Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery) (20 page)

“OUT,” he bellowed, a ferocious expression on his face. They scurried away as he slammed the bathroom door behind them.

• • •

In his room, Ahmed tried to control his excitement. He’d leave now to explore the library vicinity before meeting Khadija at 4:00 PM. He studied her map, pocketed it and left the house.

Arriving early, he strolled in the park near the library, past playground and tennis courts to a woodsy path, where he sat on a bench. Teenagers nearby flung plastic discs through the air into a chained net on a tree, walked a short distance and repeated this into another chained net. They disappeared into the woods but the on-going clank of chains signaled the game continued. A few minutes later, two men about his age came by, carrying more of these flying saucer discs.

“Hello,” said one. “Would you like to play a round of Frisbee golf with us?”

Normally shunning filthy infidels like these, people his team would soon kill in great numbers, Ahmed’s curiosity surprised him. What were Americans like? He doubted Paradise offered this Frisbee golf. Ahmed liked games. He knew Iran invented the world-renowned game of chess. What could he lose by learning more about his enemy? “Yes, thank you, I would.”

“I’m Maury and this is Bob. Do you know how to play?”

Ahmed shook their offered hands, American style. “My name is…Albert. I do not know how to play but I would like to learn. However, I must be at the library at 4:00. Will we have time?”

“Yes, because the game is quick, easy and fun. We’ll teach you as we go along.”

In friendly sports, men could build pleasant camaraderie during an hour together. They cheered each other’s scores and consoled if they missed. When they finished the game, Bob noted “Albert” still had five minutes to reach the library, only a few steps away.

“Here, take my business card,” said Maury, “in case you want to play again sometime.”

“Morris Rosenblum,” Ahmed read the card aloud and stared in shock. “Are you a Jew?”

Maury laughed, “Well, that’s one of the things I am.” He studied Ahmed. “Are you an Arab?” he asked good-naturedly.”

Ahmed thought fast. “Until I become an American," he lied.

“Great. People in America learn to get along together. Sports and solving common problems together are two good examples. Think about the effect 9/11 had on us, uniting us all.”

These words hit Ahmed like a slap across his face. Was Maury right? The terror Ahmed’s cell planned only a few miles away was to weaken American’s resistance to Islam. Was the opposite possible? Uneasily, he studied his watch.  “I…I must go now. Thank you for this Frisbee game.”

45

Saturday, 3:55 PM

Inside the library, Ahmed crossed carpeted floors in this newly refurbished building filled with people of all ages. He stood at the wall of windows overlooking the park he’d just left, thinking of the astonishing goods arrayed at two supermarkets Mahmud included on today’s trip to McLean, the mega shopping malls at Tyson Corner and the endless bustle of cars. How could he explain the contrast between this luxury and the life he’d known? Were these products of the evil Satan or something desirable to be understood and reproduced in his country?

“Hello, Ahmed.” Khadija’s sweet voice spun him around. “Do you like our McLean library?”

“Yes. Thank you for inviting me to see it.” And to see you, added his unspoken thought.

“Anyone can select and read books right here. Fairfax County residents can get a library card to take home books or audios or movies. Computers are over there. Librarians help you research a topic or find a book or guide you in other directions that interest you.”

“Khadija, I think my country has no women like you: intelligent, kind, accomplished; a professional teacher and yet a modest female. Men and women cannot be friends there, but you have offered friendship and knowledge to a stranger from a far-away land. This is new and confusing for me, but so pleasant that I look forward to every minute I see you.”

“Ahmed, you’re my father’s guest but you show interest in America. The coincidence that I teach American culture gives us a special way to connect. Did you finish the book I gave you?”

“Yes, last night. Please understand these new ideas shake the world I know.”

“But do you like the ideas?” She indicated chairs and they sat down.

He tried to balance the familiar predictability of his homeland’s unchallenged dogma against the stimulation of new ideas here. What he’d seen and learned in McLean made him doubt the Middle-Eastern tales told to him about America. Did that label him weak or even a traitor? If so, should he reveal this now to anyone? “My mind is asking many new questions.”

“Intelligent minds always ask questions. How to improve the quality of life for more people around the world? How to improve cooperation among countries? How to share peace to improve their economies? How to use money to stop famine or cure diseases instead of funding wars?”

He’d not considered such issues but thought about these goals. Was this an American trick to pretend peaceful interests while arming for victory when others laid down their guns? America was engaged in active “peace-keeping” wars with deadly weapons in other countries this very minute. He spoke carefully. “What if someone knows his way is the true and only way; that others must change to his religion and if they resist…he must be certain they conform?”

She asked, “How did he learn his is the only way? Did he figure it out himself or did someone tell him? Usually, a child’s parents teach him the same religion they were taught to believe. The child hears more of this at his church or mosque. Then he joins the church, often in a ceremony approved by friends and family who believe this same religion. The child may even attend church school or a religious college, reinforcing those same ideas. Where church and government are not separated, laws may uphold the same religious doctrines. This happened in Europe for centuries. That’s one reason the American revolutionaries insisted on separation of church and state.”

“This is hard to imagine.”

“If everyone around him agrees about a religion, a child thinks it must be true. But later, as an adult, he may think for himself. His lifelong indoctrination may be so strong he sticks with his early religion. Or he may look for something else. This happened for my mother. As an adult she left her childhood religion and converted to Islam. In the same way, a Muslim might decide to convert because that one-and-only ‘true’ religion doesn’t satisfy him.”

“Questioning God is blasphemy.”

She nodded. “Yes, I understand the need for such a belief in many cultures. That teaching conveniently prevents people from exploring new ideas. If I try to push my religion on you against your will, I deny you freedom to make your own choice. I might try convincing you my religion is better than yours, hoping you’ll change your mind and convert, but in America I can’t force my will on you. Here, people can keep their religion or change it or choose none. You’d need a police state to deny individuals freedom of thought and religion.”

“But what if God is on my side?”

She laughed. “Every religion thinks god is on their side. Which one is right?”

“God knows what is true.”

“Whose god? Each of the many religions feels confident theirs is the only true one, so who knows which one really is? Is it decided by war? Is it decided by terrorism?”

“Islam demands submission to God and also teaches men’s and women’s roles in society.”

“Ahmed, in my country, my education and work at the college label me a useful, productive citizen who found and developed her talents. But in your country leaving my house unchaperoned each day, driving my own car to work and wearing no hijab would brand me a loose woman with no marriage prospects. I might be stoned there for the very behavior that’s valued here.”

“Meeting you shows me my culture’s narrow view of women. Are marriages arranged here also?”

She laughed. “No, but if we love our family we hope they approve of the person we choose.”

“I suppose you look for a young man your age?”

“I look for an intelligent, attractive, kind man who will love me as I love him and who wants to make a happy family with children. When I find that man, age is not important.”

Ahmed choked back a near sob of helpless despair, disguised as a loud cough. Set on a narrow terrorist course by the Great Leader, he hadn’t acknowledged the powerful hunger for a fulfilling family life. But meeting Khadija, he ached for the love of this beautiful woman and the children they could create and enjoy together. He heard himself say, “Would you consider a man my age?”

“To me, age is less important than the vision we share.”

“Orphaned early, I never had a real family of my own, but now I long to do so.”

“When your business trip here ends, won’t you return to the Middle East to find a bride?”

He stared grimly at his hands, unable to reveal his life-ending assignment only a week away.

“Freedom means choices. You can change your mind if you’re on a path you don’t like.”

This innocent woman couldn’t know the penalty for changing his mind meant death at the hands of his cell, who then would implement their terrorist mission—with him or without him.

46

Saturday, 5:03 PM

Preparing to leave after an hour at the library, they paused in the foyer. Khadija said, “If you like our country and our culture and want to stay when you finish your business in McLean might you consider applying for citizenship? You’re already here, so it’s very convenient.”

Convenient? How could he tell her he sneaked into this country without documentation and harbored violent intentions? Impossible described his situation better.

“Some foreigners who find themselves here defect, requesting political protection if they fear death or persecution at home.”

Ahmed stared at her blankly.

“If I drive home now and your stroll takes twenty minutes, we’ll arrive separately. My father forbids me to talk to you, so I may not be allowed at meals any more.”

He stared at her back as she walked to her car.

Pondering their conversation on the stroll back, Ahmed returned to the house and went to his room. Looking over his target maps again, he felt a sudden pang of aversion for the task he’d trained to complete. When his plan ignited, innocent women like Khadija and children like Safia would perish in horrible ways. 

He flipped through a few TV channels. He forced his mind again toward the magnitude of the assignment before him and of the treasure entrusted to him to fund those plans. On impulse, he checked the closet shelf again. Reaching up, he pushed his suitcase to the right and, not seeing what he sought, pulled it forward off the shelf. His eyes widened in disbelief! No doll! He shook his head to clear his vision before staring again at the very spot where the doll lay yesterday.

Where was the doll—with the critically essential diamonds stuffed inside?

He unzippered his suitcase and fished his hand through all its pockets. Frantic, he probed every inch of the closet.  He even studied the closet ceiling for hidden access but saw only seamless, solid wood with uniformly aged white paint. He spun around the room, opening every drawer, ripping covers from the bed, jerking off the mattress, pushing furniture away from walls. He even searched the small refrigerator and microwave.

Red-faced from exertion, he sank onto the bed, his head in his hands, and moaned. After a few moments he heard a rap on his bedroom door.

“Who is it?” he croaked hoarsely.

“Mahmud.  Are you all right, Ahmed?” Although thinking 5:30 an odd time for a nap, he asked, “Another bad dream?”

Ahmed rushed to the door and jerked it open. “Come inside quickly,” he said. “We have a serious problem.”

Mahmud glanced around the disheveled room, eyebrows lifted. “What is it? Can I help?”

“I…I found an old doll in this room and I…needed to protect something valuable so I sewed it inside the doll and put the doll on that high closet shelf behind my suitcase.” Anguish filled his voice. “Now the doll is gone!” He jumped to his feet, grabbed Mahmud shoulders, shook him and growled, “We must find that doll!”

Startled by Ahmed’s behavior, Mahmud pulled back to stare at his guest. First, the nightmares and now this crazed tantrum in a torn-apart room. Had his guest gone mad?

“The doll was here this morning. Someone in this house took it. Was it you?”

“As Allah is my witness, peace be upon His name, I know nothing about this!”

“Then find the person who does,” thundered Ahmed.

“I will question my wife and report back to you.”

“No.” Ahmed shouted. “Bring her here. I will question her myself.”

“As you wish.” He disappeared down the hall, returning with a frightened Zayneb.

Ahmed eyed her wildly, “Where is the doll from behind my suitcase in this closet?”

Zayneb dared not tell the truth. She quivered with fear at reprisals from her husband’s normal bad temper. This would trigger his full rage, amplified by embarrassment in front of this guest he sought to impress. With trembling voice, she told a variation of the facts that might save her life.