by Steve Israel
“Not bad,” said Cheney. “But then pivot to strength. Peace through strength, Mr. President.”
THEY STARTED IT
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 2004
Hassan had entered Paradise, and found that it was good. Nubile women carried silver trays heaping with the finest foods. Wine flowed and soothing music played. There were lavish banquets and refreshing pools of water cooled perfectly to the touch.
Plus, an upgraded room for members of the Frequent Guests program. Subject to availability.
Hassan had not achieved martyrdom. But he had attained the title of General Manager at the Paradise Hotel and Residences. Now he dressed in a purple blazer and khaki pants and trademark Paradise yellow tie. He strutted through the lobby, followed by his assistant managers, Fakhir, who scurried after him like the supplicant that he was, Pervez, who supervised the kitchen, Achmed, who handled banquet sales, and Azad, who booked entertainment. And on this particular day, he surveyed his dominion and smiled at his triumphs.
There was a new sign at the towel hut: PLEASE TAKE MANY TOWELS. NO LIMIT.
Hassan had never been happier. Free of the pounding headaches and the aching deep in his groin.
And speaking of that, check out the new lifeguard! The way she stared at Hassan from her perch above the pool. How she dangled her thin ankles and how her tanned thighs flattened against her chair, and—
“Hassan. Wake up, Hassan.”
Fakhir shook Hassan in his cot. His words raced. And in his sleepy state, Hassan had difficulty comprehending them.
“Hassan, I have news. From Gaza. About your two sisters. They were martyred, Hassan. At the hands of the Zionists. In the Jabalya refugee camp. May Allah give them an easy and pleasant journey and shower blessings on their graves. Are you awake, Hassan?”
Hassan tried to swat at Fakhir so he could return to dreaming about the lifeguard.
“Did you hear me, Hassan? Your sisters!”
He shook off the sleep. “Fakhir, you do not know what you are talking about. My family lives in Gaza City. I grew up there. Not a refugee camp. It is someone else you speak of.”
“No, Hassan. Your home was destroyed many weeks ago. Hamas used it to store weapons to fight the Jews. So the Jews destroyed it with their missiles. Your family moved to Jabalya. To the refugee camp.”
Now the words were sharper. Is that why there was no answer when I used Rona’s phone? he wondered.
“Hassan?”
“My sisters?” he said, and it came out as a whimper. “Adiva. Ameerah! Oh God, my sisters.” His shoulders trembled and his body shook. Tears pooled in his eyes “Be brave, Hassan!”
He closed his fists, tighter and tighter. Moments ago he was in Paradise. Now he was in hell. He began pounding his fists against the thin pillow. The harder he hit, the more he gasped.
“Do not cry, Hassan. The Zionists martyred your sisters. But rejoice! They only struck because our Qassam missiles killed two Israeli children. In Sderot. The vengeful arm of our Prophet reached into the land of the Jews and took their children!”
Hassan thought, To which the vengeful arm of the Jews reached into Gaza and took my sisters. Who avenged first? And when would it end?
“God willing, you will see your sisters in Paradise, Hassan. How blessed you are!”
Hassan glared through his tears at the fat man who didn’t suffer anything except the occasional under-tipper, who got to stuff grape leaves into his mouth and blow-up everyone from a safe distance. All of the hate that Hassan had built up over the years—for the oppressors and the Americans, the infidels and the Zionists, and the demanders of more than two towels—turned toward that one fat man. His lips rolled back and he bared his teeth. And the words spilled out of his mouth, coarse and seething: “Get away from me, Fakhir! Get away before I fucking kill you!”
Fakhir bolted.
Hassan lowered his head to the pillow, which was wet with tears. He thought of his mother wailing at the funeral of her daughters and the Jewish mothers wailing at the funerals of their daughters.
Later, they sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the backpacks that Hassan had placed before them, as if they would blow up at any moment. It was stifling hot, and Hassan noticed that Fakhir was sweating heavily. Whenever Hassan made eye contact with him, Fakhir’s eyes darted elsewhere.
Hassan began. “Brothers, you have been trained well for our mission. We have been ordered to strike tomorrow. Now I must ask: Are you ready?”
They mumbled their ascent. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, thought Hassan. That is fine.
“Then today you must make final preparations.” He pointed to a video camera mounted on a tripod in a corner of the warehouse. “You must record your final messages. For your families.” He felt his throat tighten. “Think of what you will say to them. These will be the last words they ever hear from you.”
Silence.
“Will you miss your family, Azad?”
Azad nodded slowly. “I will see them one day in Paradise.” Then he looked up and asked, “Won’t I?”
Hassan shrugged. “That is what they say. Although no one who has ever been to Paradise has returned to say for certain. Sooooo . . .”
Azad looked uncomfortable.
“How about you, Achmed? What will you miss after you are gone?”
Achmed stared for several moments, then said, “You know, I have given this much thought . . . I am willing to make the sacrifice not to go to Paradise. I can drive you guys to the debate, drop you off, then I will be able to tell your families personally how you became martyrs and pleased God.”
The others glared at Achmed, and Hassan thought, A great sacrifice, indeed. We blow ourselves up and your biggest risk is a speeding ticket on the ride back. Then he said, “Actually, Tora Bora has commanded that Pervez drive the car.”
Pervez smiled.
“Of course, the American CIA will find Pervez, torture him until he begs for death, but keep him alive and imprisoned forever in Guantánamo. May God be with you, Pervez.”
Pervez stopped smiling.
“What will you miss, Pervez? What will you think about while they are waterboarding you in Guantánamo?”
Pervez sighed. “I will miss working at the McDonald’s. I was told the assistant manager’s position puts you on what they call an executive track.”
“I was thinking of one day opening up a landscape design company,” Azad offered. “I would call it Mujaha-Green.” And when no one laughed, Azad said, “That is a joke. I have been watching standup comedy on HBO. At the Feldsteins’. I will miss that too. And American Idol.”
Hassan let the quiet and doubt sink in. He watched as their eyes moved from the backpacks to the carpet and back, as their legs and fingers twitched.
And then said, “My brothers, you must decide what to do. As for me, the decision is made. I will not be joining you in Paradise. Or at the debate. My mission has been completed.”
“What are you saying, Hassan?” asked Fakhir. “We have a duty!”
“Then do your duty, Fakhir! Blow yourself up and kill the people around you tomorrow. A week from now, the Americans will avenge those deaths with more death. Maybe they will kill your sisters. A week from then we will kill the ones that killed us. And so on and so forth, as the Americans like to say. Meanwhile, I have a life to live. I am sick of death. I am going into the hospitality business.”
Fakhir protested, “You cannot do this! You must be steadfast! You must persevere! What about the seventy-two virgins?”
Pervez growled, then pulled his favorite fruit-cutting knife from a pocket and waved it in the air. “Fakhir is correct!” he snarled.
Hassan’s eyes narrowed as Pervez approached him.
“But I require some proof of these virgins.” He spun toward Fakhir, who remained seated and cross-legged, now trembling. “So I w
ill now slice off your head and send you to Paradise. When you get there, if you see any virgins, text us. And we will meet you there.”
“A head start, without the head!” Azad giggled.
“Yes, Fakhir, save a virgin for me,” Achmed said, clapping.
Pervez leaned over Fakhir, waving the knife over his head. The sweat poured from the fat man’s face, draining it of all color.
“Peace be with you, Fakhir!” Achmed proclaimed.
“Merry martyrdom!” Azad giggled.
Hassan put his body between Pervez and Fakhir.
“You have the authority to terminate the mission, Fakhir. You can call Tora Bora, end this operation, and disband the cell. And save all our lives. One day, Pervez can return to the McDonald’s. Azad to the lawn service, Achmed to cleaning planes—”
“We prefer to call it aircraft comfort services,” Achmed said.
“And you, Fakhir, maybe you can go back to Souvlaki City. Collect your tips, eat all the shish kebab you can, and live happily ever after. Because, from the look of things, living in America has not treated you so poorly.”
Fakhir lowered his head, grateful it was still attached to his torso, and shook it slowly. “Even if I end this mission, the FBI will find us. We are dead men in America.”
“No. We will be American heroes. We will go to a different paradise. With palm trees and mountains. They will pay us a great deal of money and give us beautiful homes and free health care.” Hassan thought of the groin pain he once suffered. “We will meet women on Match.com and have unlimited cable television.”
He unfolded a slip of paper. Earlier, he had copied a number from a tattered phone directory. He pressed the keypad on his cell phone and waited.
A voice answered: “FBI, Miami.”
“My name is Hassan Muzan. Of the Abu al-Zarqawi Martyrs of Militancy. I have information to share. Who may I speak to about your witness protection program?”
Dick Cheney hated when a VPOTUS briefing began with “We have good news and bad news.” The good news was never as good as the bad news was bad. So in the White House Situation Room, when the Director of the FBI began with a good news/bad news scenario, the Vice President snapped, “Just tell me what I need to know.”
As the Director nodded, Jon Pruitt noticed the other officials around the table reverting to eighth grade—lowering their eyes, squirming in their seats, and trying to be invisible.
The good news was that in exchange for new identities, homes, and part-time salaries tucked into the payroll lines of various federal agencies and offices, the terrorist cell in Florida was now a cooperating witness cell.
The bad news was that the Vice President’s plan to expose the cell just before the presidential debate was now terminated. The cell not only called off their attack, they left the harmless backpacks on the curb outside their hideout with a sign that said PLEASE TAKE, like a piece of old furniture discarded for neighborhood scavengers. Then they cut their deal to provide intel to the Feds as long as no one ever knew they existed.
Which meant no dramatic announcement. No three-night CNN special coverage complete with blood-chilling mug shots and specially composed “The Plot to Kill the President” theme music.
No post-debate, pre-election bounce so high that Kerry would strain his scrawny neck watching it.
Cheney sat straight in his chair, shoulders pulled up to his chin, listening to the FBI Director drone.
“Finally, sir, there is the matter of Mr. and Mrs. Morris Feldstein. Of Great Neck, New York.”
“Ah, yes,” cooed the Vice President. “Let’s not forget the Feldsteins.”
Pruitt could swear he heard the FBI Director gulp. “Sir, the Zarqawi informants insist that the Feldsteins had nothing to do with their plans to attack the homeland. They claim Morris and Rona Feldstein just happened to meet Hassan at his place of employment. The Paradise Hotel and Residences. They struck up a friendship and—”
“They’re lying,” Cheney hissed.
“They did pass multiple polygraphs on this point,” the Director replied.
“Ohhhh, a polygraph!” Scooter Libby exclaimed. “A five thousand dollar polygraph! And all we have is NICK, the most sophisticated NSA intelligence software ever written.”
“The Feldsteins are definitely up to something,” Cheney said. “Otherwise NICK would not be tracking them. The question is, do we have enough to arrest and question them?”
“Not without violating their civil rights,” the Attorney General replied meekly, which was appropriate because he was generally meek about civil rights.
Cheney said, “Even if there is no direct tie between the Feldsteins and al-Zarqawi, they did something to merit NICK’s suspicion. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Stay on them. Move the resources we had on the al-Zarqawi cell to the Feldsteins. If they so much as make an illegal right turn on red, I want them arrested.”
Heads nodded.
“Anything else?” Cheney asked.
The Secret Service director raised his hand. “Sir, we did have a pretty nifty personal protection device engineered for the President to wear at the debate. It wasn’t exactly cheap. Now what?”
“Let him wear it. It may come in handy.”
DENIM BLUES
WEDNESDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 29, 2004
Caryn had to work that night, but didn’t mind. She considered her job an observation post, where she could collect material for her planned documentary on the economic plight of retail workers, tentatively entitled “Mall Stall.” Plus, the overtime was decent and she had a 401k.
Caryn was certain that one day she would win an Oscar for Best Documentary. Meanwhile, she was vying for employee of the month at the Gap.
As scenes from her documentary unfolded in her mind, Caryn refolded piles of autumn wool turtleneck sweaters on the twenty-percent-off table. She knew that her meticulous aligning of sleeves, collars, and hems would be disrupted by the next gang of shoppers who bulldozed through the display.
For now, the mall was quiet. It was dinner hour. A few teenage girls combed through endless shelves of jeans in all shapes and sizes: original cut, skinny cut, incredibly skinny cut, and cut-off-your-circulation cut. An exhausted-looking mother and her daughter argued quietly near the fitting rooms about how “your father will have a friggin’ heart attack if you wear those things.” Caryn’s manager, who always wore a headset, like one of those Borgs on Star Trek, was reorganizing a rack of designer sweatshirts.
And there were those two men. Definitely not holders of the Gap Loyalty card. Dressed in dark suits and shiny loafers. Their hands always clasped in front of their crotches. Pretending to browse but more interested in Caryn. Peering at her over racks and around tables.
They’re right out of one of dad’s Bogart movies, thought Caryn. Like those nineteen-fifties black-and-white detectives. All they need are fedoras and cigarettes.
Ever since her arrest at the Republican Convention, Caryn had the feeling that people were studying her. But she knew that couldn’t be true. As the daughter of a therapist, she even created a name for her anxiety: post-arrest stress disorder. The self-diagnosis helped her cope, but lately she felt her condition worsen. Glances became stares. Things were closing in. The aperture was narrowing.
Caryn was taught by Rona to confront trouble. So she swallowed hard, pulled her frizzy hair behind her ears, and marched toward the two men.
“Hey, can I help you guys?”
They glanced at each other uncomfortably.
“Just looking,” said one.
“Browsing,” said the other.
Caryn nodded. “Okay. Just let me know. And don’t forget our September Sock Sale. Two pairs for the price of one. Ends tomorrow.”
“We won’t forget,” said one.
“We never forget,” said the other.
Caryn turned aw
ay. Troubled.
THE EARLY BIRD & THE WORM
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2004
During the ride to work the next morning, Tom Fairbanks repeated to himself, through his fixed jaw, “The early bird gets the worm. The early bird gets the worm.”
It was so early that there was hardly any traffic on the Long Island Expressway, meaning plenty of road and little road rage. No cars to cut off, no assholes to shout at, no middle fingers to put up. So early that a dimming moon lingered in a purple sky. So early that he found a spot close to the entrance of his building and walked through a lonely atrium to the rapid-fire echo of his steps against the granite floor.
“The early bird gets the worm!” Fairbanks said again, as an elevator whisked him to the fourth floor.
The worm was Morris Feldstein, twisting and turning on his own country. A piece of slime trying to burrow deep into American soil where no one could find him.
Except that Feldstein could not hide. The entire federal bureaucracy was waiting to bring him to justice, writhing and wriggling. Fairbanks had to act fast. To get that worm before anyone else.
A pile of newspapers lay cluttered at the front door of the DHS suite. Newsday, the Daily News, and the New York Post. As he inserted his key and stepped over the papers, Fairbanks smiled. Or thought it was a smile. These were muscles he rarely used.
Tomorrow I will be in the morning papers! Famous for the arrest of Morris Feldstein. That unlikely terrorist. That enemy within. That worm.
He walked through the lobby and saw the portraits of President Bush and Homeland Security Secretary Ridge on the wall. Would either man call to offer the thanks of a grateful nation after the apprehension of Feldstein? Perhaps they would fly him to Washington for an award ceremony.
