Escape (49 page)

"And will your nephew still be with us?"

"He will, indeed," Newbury replied. Tomorrow was a big day in many respects. The start of the era of the Sons of Man and, he hoped, the day his nephew would prove that he could be trusted as his heir on the council. Or
he will die.

"My knees are killing me," Jojola complained after prayer services. "I'm used to standing, or walking, or even sitting for long periods of time, but all that getting up and down, kneeling and bowing..."

"You need to do Kuntao Silat with me," Tran said, referring to the martial arts style he practiced daily. "It will keep even you limber."

"I'm plenty limber, and I can walk you into the ground any day of the week, Little Sister," Jojola replied. "Silat is for wussies who can't do jujitsu."

"Spoken like a true idiot," Tran laughed. He started to call Jojola a traditional Vietnamese expression for a man copulating with farm animals but suddenly dropped his voice. "Here comes Malovo."

"Come with me, please," she said and turned without waiting for a response.

The two men were surprised. It had been their understanding that they had a few more hours before the mission would start. Indeed, they'd been told to relax and make their peace with Allah. Apparently that had changed.

They followed Malovo down into the basement of the mosque to a door. Malovo opened it and gestured for them to enter.

They found themselves in another large room, featuring a full multimedia setup with several rows of seats facing a platform and wall at the far end of the room. A video camera on a tripod stood in the middle aisle facing the wall, on which hung a banner with writing similar to what Tran and Jojola had seen in the videotape made by Jamal Khalifa.

They were not alone either. More than a dozen men stood talking among themselves, or sitting quietly lost in thought.

The two friends recognized about half of the men as those who would be with them on their part of the mission. Many of the young men had been friendly and talkative about their backgrounds, and it was hard to believe that they were training for a suicide mission. Harder still for Tran and Jojola to think that they would have to kill them.

The young men in the room nudged each other and nodded in their direction when Ajmaani entered.
"Allah-u-Akbar! Allah-u-Akbar! Allah-u
-
Akbar! "
they cheered, led by Suleiman Abdalla.

Malovo clapped her hands. "Line up as you were told." The men, some of them carrying AK-47 assault rifles, gathered at the end of the room facing the camera, with Malovo prodding like a teacher lining up her students for a school photograph. Those with the guns practiced holding them aloft, while those without postured with their arms crossed over their chests.

Placing Tran and Jojola at the front of the group, Malovo handed a rifle to Jojola. She went back to the camera to look through the lens. With a few last commands of "get closer" or "stop smiling," she was at last satisfied and returned to stand next to Tran, whom she handed a piece of paper.

"What's this?" he scowled.

"Something I wrote for you. A last will and testament that will be sent to Al Jazeera and broadcast to millions of Muslims throughout the world.... You are free to change it if you like, but there is only a little time."

Tran looked over the document. "It will do."

Malovo looked at the cameraman and nodded. He pressed a button and a green light came on. "That means go," she whispered to Tran.

Glancing one more time at the paper, Tran looked into the camera. "All thanks are due to Allah. We ask for His help and guidance, and we ask His forgiveness for any sins we commit. I am Azahari Mujahid and stand today with my brothers of the Al-Aqsa Brigade, knowing that tomorrow, if it is Allah's will, we will be martyrs. This is our free decision, and I urge all of you to follow us in jihad."

Most of the rest of the speech contained fragments of verse from the Qur'an. A paragraph extolling the virtues of jihad was followed by another request that God forgive their sins. "We have made
bayt al-ridwan,"
Tran said, noting the oath made on the Qur'an in which the jihadi promises not to waver in his mission. The term was also a reference to a special garden in Paradise reserved for the prophets and martyrs. The speech ended with the refrain they'd heard so many times since arriving at the mosque: "
Allah-u-Akbar!"

Ajmaani clapped him on the shoulder. "May Allah be with you. May Allah give you success so that you achieve Paradise."

There was an awkward pause until he realized that she was waiting for a response. He hurriedly looked down at the note and read, "Turn back to the camera."

"No, no," Malovo whispered and leaned forward to point to what he was supposed to say.

"Oh, yes, of course," Tran replied, trying not to laugh for having blown his lines. This all seemed like a school play. "
Inshallah,
we will meet in Paradise."

Malovo nodded and started to turn to the cameraman, but Tran interrupted with a short speech in Vietnamese. He finished and glanced at the double agent. Angrily, she signaled the cameraman to turn off the machine.

"What did you say?" she demanded.

"The same thing, only in Tagalog, for my people in the Philippines. Many do not speak English."

"That was not authorized."

Tran decided that it was time for the great Tatay the Terrorist to show his stripes. "Mind your place, woman!" he spat. "I am not here for your little plays or insolence. Tomorrow I die in the name of Allah, and it is not for you to tell me how to speak."

Malovo's eyes flashed, but she bowed her head. "I did not mean to offend you."

Tran grunted his acceptance of her apology as the men behind them stood wide-eyed, wondering what to do next. They had never seen Ajmaani humiliated, and they half expected her to kill the little Asian. When she did not, they shrugged and began to leave their spots, but stopped when she snarled at them.

"Remain in your places," she spat. "We have a special send-off for your martyrdom." She nodded to a guard at the back of the room, who opened the door and led a bound and hooded woman into the room.

The woman's hands were oddly clenched and bloody, and blood stained the front of her robe. Her movements were stiff and she was obviously in pain, but she didn't cry out when she was shoved roughly to her knees in front of Jojola.

Malovo pulled the hood from the woman, revealing the bloodstained face of Miriam Khalifa.

When Miriam had left her father's apartment that evening, her heart had felt light—lighter than it had since the day her husband committed suicide. As light as that evening when Jamal had bought her the strawberry ice cream and she knew she would many him.

She attributed the feeling to the sliver of moon that hung above the city, as if Allah had taken a sharp knife and cut a little slit in the fading blue of the sky to reveal a glimpse of Paradise beyond. It was Ramadan, the month in which the Qur'an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.

Ramadan was not a holiday like Christmas with presents and feasting. Muslims were expected to exercise self-control in all areas, including food and drink, sleeping, sex, and even the use of time. For the next thirty days, Muslims around the world would fast from dawn to dusk; the fasting, called
sawm,
was meant to encourage a feeling of closeness to God as their minds focused on giving thanks, atoning for past sins, and giving alms to the needy.

However, Ramadan had its rewards. To stand in prayer on
Lailat ul Qadr,
the actual night that the Qur'an was given to Muhammad by Allah, was said to be better than a thousand months of worship. And acts of charity and kindness would be rewarded on Earth and in Paradise.

Miriam had learned her love for Ramadan from her father, who looked forward to the month like a child waiting for a sweet after dinner. To him, Ramadan was more than the holiest month in Islam; it was the month when Muslims sought
tawhid,
unification with other Muslims, a coming together of their community.

"When Ramadan comes, the gates of Paradise are opened and the gates of Hell are closed, and the devils are put in chains," her father had reminded her that afternoon before he left for the mosque. "Therefore it is easier to do good in this month because the devils are chained in Hell and can't tempt believers."

"But what about Muslims who behave badly during Ramadan?" she'd asked.

"Any evil that men do during Ramadan comes from within; they cannot blame it on Satan or his demons."

This Ramadan, however, had not been a happy one. He would be leaving on the bus that evening with her son for Chicago. "Until the danger has passed," she had said when pleading with him to leave the city.

The old man had started to cry, but she reminded him that as good Muslims they had nothing to fear. "Whatever happens here, we will meet again soon in Paradise."

He'd wiped away the tears. "Look at who is telling me to place my trust in Allah."

While her dad packed, Miriam had gone into her son's bedroom and lay down beside him for a few minutes while he napped. She listened to his heart beating and then put her face into his curly hair. He smelled like a little boy should in the summertime ... warm and dusty with a pinch of bitter sweat and sweet Good Humor ice cream.

She kissed Abdullah's face until he woke up. "Be a good boy, remember your prayers, read the Qur'an every day, and give praise to Allah," she whispered. "Now get up ... You and grandfather Mahmoud are going on an exciting trip!"

When her father arrived back at the apartment, they'd said their goodbyes and she left for the mosque. As she glanced up again at the moon, she became aware of the presence beside her, as well as the scent of roses. "Aalimah," she said with a smile.

"Salaam,
my child," Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh greeted her, but with a tinge of sadness in her voice that sent a chill up Miriam's spine.

"What is it, Hazrat? What have you come to tell me?"

"Nothing you do not already know." The rustling of the saint's robes sounded like the leaves in the trees, stirred by a gentle breeze. "You will soon be tested ... your courage and your faith. So I came to be with you and to bring you peace....
Salaam,
my child,
salaam."

Miriam bowed her head and her pace slowed as hot tears sprang to her eyes. She thought about the life she had wanted to lead—attending college, caring for her father into his old age, raising her son, and bouncing grandchildren on her knees. "My son, Abdullah, he is so young."

"He will be safe with your father and sister. But you are being called upon by Allah to protect the faith. The message of the Prophet is being corrupted by evil men who bring dishonor and a black stain on Islam. Will you answer this call?"

"
Inshallah
."

"Yes, child, as God wills," Masumeh agreed. "But don't be afraid. I will be with you always, and when the darkness comes, I will be there to take you by the hand and lead you to
bayt al-ridwan,
where you will sit with me among the prophets and wait for your loved ones to join us."

The two women walked the rest of the way to the mosque in silence. Those who passed saw only Miriam, though she walked as if holding the hand of someone unseen.

When Miriam reached the mosque, one of the imam's bodyguards intercepted her. "The imam wants to see you downstairs." He tried to look her in the eyes but could not hold her gaze.

"I know the way." She went ahead with the guard trailing silently behind. When she came to a door, she looked back at the guard, a question on her face. He nodded and she entered.

It was a small room, bare except for a steel chair, to which the guard bound her wrists and ankles. "Forgive me," he said.

"I would," she said quietly, "but it is Allah from whom you must ask forgiveness."

The door opened and the woman whom Lucy had called Nadya Malovo entered. "Miriam Khalifa," the woman said.

"Here I am."

Before Malovo was finished, the nails had been tom from Miriam's fingers, which had been broken one at a time with pliers; her teeth had been knocked out and the socket around her right eye crushed by a hammer. She'd been burned with an iron and had her hair pulled out by the handful.

Yet Miriam experienced the pain as if from a distance. She heard herself scream, though it seemed another was using her voice. In the company of Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh, she watched as Malovo demanded to know what Jamal had told her of any plans, and who she might have told. But she admitted to nothing more than enjoying carnal pleasures with her "lover" and witnessing a murder that she had not reported to the police.

At last, her tormentor left her in the dark, but not alone. The Aalimah knelt next to her and caressed her battered face. Then the guards came for her, pulling her to her feet and placing the hood over her head. Her injured body begged for release, but her mind knew no pain or fear as she was shoved to her knees and the hood was pulled from her head.

Miriam found herself looking up into the kind brown eyes of the man she knew as John. She saw his eyes harden and realized that he was going to fight for her.
Stop him,
she prayed to Masumeh.
Tell him that I am prepared to be martyred for my faith, but he
must
live to stop these people.

"Who is she?" Tran demanded.

"Who?" Malovo repeated for the others. "This is the widow of the martyr Muhammad Jamal Khalifa. She has disgraced his memory by consorting with another man, an infidel she mated with in back alleys like a common whore. Her blood is forfeit and will bring Allah's blessing on our plans tomorrow."

The men murmured as Ajmaani spoke and then drew a large knife from beneath her robe. "Silence! The Sheik has approved this sacrifice."

She nodded to the cameraman to begin filming. "Tonight we slaughter the harlot wife of the martyr Muhammad Jamal Khalifa, may Allah be pleased with him, as tomorrow the martyrs of the Al-Aqsa Brigade will slaughter the enemies of Islam."