Jihadi (24 page)

‘The prisoner is respectfully requested to stand for an important announcement concerning his schedule.’

Morale Specialist, arrogant and impatient and free on the other side of the bars, waited for Thelonius to stand, which took a while. He announced in low tones that Thelonius was to prepare for a visitor. The visitor was scheduled to arrive at nine the next morning.

Thelonius had no idea who that visitor might be. Then he did.

Mike Mazzoni bowed his head in triumph before his audience of dawn-worshippers.

The bullet whistled past, four inches or so above his head, and embedded itself in a wall, where it became evidence.

Indelible fired again, and missed again. More evidence. Everyone had hit the deck. He was on duty at Jahannum within forty minutes of the gunshots.

Mike Mazzoni’s day was eventful. He found himself an even larger celebrity on the base. He was already the guy who got away with running the dog ring, had maybe gotten away with more than that. Now he gave the impression of living a totally charmed life, of being the hunter who could not be hunted.

Mazzoni spoke quite fast all that day. He concluded, for reasons known only to himself, that he had seen a woman take a shot at him while he took that bow in the Wreck Room. The men ate and listened.

Usually, he explained, they’re concealed in some kind of urban cover, snipers are. Usually they’re waiting for you to pass by some neutral spot, like when you’re out on patrol. Usually they don’t leave the city, but this hajji bitch had followed him all the way out here and waited for him. Whoever she was, he would find her. That, he could promise.

Fatima wondered aloud what the speed limit was. The sullen driver of her unmarked car pretended not to hear, only grunted as they coursed past some of the most obscure alleys Islamic City had to offer. Fatima saw a gathering, spotted a familiar face and said, ‘Pull over, please. Right here.’

Fatima pushed the metal button that unrolled the window, listened to the faceless, expanding crowd. The window lowered with a hum in the same key as the hum from the people.

Was it her?

A woman with a megaphone was bellowing over both of the hums.

The woman, who appeared not to notice Fatima’s car or its driver, had fixated on the growing throng before her, become intoxicated by it, drawn energy from it. She shouted at it. She informed it that her husband, Abu Islam, was the Khalifah, the global leader of the Muslim true believers, that Islamic City had been formally designated as the capital of his administration, that her husband had declared the present government of the Islamic Republic illegitimate, in large part because of its failure to deliver up to holy and immediate execution the American Satan who had urinated on the Holy Koran in her presence. She had seen him perform this abomination herself, while separated by iron bars that prevented her from taking action to defend her honour, her religion and her nation. He had then murdered two people in the street. She had seen that, too.

The woman with the megaphone confirmed that the geographical borders of the Khilafah her husband administered extended across seven countries, which she named. Her husband had also ruled – and here she confirmed only what she prayed to Allah was already the heart’s desire of every true Muslim present – that Americans were subject to immediate death in all of those lands. Paradise, and the full remission of all sins, awaited any Muslim who fulfilled this ruling.

In the time Fatima had been watching, the crowd had grown by several dozen people. All the new arrivals were dressed in white.

‘The White Beast,’ the driver said. ‘In person. What do you make of it?’

His tone was difficult to read. It might have indicated sarcasm. Not admiration, surely?

‘Yes. The White Beast. Get us out, please.’

The window hummed shut without her pushing anything, and still the crowd grew. Some of the men blocked their path now. The driver struck the horn, unnecessarily long in Fatima’s estimation, then eased around them.

A river of nationalist sewage, disguised as religious worship, seeped through countless unseen compartments beneath the surface of Islamic City, threatening to flood the streets. Threatening to engulf them all in shit.

‘You are not ready for Khilafah,’ Fatima said out loud to the woman shouting into the megaphone. She spoke the words knowing they could not be heard. The car found its way past the throng, picked up momentum and sped through another back street. ‘You have not earned it.’

The driver caught her eye in the rear-view mirror.

‘Have you ever piloted an aeroplane, Thelonius?’

‘A what?’

‘An aeroplane.’ The Raisin regarded him with one eye open slightly wider than the other.

‘Who calls it that now?’

‘Those of us colonized by the British.’

‘I know some British people. I think they say “airplane” now.’

‘That’s because they, in turn, have been colonized by the Americans.’

The moment passed in two smiles.

‘I’ve never flown one, no.’

The Raisin lit two new cigarettes, and said, ‘An aeroplane, Thelonius, flying into a headwind, and wishing to reach a target that is due east, must fly, not in an
easterly
direction, but in a
northeasterly
direction. Ask me why.’

‘Why?’

‘To account for the stiff headwinds. The headwinds of Satan,
the reigning power on earth. They have been blowing for centuries. They will never blow themselves out. This is Islam: idealism in the face of Satan’s headwinds. To fly northeast when you wish to go east. Knowing this is the true religion.’

Thelonius heard something, sat up, checked the window, saw the outlines of the city re-established, started toward the sound, caught sight of the open Koran on the sill, then returned and lay back down.

‘No point bowing and making ablutions and fasting and visiting the Kaaba if that much is not understood.’

‘Islam is about flying, is it?’

‘Islam is about intention, which means it is about aspiration. Purpose. Moderation. Worshipping the Creator in every act, and never the creation. Islam is about changing direction. This is from our Prophet, peace be upon him. He would order the pilot to live his life northeast. This is from our revelation. That book you refuse to read asks, “Where, then, are you going?”’

Thelonius began to answer, but stopped, pressing his teeth against his tongue to keep the breath of the word inside.

‘This question is from God. It is from all the great prophets and all the great minds. It is from Moses. It is from Jesus Christ, may the peace and blessings of our Lord be upon him. It is from Goethe, Rumi, Frankl. Without this question, without this search for a purpose that is higher than ourselves, without this search for who we are meant to be, all struggle is in vain, all religion is blasphemy. We must find our best selves while there is time to do so.’

Outside, the chanting from the streets strengthened.

Thelonius felt a sour tang in his mouth.

‘One either steers northeast or east. One either believes one has an obligation to become a better person or one does not. There is no middle ground.’

Thelonius nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice clear. ‘I do believe that.’

‘Then you are a Muslim. You are my countryman. More than those fools outside who think they are protecting the Koran by keeping it from being pissed on. They piss on their own hearts.’

Morale Specialist came, said something impossible to understand and led Thelonius away.

Presently he found himself in a brightly lit room.

A long concrete slab divided it from floor to ceiling. Within the slab lay a series of small window frames filled with double layers of glass, and before each window, on each side, was a small table and a chair. Thelonius approached the furthest window, as directed, and took his seat. On the other side of the bulletproof Plexiglas sat, not a State Department official, not a representative of the Directorate, but Fatima A––.

A headscarf and a facial veil obscured everything above and below her eyes. But those large eyes (really, that blue?) spoke in a familiar, cautious tone he recognized. ‘Here we are again,’ they said.

‘Here we are,’ Thelonius’s eyes said back.

Thelonius said hello out loud first. She returned a cautious, identical hello. Morale Specialist had somehow disappeared from Thelonius’s side of the glass and reappeared, standing at a discreet distance, behind Fatima.

Their hellos had been comfortable enough, electrically amplified, so there was no need to hold a receiver when you wanted to speak. They were being recorded, no doubt.

What was there to say?

She sat up straight, her two, cloth-covered forearms resting on the table. Her fingers were interleaved. Two thicknesses of Plexiglas separated her from Thelonius, but neither of them worried about that.

The wrists suggested that they led to slim forearms, but somehow he managed to put that aside and focus only on her eyes. They had varying depths and colours, but all inclining to that blue. She looked into his eyes head-on, not approving, not disapproving, capable of stopping him with nothing but attention. It occurred to him again that she really had no fear of anything whatsoever.

They inspected each other.

‘You will have received my letter, then.’

‘Yes. Thank you for returning
SERGEANT USA
.’

She gave a little smile. ‘I tried to secure a medical visit for you. They say it’s mandatory, but won’t set a date.’

He nodded. Then, filling the space, she said: ‘Certain elements of your government may have created an opportunity for you. I have inherited the responsibility of transmitting the details of this opportunity. Before I do that, I want to know whether you agree to tell me the truth.’

She had found a way to irritate him already.

‘Do you mind my asking why you sound … American?’

‘No. I don’t mind that. I was born in Canterbury, New Hampshire. My father was from there. My mother’s family is from here. Now. Will you agree to tell me the truth, the complete truth, about anything I might ask you?’

‘What happened to that animal who hit you?’

She shook her head very fast, as though she were shaking off a fly. ‘I was asked to introduce a diplomatic resolution to you. In person.’

‘Because I might trust you.’

She shrugged. ‘Who can say. Now. Can I count on your honesty?’

He laughed. The laugh had an edge that he regretted right away. He decided to talk through it. ‘Look. I know we’ve botched everything very badly here. We’re sorry. Okay? You’ve got our attention. We’re sorry. Tell whoever you have to tell that we’re sorry. Now, I need to know what they’ve come up with at Langley.’

Fatima considered this, then shook her clothed head again, slowly this time. She peered at him through the borders of another world, through the narrow slit, through the two walls of bulletproof transparency. ‘Not there yet. Let’s review. You are in jail, awaiting trial for murder. This country finds itself hostile to Americans at the moment. And to spies in particular.’ She pursed her lips, impatient. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am here to get you out of this mess.’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a precondition. You tell me the truth about everything.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I could go to prison for that.’

‘You are already in prison, fool. Would you rather take your chances in this prison, where you will die, probably before Ramadan, or the prison the Feds might send you to?’

Thelonius stared at his hands.

‘Did you kill that girl and her father?’

He could hear the ceiling fan above him, on his side of the glass, turning and creaking. Thelonius dove, on faith, into those endless eyes and heard himself say, ‘Yes.’

The light cloth rippled as she inhaled air through the nostrils. And rippled outward as she exhaled through her mouth.

‘How do you feel about that?’

The sound of the fan whirling overhead grew louder.

‘Like somebody I don’t know.’

Another inhale, slower, and another exhale, slower still. ‘Then perhaps I can help you.’

‘Not likely, lady,’ said a voice.

Sergeant USA, his red-white-and-blue mask gleaming in the morning sun, struck a fists-on-hips pose for Fatima’s benefit, then took up a seated position next to Thelonius. He sat with his chest out and his chin raised, as though he were a politician or an attorney. He whispered, ‘Don’t listen to her, kid.’

‘Under Islamic law,’ Fatima continued, ‘someone who kills without just cause has the opportunity to make reparation to the family deprived of a relative. The murderer does this by paying the relatives blood money. It sounds like a bribe to be quiet, but it’s actually a form of repentance, even a form of worship. Given the right intention.’