A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (69 page)

“
My Shahada
.” I was staring now at the top sheet of paper on the neat high stack. “Written by Chiasa Hiyoku Brown.” I pulled the top page to the side. There was a table of contents. One hundred and fourteen chapters.
The same amount of suras in the Holy Quran
, I said to myself. I pulled out the last page, page 2,777. My mind swiftly began doing the math. She had written at least five pages for every single day that I was away from her. My cold heart began cracking. I flipped to the first page of her first chapter. Of course her long life story about her young life began with her father. The chapter was titled, “The General’s Daughter.”

My eyes began reading her opening sentence.

“What to do, Daddy? Even if you kill my husband, I will still be a Muslim woman. No honest person receives an understanding and a feeling in their soul and then turns back from it.” I could hear her soft-spoken voice, her powerful words expressed so sweetly. And then there was her sharp threat to him. “Bring him home to me. Daddy, that is the only thing that you can do for me, and if you will not do that, I don’t want anything more from you forever, not even words.”

Then, I knew.

32. THE NEGOTIATION

Seated at the table, arranged as a feast in an Alaskan steak and seafood house, I am well rested and my mind is clear and sharp. This scene, however, reminded me of the time when I was seated in the back room of an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn with the “good” detective, a deceitful and filthy man who was up to no good and who wanted to enslave me to his agenda. Just like back then on that night, I am starved and concealing a ferocious hunger with a straight face.

Unlike that night, I am not arrested, cuffed, and beaten or bruised. However, I am surrounded by suited strangers, with the exception of one man. He is much wiser and slicker, more powerful and deadly than the good detective. He has a greater stature, and stronger stance and stamina, and he is a thousand times more passionate about his cause, for deeper, blood-related reasons. Most importantly, he is fully capable of carrying out and following up on his threats. He has the full authority of the United States military, and sees no reason to limit his actions when he is going after what he wants. He is my second wife’s father.

It is January 1, 1988; however, I could not pinpoint the exact time. After a mysterious, uncomfortable, and dangerous trip from Rikers that ended in a cliff-hanger on a mountain in upstate Buffalo, NY, as well as a cold copter ride and a trek through the high snow, ice, and arctic cold, I had finally fallen asleep. I woke up once to the sound of my own voice calling the Azan, and in a sleepy haze I fell back asleep.

Through the attic window I could see that it was still dark outside and I figured I was dreaming or bugging because of exhaustion. I slept for what felt like several more hours, and finally awoke. It was still dark, so I imagined that I had not actually slept for long. It was only much later that I found out that the darkness was due to a storm that made it seem that the sun would not rise at all. So I had actually slept very well, through my normal routine times and prayer times and eating times. It ended up being about ten hours of rest.

I had fallen asleep with a growling belly while reading the first chapter of Chiasa’s manuscript. Her words ripped off the armor I had layered my mind, body, and soul with for nearly two years. Her words demolished the freeze in my bones and they heated my cold-hardened heart. Her words had ignited my desires, the same deep desires that I had controlled, conquered, and canceled during my caging. Her words forced me into a deep sleep and an erotic dream. I woke up bricker than brick, my joint so solid and swollen, it wouldn’t lay down for an extended amount of time. It would not settle for anything less than her touch, the pushing and plunging and pleasure of her pussy, a tight but warm and moist space where we expressed our mutual love.

I was fucked up, I knew. I needed to recover my discipline, restraint, and alertness. I needed to collect my composure and restore my warrior stance for the possible approaching threats and realities. After all, I was in an unknown space riddled with unanswered questions. The most severe ones were regarding my legal status.
Am I a prisoner? Or am I a fugitive? Is there a warrant for my arrest? Is there a manhunt underway for my capture?
As I had laid on my back on a mattress on the floor, dressed with sheets that carried her scent, in her room in a house made of stones, surrounded by nothing but snow and ice and the wilderness, I wondered. Was I rescued? Am I free? Could a daughter’s subtle demand to the father who adored her actually cause a powerful man to deploy his trucks, helicopter, arsenal, and assassins? And if she was the trigger, what would happen next? How far would her father go, and how far had he gone so far, beyond what I could possibly see or know or imagine?

Before I could decode the past twenty-four hours, I heard the rumblings of a Hummer. I leapt up, then watched through the window. As soon as I confirmed that it was her father, the General, arriving alone in the vehicle, I dropped down from the secluded space where she had her clothes, blanket, and books, her bed, desk, and dresser, and her writings and hardly anything else. I securely closed the lid that sealed it, and removed the ladder, pushing it into a side room. I did not know if her father normally came here, or if he was aware of her manuscript. He was a man who their family was normally very discreet about, never mentioning his name or his title and ranking, or even taking or hanging his photographs.

But in the side room I saw men’s clothing. Was it his? I didn’t have time to check. I was in the washroom, washing my face and hands and rinsing my mouth. I saw a razor for shaving. My jaw and my chest got tight. I slipped out the blade and cleaned it off. Instinctively, I’d carry it on me. Then he knocked on the door with the heavy hand of the police or the military during a raid.

Grabbing the snorkel, which had my gloves and wool hat tucked in each coat pocket, I put it on over the black jumper that I had fallen asleep in. I stepped into my boots and headed outside. He had gotten back in the Hummer, and was seated behind the wheel. He lowered his window when he saw me approaching.

“We have an appointment. Let’s go, son,” was all he said casually, as though he had just chilled with me the day before. But, in reality, he had last seen me two years ago. I climbed in. “Jump in the back and get dressed.” I did, surprised to see the dress clothes hanging in the rear on the hook. I was clean shaven head and face, but my body was not showered.

His Mickey Thompson Baja Claw tires were crushing everything in their path. Only the hum of his engine could drown out the rumble of my hunger. Fully dressed, I decided to remain seated in the back. Through the rearview mirror he locked eyes with me and said, “You are not naïve, son, are you? You know the rules of war.”

I stayed still and silent, thinking. “Happy New Year,” was all
I said to him. I knew better than to utter one word that could be used as a one-word agreement to any of his ideas, plans, or schemes then, now, or later on.

*  *  *

“So, you are the General’s son. Pleased to meet you,” a well-suited European woman in her thirties introduced as Urschla said as she sipped from her water glass. “I know fathers are demanding and rarely compliment their sons, so I’ll have to say that your performance on the SATs was outstanding, almost perfect. They were above the scores of our average students, which is quite high, and equivalent to the scores of our top three students in a class of one hundred and twenty.”

“Indeed,” a dark-blue-suited white man who had been introduced as Roy said. “We are excited to have recruited you and are fully prepared for you to enter our academy next week after the holiday break. And because of the preeminence of your father, we have all assembled here on the great holiday. Fortunately for us it’s late afternoon. Otherwise we may have had to disappoint your father after a night of cheers.” They all laughed.

“You already look like a soldier,” an older white man introduced as Tom, commented. “You are already as silent as an elite global soldier must be.”

“So true,” the dark-suited Roy said. “Normally such silence is achieved only after our specialized training. The fact that you are already silent has me feeling a little less necessary.” They each laughed. “It’s either that, or he has some ominous secret to hide,” he added.

“Nonsense,” the European woman said. “Look who his father is. He obviously has been in training for years.” Then she turned towards me and said, “There is no need for you to feel burdened—only the top brass gathered around this table will know your roots. And we won’t tell a soul,” she promised. “We don’t want the other students to feel that you’re getting preferential treatment.”

“He may be advanced in his training already, which is excellent since he is entering the academy in the second semester of
our school year, which is rarely ever allowed. However, he won’t be spared any of the workload that he has missed. Therefore he will have to forfeit his summer leave. He will also need to polish up on his social skills. He had to have suffered from being home-schooled, and studying for his SATs all alone and earning his GED in place of attending full classes with qualified instructors, and bonds of friendship and team spirit, and of course the godforsaken high school prom. Simply trying to get a date to that damn thing is a social experiment,” Tom said, and they laughed.

“No worries,” Urschla said. “Our school is coed and international, and Switzerland is quite lovely. Our host country is famous for chocolate. And you are a very handsome young lad, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

*  *  *

Back in the blacked-out black Hummer plowing through the storm-dark roads, he had his huge hand gripping the shift stick tightly. What I really wanted to ask him was the whereabouts of my wife. I knew that he knew that she is my great love and deep desire, also his only daughter, his ace card and the only reason me and him were together, and that I was riding shotgun with a military man. I knew he would attempt to convert my love and my desire for his daughter into my weakness. So I didn’t mention her. I only asked, “Where are we headed?”

“You’ll see.”

We pulled up to a checkpoint, which ended up being the entrance to a military base. The signage said Fort Drum. Each soldier who encountered him saluted, shuffled, kowtowed, and all but bowed down. He was riding from building to building getting his holiday greetings, salutes, and reports, and showing me without words spoken directly to me that he was in command. I already knew that. Seeing tanks and guns and grenades and stockpiles of ammunition sealed his performance. His last stop on his “power tour” was a dormitory building on the base. He ordered a soldier on post outside to go in and bring out “Private Crusher.”

The big white boy soldier came running out, then straightened himself as soon as he saw the General seated in the Hummer. He saluted and then approached with permission. He leaned in on the driver’s side and asked what he could do for the General.

“Take a look at this guy. You think you could take him for a few rounds?” the General asked him.

He glanced over at me. “That’s why they call me ‘The Crusher,’ ” he said.

They laughed. I didn’t. Easily I’d fight him. I’m not militarily trained. But these guys weren’t street fighters, didn’t come straight out of Rikers, and probably would never survive if they did.

“What do you say, son?” the General asked me.

“Anytime,” I said solemnly.

“Whoa, let’s go! Let’s ring in the bloody New Year,” the Crusher said.

“Not tonight,” the General intervened. “He’s got other things to do tonight. I just swung by so you could see your next challenge and get prepared.”

“I’m the champ that whooped that big boy over in ‘Little Siberia,’ General. I’m already prepared.” This guy was excited, hyped up like he just shot up steroids.

“You’re dismissed, Private,” the General said. Crusher left in an instant.

“I grabbed that guy out of the jaws of Little Siberia. You know where that is?” the General asked me as he did a 180 and drove off the base.

“Nah,” I said.

“That’s the prison where you were supposed to go last night. Dannemora, maximum security, Clinton Correctional Facility, a place where the worst sons of bitches in the region are housed and conquered, but never corrected.” He was looking straight ahead. So was I. “Just remember that during our negotiation,” he said suddenly.

“Negotiation,” I repeated, really to myself.

“The one you and I are about to have,” he said. We rode in silence after those words. My mind was heavy. There were too many X-factors. I needed to line up my thoughts before the negotiation. I began to do so for my own good. His daughter is my wife. I won her hand in marriage from him fair and square. He hadn’t faltered on his debt to me, or on his word, although I always felt his reluctance, his presence, and his attempt to continue to control her from afar. That may have been annoying, but it wasn’t terrible or evil, I told myself. His daughter loves me, I know. She will follow me wherever I go, and whatever choices I make. Even if she disagrees with me, she will yield and give way. Only in an instance where something conflicts with her faith would she fight and resist. I never go against her faith. Her faith is my faith. On the one hand, I have the General by the neck because I have his daughter. But why should our marriage be a problem to him? Is it only her conversion to Islam that he finds so disturbing? And now that it is clear that his daughter will be Muslim whether I’m dead or alive, he had to realize that he can’t get her to roll back to whatever it was they used to believe in or do as a way of life. What does he want from his daughter? What does he want from me?

In a chess game, both opponents have the comfort of knowing how each piece can and can’t move. Both the black knight and the white knight are limited to the same options. And that goes for the king, queen, rooks, and bishops also. Life, however, isn’t like that. It’s random, hostile, and impulsive. You can’t sleep on any man, because no man is a game piece. The weakest and most frightened man might do the most unexpected, deadliest, and horrific thing.