good.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?”
I say to the other man, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Awadi.”
Urdunn says, “This is my bodyguard, yes, you haven’t been properly introduced.”
I say, “Well, I’m fine, thanks.”
Urdunn says, “Good. I’ve been receiving a lot of criticism for not letting you die. I hope my gamble that you will be more valuable to us when they see you working for our side than as a martyr for theirs is true. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
I nod.
He says, “Do you want to take a walk?”
“Sure.”
We leave and as we walk down the road, I look back at the house we came from, a small home with a chicken coop. I say, “Is that your home?”
Urdunn and Awadi exchange amused smiles. Urdunn says, “No, I don’t live here. Just a family friend.”
It’s a small, bleak town. The streets are covered in rubble, with rundown houses and storefronts.
I say, “We’re in a refugee camp?”
“Yes. If you can call a town that has existed for fifty years a camp. You see how the Israelis subjugate these people.”
I nod.
He says, “I think that perhaps, despite your claim of reversion, your heart still belongs with Israel?”
“When I said I was the messiah, do you know what that means?”
“Yes, masih or mahdi. Or perhaps Isa. Jesus.”
“It means I declared myself king. I’ve been against the Israeli government since the day I arrived there. As long as I’ve been there, I’ve been a revolutionary, the same as you.”
“Very well, but are you with us?”
“For me, the messiah isn’t just the ruler of Israel. The messiah is the king of all the world, and the Palestinians and all Muslims and all people are my people. I want to protect them and liberate them, the same as everyone.”
“Understand that we are not backing your claims of being the mahdi. Only yesterday we called you the dajjal, the mahdi’s opponent.”
“The devil.”
“Yes, the devil. Of course you have repented, though it will be to Allah to judge your sin… sin… your heart, how do you say?”
“Judge my sins?”
“No, a different word, begins with ‘sin’, like your heart.”
“Oh, sincerity?”
“Yes, sincerity. Allah will judge your sincerity. For us, we can’t know. But we will give you the… um…”
“The benefit of the doubt?”
“Yes, this.”
I say, “Islam means surrender, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I have surrendered to God. Unconditionally. I am sincere.”
He’s looking me in the eye and he says, “I believe you.”
The static-filled call to prayer comes from the loudspeakers on the mosque.
Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar!
He says, “The azan, will you pray with us?”
I nod. “Yes.”
A mosque is just up ahead and we wash in front and go inside. It’s a domed room with a red carpet and we go to the front and kneel. Urdunn shows me how to do the stages of salat.
I surrender to you, God, I do. I am sincere.
I’m just a vessel for your will.
I don’t exist, only you do.
He finishes showing me and then he begins his own prayers and I watch him.
Awadi’s phone rings and he answers it, “Alo,” and he leaves.
I could kill Urdunn right now. Strangle him to death. I look around at the other seven, no, eight men in the mosque. No time for strangling. Maybe I could bash his head in. Am I strong enough? Can’t be sure. They’d probably be on me before I could hit him enough times. I need a weapon, anything. A knife at least. Cut his throat so deep he’d bleed out before they could staunch it.
He finishes and stands and leads us to the side where we sit on a bench. He says, “I think you blame me for your woman’s death, no?”
I look away.
“Yes. I didn’t order them, I hope you know this. Some of my men, they are only boys, they get excited, out of control.”
“Okay.”
“You heart is still hard to hear this. It will be the same for anybody. We will discipline these boys when the fighting ends. And we will speak again. Okay?” He puts his hand out for me to shake.
I shake it. I could pull him in and just claw out his Adam’s apple. Maybe bite it out. Gouge into his eyes with my thumbs till I was digging in his brain.
But what about the actual killers?
He’s right, he didn’t do it, he’s just the boss. If I kill him, they’ll kill me. How will I kill them?
I let his hand go.
Awadi approaches from outside. Urdunn and he walk away a few feet and murmur too each other. Arabic, too soft and fast for me to understand anything. Why didn’t I study harder?
I’m gonna find out who the killers are. Kill them. And then kill Urdunn.
Urdunn looks at me and says, “You asked about my home, do you want to see it?”
Chapter 85
We drive to Damascus and board Urdunn’s Gulfstream jet.
I sit in the chair across from Awadi.
We take off and I go to the head.
I pee and wash my hands and check the mirror. I could grab a knife. Awadi’ll never fire his gun on here. I could kill him, then beat Urdunn till he tells me who they are.
Awadi could rip me apart. He probably knows that terrorist martial art and he’s like fifty pounds heavier than me, most of it height and muscle.
I leave and look in the food prep area.
The stewardess is preparing the food cart. “Yes?” she says.
“Just wanted some water,” I mutter. She pours me a plastic cup and I go back to my seat.
We land in Doha and drive to Urdunn’s huge mansion. We go in and he has a maid show me to a guest bedroom. I flop down on the king-sized bed and turn on the TV.
It looks like it’s constant coverage of the war on the cable news channels.
standing here in the Golan Heights where the Lebanese army has advanced
I go to the bathroom, pee, and wash my face. I look in the
Manuel Kadur
Huh?
is still missing presumed dead, the White House could not be reached for comment.
I run out of the bathroom and look at the television.
On screen, hundreds of people hold candles and pray at the Wailing Wall.
Vigils for him are being attended by thousands every night. The Israeli government has warned that these ceremonies are potential targets and has thus advised citizens not to attend. In other news, Egypt has made indications of
I shut off the TV and walk downstairs to the kitchen.
I open drawers till I find the knives and grab one, a small meat carver, and stick it in my sock and cover it with my pants.
Someone’s coming, I go to the fridge and look for food.
Urdunn says, “You want to go out?”
I close the fridge and say, “Yeah.”
He gives me some dressy clothes and I go to my room to get ready. I stash the knife between the mattress and the headboard, shower, and get dressed.
We take his limo into the city center. We pull into an alley and up to the backdoor of a nightclub. We get out and go in.
It’s dark and flashing colored lights move around the room. A hostess leads us through the crowd to a roped off VIP section. I take a seat on a couch next to Awadi and Urdunn sits across from us. Electronic dance music throbs the whole place and I can’t hear anything else. That’s good, I don’t want to talk to these guys.
Girls c
ome over, three of them, two join Urdunn and one squeezes between Awadi and me. Prostitutes I guess? The guys know them.
A waitress brings some bottles. They pour me a drink and I sip it. Then I have another and another.
It helps me relax, at least. It’s nice to not have to fake being comfortable.
I feel fine.
I have to pee.
I head for the WC and Awadi follows.
I pee, but he doesn’t. Has he not been drinking?
No wait, that’s the wrong question.
I zip up and turn to him and say, “Are you Urdunn’s bodyguard or mine?”
He shrugs and smiles.
I say, “Wouldn’t want me running away.” I wash my hands.
He says, “That’s not even a question though, right?”
“Nope.”
We leave, but I head for the terrace and Awadi follows.
Outside I ask him for a cigarette. He gives me one and says, “They’ll let you smoke inside.”
I shrug. “I’m American.”
He lights it for me and I look out at the city. I guess I won’t get a chance to see much of it.
I look inside through the window at Urdunn, he’s talking with some guy in robes. Where’d he come from?
“Who’s that?” I say.
“Prince Akhmed. Khaled came here to meet him, to make a deal.”
“He’s from Qatar? The king’s son?”
“No, from… another country.”
“What kind of a deal are they making?”
“For support.”
“You mean military support? In Israel?”
He shrugs.
I say, “Is that why we came here?”
“Khaled doesn’t like nightclubs.”
I turn back to the city.
The azan begins. I perform salat, the only one. The others watch me.
I finish and go back inside. Awadi follows.
Chapter 86
Morning, we head back to the airport. Walking across the tarmac, I say, “Where are we going now?”
Urdunn says, “Bethlehem.”
“Bethlehem?”
