NanoStrike (8 page)

Outside, the sticky heat of an Israeli day replaced the air-conditioning of the terminal, and an unstructured crowd invaded Abdul’s Western ideal of personal space.

A short, stocky man grabbed his arm. “Taxi. Taxi to Jerusalem. Very cheap.” He spoke in Hebrew. When Abdul kept walking, the man switched to Arabic, and then tried English. On all sides, people clamored and shouted. Abdul heard German, French and American accents. Blaring car horns and the roar of jet engines added to the confusion. Abdul yanked his sleeve away from the hawker and muscled through the crowd to the front of the taxi rank.

“King David Hotel, Jerusalem, please.”

“Shalom.” The driver was an elderly man in his seventies.

The ride along the freeway to Jerusalem was fast and smooth through green, cultivated farmland.

The driver reached back, tapped Abdul on the knee, and spoke. “When I came to Israel with my family in 1947, this was desert; sand and rock and dust. There was nothing. Nothing as far as the eye could see.” To illustrate his point, the driver waved a hand out of the car window at a field of cotton. Long black irrigation pipes stretched over olive-green bushes peppered with white buds.

“Nobody wanted the land then. Hah! Now look. Israelis turned the desert green. Israelis built roads, and cities, and the airport. Now the Arabs call it their home. We should leave. Yes, now they want Israel back.”

Abdul remained silent. Argument was futile. The driver could accept no other point of view.

“If we give it back, you know what will happen?”

“No,” Abdul said, his voice flat with disgust at the driver’s racist rant.

“I’ll tell you. In twenty years . . . no, in
ten
. . .” Rheumy eyes stared at Abdul in the driver’s mirror. “Yes, in ten years this will be desert again! That’s the Arab for you.” The driver spat out of his window.

As they approached Jerusalem, Abdul strained for a glimpse of the Old City. The transformation from open, arable land to crammed, congested concrete and steel happened suddenly. The cab slowed to a crawl. Traffic was heavy. Vehicles moved in packs, ignoring lane markings. Drivers dived into impossible gaps, gesticulating wildly and leaning on their horns. Teenagers in olive-green Israeli military uniforms with Uzis slung casually across their shoulders dawdled among the crowds.

In contrast, the atrium of the King David Hotel was quiet, calm, and cool. Ceramic floors, high ornate ceilings, and crisply uniformed staff placed him firmly back in the Western world. By 5:00 p.m., he was in his room. He called Rafiq and left a message that he’d arrived.

That evening, his uncles and aunts threw a family party in his honor. More than sixty guests crammed into his uncle’s small, whitewashed tenement home and spilled outside into the dusty yard. The kitchen counters were laden with a colorful mezze of olives, warm pita and humus, baba ghanoush, and crisp, fresh salad. Everyone wanted to speak to Abdul, to shake his hand, to impress him with their plans and dreams. His family was big, and loud, and, he thought, wonderful.

Several young women, blatantly brought as potential mates for their English cousin, stood in a group, shyly sneaking glances at him and giggling behind their hands. His father had warned him this might happen. He successfully avoided them until a second uncle on his father’s side cornered him.

“Abdul-Haqq, allow me to introduce my daughter, Adiba.” The man enunciated his words slowly and carefully. All night, Abdul had struggled with how fast his family spoke their Arabic. Word of his handicap must have spread.

In contrast to her father, a squat dark-skinned man with a stubbly chin, Adiba reminded him of a perfect little doll. She wore form-fitting blue jeans and a simple embroidered cotton top. Her head was covered by a
hijab
—an elegant scarf that framed her face and wrapped around her neck. The fringes of the
hijab
matched her blouse. Head slightly bowed, she turned large brown eyes up to meet Abdul’s. The effect befuddled him. She held out her hand. Abdul resisted a strong urge to bend and kiss it, something he had never considered doing in his life. Instead, he gave her a formal handshake and felt color rise in his cheeks.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Adiba.”

“Adiba is a writer, like you, Abdul-Haqq.” The uncle grinned and showed a row of crooked teeth.

Adiba gave the man a gentle punch on the arm. “Father, please, don’t.”

“Well, a young woman should learn a trade in these modern times.”

Now it was Adiba’s turn to blush. This had been a common theme. His relatives desperately wanted to show they were forward-thinking people.

Adiba shook her head. “As usual, my father is confused.” She produced a mock frown and wagged a finger in her father’s face as if scolding him. “Abdul-Haqq, I assure you rumors of my writing are greatly exaggerated.”

Abdul laughed at the cleverness of the comment.

“Of course, we have met before,” she said. “Like that.” She pointed to four children playing hide-and-seek under the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry. I remember little of my previous visits here.” On this trip, Abdul had expected a feeling of returning home; instead, he felt foreign and out of place.

“That’s okay, I don’t remember either. My father told me we played together. But that may be another exaggeration.”

She gave her father a quizzical look. He shrugged and excused himself, leaving Abdul and Adiba alone. The look on the man’s face clearly said, “Mission accomplished.”

Abdul was pleased when Adiba made no move to follow him. “Are you a writer?” he asked.

“I study English online. We can’t afford for me to attend college. I am grateful, though, that my father is liberated enough to encourage me. Abdul-Haqq, you must be exhausted. Between jet-lag and this crazy crowd bantering you, have you had any time to yourself?”

“Well, everyone here has been wonderful, but I confess I didn’t realize how large my Palestinian family was until I saw them together in the same house. I plan to spend time in the Old City tomorrow.”

“If you wish,” Adiba said, “I could show you around, act as an unofficial guide.” Her hand touched his arm, delicately, light as a small bird. “But if you prefer to experience the city alone, I will not be offended.”

“Wow, that would be wonderful.” Abdul’s cheeks burned. His instantaneous reply must have telegraphed how enthusiastic he was to spend more time with her.

“I’ll come to your hotel at 9:00 a.m. We can walk to the city,” she said.

“You know where I’m staying?”

“Abdul-Haqq, I can assure you everyone in this room knows you are at the prestigious King David Hotel.” She laughed at his lack of guile. “Now I must go back to my father, and you must continue to circulate. Otherwise they,” she inclined her head toward the group of women, “will start gossiping.” She smiled, this time looking him full in the face.

He shook her hand again. It was delicate, soft, and cool.

Adiba collected him the next morning. They watched in respectful silence as Jews, heads bobbing, prayed at the Wailing Wall. They walked beside awed Christians as they mimicked the route of Christ’s last journey—the Via Dolorosa. They exercised their privilege as Muslims to enter the Dome of the Rock and marvel at the mosque’s magnificence.

Inexperienced with dating—in college, he’d been too focused on his studies—he found it difficult to take his eyes off his stunning guide. Animated and fascinating, she conveyed not just the history but also the emotions of this remarkable city where the major religions of the world collided.

They browsed through worn, narrow stone pathways in the Arab market where traders had plied their wares for tens of thousands of years. Tourists, Israelis, and Arabs mingled in the Old City, making it difficult to comprehend the strife, death, and sadness wrought because of this place.

She showed him a local café where he insisted on paying for lunch. They ate homemade falafel, fat black olives, and fluffy, light pita, then dawdled over strong, dark espresso. There was more to say than time permitted.

When they parted in front of his hotel, Abdul moved to shake her hand, but she brushed him aside and delivered a warm hug and a light kiss on the cheek. They exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to keep in touch. Abdul watched her walk away until she disappeared in the crowds. His cheek was still tingling when he entered his room.

He spent Wednesday at the hotel, reading, swimming in the pool, thinking of Adiba, and worrying about the upcoming meeting. If Ghazi was what he claimed, this could be Abdul’s breakout story, a pivotal event in his nascent career. But now the meeting was imminent, he felt far less confident than in Scott Shearer’s office at the
Times of London
.

Although expected, when his room phone rang at 6:00 p.m. Abdul was startled.

A man’s voice, deep and strong, with a harsh rasp, said, “Am I speaking with Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-Ahmed?”

“Yes.”

“I am Ghazi.”

“Where will we meet?” Throat tight with nerves, Abdul swallowed a few times to prevent his voice from cracking.

“In ten minutes, a black Mitsubishi will stop in front of the hotel. The driver will get out and wipe his forehead with a rag. Get in the back seat. He will bring you to me.”

Now, as Rafiq had instructed him, Abdul made the first negotiating move.

“I will use a laptop to take notes and a digital recorder to make a transcript of our conversation.”

Rafiq had advised,
Don’t ask if you can, just tell him you will
.

A momentary pause, then, “This is agreed.”

Abdul felt as though he’d won the lottery. The line went dead.

Good-bye to you, too.

In the lobby, he waved off the concierge’s attempts to call him a cab and stood outside, watching for the car. A black sedan pulled up. The driver gave the signal. Abdul opened the back door and slid in. The car tore away, tossing him back in his seat.

He said, “Hi.”

“You are Abdul-Haqq?”

“Yes.”

The driver glanced at Abdul in the mirror. “Speak no more. The journey is short.”

Abdul had wondered whether they might blindfold him, but it wasn’t necessary; the car’s windows were heavily tinted, and already he was lost in the maze of streets.
They headed north into the West Bank. But, no matter where they were going, he was in Ghazi’s hands until he returned to the hotel. His heart skipped and nerves trickled down his spine as that realization struck home.

For the first time in his life, Abdul was in mortal danger.

After twenty minutes of reckless driving, they pulled into the driveway of a general store. The garage door in front opened and they drove in. The door rolled shut behind the car and left them in darkness.

“Wait.” The driver got out and flipped on a light, then opened Abdul’s door. “Follow me.”

A side door led to a narrow, unlit flight of stone stairs. The air smelled stale and damp. He followed the driver to the top and through a door at the stair head into a windowless room, twelve feet square with bare, whitewashed walls peeling in places. The driver indicated a white plastic lawn chair positioned behind a green-topped card table. The chair faced the door they’d entered by, the only door in the room. A solitary floor lamp pointed at his chair, interrogation-style.

“Ghazi will come soon.” The driver left.

A key turned in the lock. The circumstances Abdul found himself in were a huge departure from any he’d encountered before. This trip had seemed logical, even exciting, when he’d volunteered, but right now he yearned for the safety of his work cubicle in London. Fighting a strong urge to talk to himself, he flipped open his laptop and turned on his recorder, keeping his trembling hands busy.

Abdul jumped at the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened again. A tall, thick-chested bull of a man entered, carrying a plastic lawn chair similar to the one Abdul sat in. He placed the chair across the table from Abdul.

“I am Ghazi.” His was the voice from the phone. Still standing, he offered his hand.

Abdul stood. Ghazi’s hard, callused hand dwarfed Abdul’s and delivered a crushing, painful grip. Abdul felt like a small child shaking hands with a grown man. Distracted by the pain, the only feature that Abdul registered was a dark scar that ran from below Ghazi’s left eye, down his cheek, and disappeared into the collar of his shirt. Ghazi released him, and they sat.

Abdul started the recorder. “Very well, Ghazi, you asked for this meeting. What do you want to tell me?”

Ghazi thumped his balled fist on the table. “The time of creeping Israeli thievery of Palestinian land is past. The name of our organization is ‘Allah’s Revenge’. It is also an expression of our intent. Because the Jews only understand terror and bloodshed, we will take our revenge with Jewish blood and the blood of their American and British masters.”

The tone of Ghazi’s speech was more akin to a radical Imam stirring up a crowd than a man sitting five feet away from his sole audience member.

“Is your organization a part of al-Qaeda?”

“Those who use the name al-Qaeda defile the one God, Allah, by associating His almighty knowledge and power with their cheap tricks and foolishness, their shoe bombs and exploding clothing. Every street gang in Gaza hides behind the pathetic cloak of al-Qaeda.”

“You intend to commit terrorist acts in which innocent British, American and Israeli citizens will be harmed. Sounds the same as al-Qaeda. How will we know the difference?”

“Allah has blessed us with a terrible weapon. You will know us by its mark, Abdul-Haqq.”

“What kind of weapon?”

Ghazi raised his voice. “You will know us by its mark.”

Abdul changed tack. “Why did you contact me?”

“Your family is known to us. They are honorable people. You are in a position to communicate with those who must make the changes we will demand. You will be our messenger.”

“What are your demands?”

“The infidels must leave and return to the Palestinians the land that is their birthright. This is also your birthright, Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-Ahmed.”