by Ken Hansen
“Don’t count on it.”
Anwari closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his fingertips. Am I in danger here?
The voice continued, “Don’t worry about it either. Remember, you are an Afghan hero. We may be able to use this. Keep your distance but track his movements. We don’t want him seeing you show up nearby any time soon. He does not trust coincidence. I’ll call tomorrow, same time.”
Switching off the scrambler, Anwari pocketed the phone. Afghan hero? The Americans saw it that way. He couldn’t tell if he was a hero or a traitor back then, so why should he believe it now? Images of that painful night smoldered in front of him. He closed his eyes and tightened his lips, holding the emotion in, recalling his pledge. Inshallah.
Chapter 6
“Another pint, Sir?” The barmaid at Sof Hfamim pub flashed her best tip-provoking smile at Huxley.
Huxley returned the smile. “Hmm, no, just water, please.” He could use a good deal of logical insight, maybe colored by a little creativity. While another beer might pump up his creative powers a touch, it might undermine the clarity of his reason. He couldn’t let the patterns escape him.
He had failed at Megiddo. Sure, he had found the initial clue in the contacts list and perhaps another strand to run down in Rome, but nothing came from his follow up with Prof. Katzir, the dig leader at Megiddo. He had a small lead, but something else kept gnawing at him: the apparent clues in the terrorist’s contacts list. Why did the terrorist give him Tel Megiddo? There was something more here, and the two Huxley contacts in Najwa’s phone held the key.
The “real” information in the contacts entries probably held no codes or clues, so what was left in the entry on Christian Huxley? He focused on the “Other” address:
2K927 Kings Ridge Dr.
Arden, DE 22329
Only the words “Ridge” and “Arden” had not been used by him to figure out Tel Megiddo. Ridge could refer to the hill or “Tel” of Megiddo at the archaeology site. Perhaps Ridge should be ignored, but did “Dr. Arden” refer to someone? He searched “Dr. Arden” on his computer and found references to a few random physicians and dentists, but nothing noteworthy. Probably just the props and costumes of the entry—pieces that helped disguise it as an apparently real address to the casual observer.
What about the note: “Mother: Maryam?” When he saw “Forsaken and Deceased” again, his stomach fell. He swallowed hard and returned his left hand back from the outside of his pants pocket, feeling the only tangible thing remaining from his mother. No time to wallow in the depths of that despair. Still, he couldn’t help wading in for a few seconds.
His mother, Adona, had officially died over a year ago, but her mind had departed nearly a year before that. Would she have believed that her mythical soul sped away to Heaven as soon as her mind drifted away or that it would simply wait for the rest of her body to expire? No, she was a devout Roman Catholic, so her soul would sit and wait for her body to rot as long as her heart kept beating and her brain created a wavy EEG. To the church, it was like leaving a bad husband—death guarded the only exit door for souls and marriages (except for that little annulment technicality). Never mind that her personality had fled her, that she couldn’t even remember him, let alone forgive him. He had to live with that tragedy as he cared for her that last year, all the while feeling the guilt enveloping him as the life oozed slowly out of her body. He had no time for this self-pity.
Huxley looked up and caught the waitress’s eye and smiled. She returned the gesture, nodded and walked over to his table. “I’ve changed my mind. Get me a Guinness.”
“Here’s your water, sir. The Guinness will be here as soon as they finish slow pouring it. You know how that is.”
“Aye, but ‘tis part of its inherent beauty, me little lass.”
She shook her head but smiled.
He returned to his own dialect and squinted slightly. “Seriously, I think I can make it that long.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He returned to the phone entry. Nearly every part of the Maryam entry must be decipherable. The grandparents’ address fit his mother only as her childhood address, though his grandparents had lived there much longer. He had walked with his momma around the Italian neighborhood on Boston’s North End when he was young. That was a few years before his father’s “accident,” when they were all visiting Nonna and Nonno. Even then it was one of the prettiest little neighborhoods in Boston. No grand old mansions towered over the neighborhood like in Beacon Hill, and no grand shops lured visitors like in the Back Bay; still, its little brick buildings felt quaint and ethnic, and at dinner time the scent of breads and sauces wafting out of the windows made the whole place smell like home.
He had walked with his mother by a beautiful church a few blocks away when his father went out to “mail a few letters.” That was his father’s little code for spending the afternoon at a local tavern in yet another feeble attempt to soak the ever-present depression out of his bones. On the other hand, maybe his father was finding other avenues for his afternoon entertainment even then—a form of escape that would not occur to Huxley until just before the “accident.”
Although the church was pretty, he’d always been drawn more to its outdoor “Peace Garden.” Filled with statues of various Catholic saints, the garden was an ideal spot for his mother to nurture him through his Catholic upbringing. She would point to each statue, quizzing him on the saints and their history. It gave him yet another chance to garner praise from his beloved mother. She was always so proud of him, and he loved to hear her tell him how clever he was. She often added, “Your brain is a gift from the Lord, my son. Use it for His good works. Every gift can be used for good or evil. You must trust your heart and fill it with God’s love, and He will guide your way.” Of course, if his father had been there, the rogue would have coughed up phlegm at Momma’s pronouncement and then given Christian a knowing smirk behind her back.
Huxley’s favorite piece in the garden was really a set of several statues. Mary, the mother of Jesus, stood in the center with her palms together, raised in prayer. In front of the Virgin knelt three unknown worshipers praying for the Holy Mother’s intercession, while a sheep stood to the side. It was a lovely piece of art that told any thinking Christian that this was a Roman Catholic Church.
The fake name on the contacts’ entry was Maryam Huxley. Was Maryam a reference to his mother’s devout beliefs? The earlier clue was a biblical reference, so perhaps this one continued the motif. When he searched “Maryam” on the Internet, two religious entries appeared. The first referred to a related form of the name, Mariam, the Hebrew name for the sister of Moses and Aaron. According to Exodus, she sang a victory song while gloating after Pharaoh and his army were drowned in the Red Sea:
Sing to the LORD, for he is gloriously triumphant; Horse and chariot he has cast into the sea.
The second hit told him Maryam was the Aramaic and Arab equivalent to “Mary,” the mother of Jesus Christ, who appears in both the Christian New Testament and the Islamic Qur’an. Since Mary and Jesus likely spoke often in Aramaic, it made sense that the entry in the contacts list would refer to her instead of Miriam from the Old Testament.
There were other fake parts of the contacts entry, such as the “other” address for Maryam:
3971 North St. Joan Way
Kingston, Mass. 01723
St. Joan Way was not a street in Kingston. Did this mean St. Joan showed the way north? How could Joan of Arc do that? Arc. Arc. That had another meaning. An arc in geometry is the segment of a circle. The degrees of an angle from the center to the endpoints of the arc on the circle are shorthand for the length of the arc. If you know the center and the starting direction, the degrees give you the new direction. Then all you need is the radius to get the next endpoint. This arc could show him the way. From where? Tel Megiddo.
He studied the address further. There were two sets of numbers—3971 and 01723—and a direction—north. He pulled u
p a map on Google Earth and made his origin the center of Tel Megiddo, since that was the starting point from the last clue. Degrees on a circle in math, or on a map or compass, always increased from 0 degrees at North to 360 degrees clockwise as you completed the circle. He used the first number as his degrees and used the army convention of two decimal places, making it 39.71 degrees.
He looked back at the address. Kilometers, or KM, was indicated by the capital K in Kingston and the capital M in “Mass.” That explained the strange abbreviation of Massachusetts. MA would have created three capital letters, “KMA,” which might have been too confusing. Using the same convention, he figured 17.23 KM, so he looked 17.23 KM from Tel Megiddo on an angle of 39.71 degrees and then zoomed in. He let out a little laugh. “I guess I should pat myself on the back—the Church of the Annunciation.”
It all came together now: the angle and distance, Maryam, Mass, and the home address that represented the childhood home of Mary, not of Huxley’s real mother. He looked it up on the Internet and confirmed his suspicions. The Church of the Annunciation was located in Nazareth, Israel. Catholics built the church over the reputed ruins of Mary’s childhood home—the home she lived in before marrying Joseph and before bearing Jesus in her womb. It was known as the Church of the Annunciation because they believed Mary’s childhood home was the site of the Annunciation—the moment when the angel Gabriel told Mary she would bear God’s only begotten Son. The church would hold a Mass there at least every Sunday.
Bruce began singing about Mary’s place on Huxley’s cell. “Hello again, Kira. Good to hear from you during normal working hours.”
“I don’t know what ‘normal working hours’ are, but thanks. I got a contact for you at Rabin Army Base. Just sent it to your phone. We also have a hit on the picture you sent. He’s Abdul Saboor Anwari, a former lomri baridman in the Afghan army who fought with us against the Taliban there. A lomri baridman is roughly equivalent to a first lieutenant.”
“You know I was there, right?” Huxley said. “Anything special about his service?”
“The CIA has him down as a possible future operative. Well respected, speaks and reads fluent English, Dari Persian and Arabic. Got along well with his American counterparts. Oh, and he was a bit of a hero.”
“What did he do?”
“First, he was great at sniffing out the Taliban in hostile areas. Seemed to have a sixth sense about it. He also saved a U.S. major’s life once when his Black Hawk was hit by an RPG in Logar. Seems Anwari and his men fought off a Taliban contingent closing in on the survivors. Lost half his men and caught two bullets himself, but he kept them at bay until air support arrived.”
Huxley rubbed his chin. “He still in the army?”
“Officially, yes,” Kira replied, “but he’s now unofficially inactive on a small salary. He led a few other missions as we were beginning to turn over the reigns to the Afghan army, but then he went on leave to help his brother, who was in Kabul mending from a Taliban attack in Jalalabad. Shortly after that, the Afghan army let him go inactive, apparently at his request. A bit odd, but they probably owed him after taking a couple bullets for his country. Not disabled, though. According to the CIA records, he maintains contacts with the army’s intelligence agencies and occasionally provides some intel.”
“Any suggestion he might be working for the Israelis?”
“CIA wasn’t aware of any contracts, but Aman doesn’t share those. Tough to tell.”
“Could he really just be on a vacation in Israel?”
“Well,” Kira said, “Israel approved his visa for that purpose a few weeks ago. There was some delay in the application, but it was granted after the Israeli state department did a background check with us on his military record. You would think Israel would expedite his papers if they used him as an operative, but the CIA tells me the visa thing might have been a ruse to keep us in the dark. Apparently they’ve done that before.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Just one thing,” Kira said. “He seems to have traveled pretty extensively for a man with his limited income. Rome, Pakistan, Israel.”
“You sure the CIA hasn’t procured him as an operative?”
“I think they would tell me, wouldn’t they?” she asked.
Huxley chortled with sarcasm. “You still believe in fairy tales, I see. No, Kira, not always. We Homeland folks look an awful lot like a troubling upstart cousin to the spy boys. They may invite us to their holiday dinners, but they aren’t going to share much beyond that happy little meal. Any line on where Anwari is staying here?”
“He’s at a hotel in Nazareth. I’ll send you the info.”
“Nazareth.” Huxley nodded a few times. “All signs point north. Well, northeast anyway.” This former Afghan lieutenant was looking more interesting by the moment. Maybe the lieutenant could use a new American friend. Keep your friends close…
Chapter 7
Standing at his bathroom sink, Anwari practiced the Wudu cleansing ritual perfectly, washing his hands three times, rinsing his mouth three times, and sniffing water into his nose—again three times. After completing these steps, he washed his face and arms three times and put his wet hands over his head and placed them around his neck and into his ears. Finally, he washed his feet—again three times. He always began with the right foot, just as he always cleansed his right arm and right hand before the counterparts on his left.
Anwari walked into the bedroom and faced south toward Mecca, raised both of his hands to his ears and said, “Allahu Akbar.” He then began the opening prayer of the Salat in Arabic: “In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. All Praise is due to Allah alone…” He continued the Salat with prayers and bowing until he reached the Sujud. He prostrated himself on his knees, with his forehead and nose touching the stinking hotel carpet and said aloud three times in Arabic, “Glory to my Sustainer, the most High.” He stopped with his nose still on the ground, sighed, and mentally rebuked himself for his lack of focus. The glory of Allah had been swept aside in his mind by an image of Christian Huxley.
Last night, he had watched Huxley emerge from the tavern near Tel Megiddo after sundown, pick up his luggage at his hotel near Mizra, and travel north to Nazareth—to the very hotel where Anwari was staying. It did not surprise Anwari that Huxley had traveled to Nazareth, but at this particular hotel on a night when he would have to pay for two hotel rooms 9 kilometers apart?
After finishing his prayers, Anwari stood up and glanced at his well-worn copy of the Qur’an on the desk. Read it again. Find your way. He spoke aloud: “Allah, be merciful for my transgressions. I seek to follow your words, but I am lost in their beauty. Help me find my retribution. No, not my retribution, but yours. Please help me see the right path. Let me be the instrument of your will and your vengeance, not of mine alone.”
Anwari reached into his pocket and pulled out a faded and wrinkled picture of a man about his own age standing behind a much smaller woman with a red scarf around her head. She held her right arm around a young boy standing in front of her. In her left arm, she held a toddler still in diapers. They looked like they were all laughing at the camera.
“Karim, my brother,” Anwari had said, “Try smiling a little. What’s the matter, did little Samad drop a stink bomb in his diaper?” It had not been much, but the surprise had caused the needed effect—just the look he had wanted for a picture of his favorite family…
Anwari grimaced. Better days, despite the stinking Taliban. At least they had all been alive then, even though the Taliban had been so oppressive and cruel. He closed his eyes and looked up. “Help me find the path of righteousness, oh Lord, that you may forgive me and turn my evil deeds to good ones.”
Anwari started a call on his flip phone.
“Hello,” responded the familiar, deep, resonant voice.
“He has arrived here.”
“In the city?”
“In the hotel,” Anwari said. “A coincidence?”
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br /> “What do you think? There are probably 15 different hotels in that city, and many are American tourist quality. I think there is a very low probability of a coincidence.”
“But he thought I was a tourist.”
“He has identified you,” said the deep voice. “It is of no matter. Let us use this to our advantage. He will seek you out today—let him. He cannot know your role in all of this. You must befriend him. Stick to your backstory. Americans are your friends. You are a tourist. Your friendship will give you the necessary cover to keep tabs on him.”
Anwari stared out the window for a few seconds. “I fear he will see through me.”
“You have been thoroughly trained by us, Abdul. Follow your training, act like yourself, but bury your emotions deep. Recall the good times in the Afghan army and let that replace your emotional state. He will not know what to think, and you can complete your mission successfully and gloriously. It is the will of Allah.”
“I know I should hate him, yet I find myself liking him. What has he done personally to deserve your wrath?”
“Look,” said the deep voice, “I know he can seem likable, but remember this: first and foremost, he is a tool of his government, just like Half-Moon Mole. As that tool, he has proven quite adept and plenty ruthless. He has persecuted your people in the depths of lonely prison cells where many still rot for no good reason. He ignores the consequences of his or his government’s actions. You know all too well about those consequences. Do not forget that. Do not forget your past. Do not fall prey to his friendly banter, for it is nothing but a part he plays to his advantage. Play your own part, Abdul, but do not forget.”
“Forget? How could I?” Anwari asked.
“Indeed.”
After the phone disconnected, Anwari looked at the tattered picture of his brother and family again and picked up the Qur’an, turning to Sura 2, Ayat 190–95, for the hundredth time in the past week:
