“My son!” his father said, putting the newspaper down and rising from his chair. They embraced. “How have you been?”
“Well, thanks. Where’s Mother?” he asked, looking around.
“In the kitchen.”
Sami smiled. “Of course. Why do I ask?”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“What do you have?”
“How about some iced tea?”
“Sure. That sounds great.”
There was a pitcher and glasses on the table next to his chair, and his father poured tea into one of the glasses and handed it to him. As Sami took it the door slid open again and his mother, Linda Haddad, came in. She was tall with dark blond hair, and had a gentle face. Smiling at Sami, she said, “Sami, thank you for coming,” and hugged him.
He hugged her back. “Of course,” he said.
“So,” his father began in Arabic, “we must discuss the developments in Gaza.”
Sami balked. He didn’t like discussing the Middle East with his father. Too often, such talks ended in arguments. To Sami’s opinionated and intransigent father, it was inconceivable that Sami might know more than he did about the place where he had grown up. Sami hadn’t spent more than a few months there, total. Sami didn’t dare tell him that he actually knew much more, but couldn’t share it with him. This made for some awkward conversations.
“What about it?” Sami answered in English.
“What do you think of what happened?” his father countered in Arabic.
“Speak English.”
“Your mother speaks Arabic as well as you do. There is nothing wrong with speaking the language of my youth.”
“No, there isn’t. But you live in America now, and some day you’re going to have to acknowledge that.”
“Ha!” his father exclaimed. “I acknowledge it every day by staying here.”
Sami drank from his glass. “It is a great tragedy,” he said in Arabic, “that just when the peace process was nearing completion, when Syria and Israel had finally reached an agreement, when the Palestinian state is operating — although not with great health — someone tries to stir it all up again.”
His father looked satisfied. “I wouldn’t put it past Syria to be behind it.”
“What?” Sami asked. It had never occurred to him. “How could that be?”
“They speak peace with one side of their mouths, and pay others to destroy it at the same time. This regime is just like the one before it. They gain nothing from peace with Israel. Their power comes from conflict. They don’t know how to build roads or a great economy.”
“But who is this Sheikh?” Sami asked, not wanting to tell what he knew.
His father was pleased by the question. “You’ve never heard of the legend of the Sheikh al-Jabal? It goes back many centuries. To Hassan al-Sabbah, the first man to take the name. In the eleventh century. The founder of the Assassins. The guardian of Islam and the region. It is fascinating that someone is calling himself that today. It will inspire others.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“Are you working on this at all?”
“Father, you know I can’t discuss my job.”
“Yes, well, you speak Arabic better than anyone in Washington who didn’t grow up in Syria, and better than many of them. Since you work as an intelligence agent,” he said with a hint of contempt, “it follows that you study the area of my home.”
“Of course I do. You know that. I am an analyst of the Middle East. No mystery there.”
“But what are you working on right now?”
“Father—”
His father acknowledged the rebuff with a wave of his hand. “All right, all right. But keep one thing in your mind when you do your analysis of this attack. At the base of every tree is the root. And the root of all problems in the Middle East is Israel.”
“What?” Sami asked, annoyed. “Come on. The Sheikh didn’t do what he claimed? Israel did it? They attacked their own people? For what?”
“No. I meant they take positions which ensure outrage from others and then plead innocence. To gain sympathy, maybe to set back the peace process, who knows. Their brains don’t work like the rest of us.” He raised a hand and pointed one finger toward the sky. “Just mark my word. The root of all trouble in the Middle East is Israel. You’ll see one day. Maybe not today, but one day, you’ll see.”
“It’s time for dinner,” Sami’s mother announced.
“Come,” his father said, putting out his arm around Sami’s shoulder. “I will tell you of the book I have decided to write.”
15
“Can I borrow your laptop?” Woods asked Big. Big looked up from his desk, where he was working on a Sailor of the Month nomination.
“Are you kidding me? This is my baby. This is the machine that contains all the great novels and screenplays I’m going to write.”
“So can I use it? I let the Ops O borrow mine.”
“Hold on. Let me get out of this,” he said, saving the file. “I suppose you’re going to want the printer too?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
Big pulled out a ream of paper, carefully taking out two sheets and handing them to Woods. “Is this the Big Letter to your congressman?” he asked as Woods turned on the computer.
“Yep.” Woods stared at the screen. “What do you call a congressman? Your Honor? The honorable whatever? What is it?”
“You must have been an engineering major.”
“What do you call him?”
“You address it to ‘The Honorable Joe Schmuckatelli at the address for the House of Representatives, which I do not know off the top of my head. Then inside, you say, ‘Dear Mr. Schmuckatelli,’ or ‘Dear Congressman Schmuckatelli.’ Nothing to it. It doesn’t really matter though. No one will see it except some twenty-two-year-old puppy-dog-college-grad who has never done anything, never served his country in the military, and is destined for law school in three years.”
Woods stopped typing. “You’re really encouraging, you know? Everybody tells you to work through the system, and then ridicules the system as being unworkable. Which is it?”
“I thought you were the one who was cynical about the system.”
“Sometimes. I guess I always hope that someone will do the right thing.”
There was a loud knock on the door and Woods heard voices. “You expecting anybody?” Woods asked.
Big shook his head, reaching behind him and opening the door from his chair. Lieutenant Rayburn and Lieutenant Commander Maloney entered together.
“I didn’t know you had your staff doing your research for you,” Big said, amazed.
“What are you guys doing here?” Woods asked.
Rayburn answered first. “I just came to talk to you about some things I’ve found, and the padre here was hovering outside your door.”
Maloney looked at Rayburn horrified. “I was not hovering. I was composing my words. I wanted to say the right things.”
“He was hovering,” Rayburn replied, looking at Woods. “Anyway, I found some interesting things,” Rayburn said. “You got time? You want to talk about this stuff now?”
“Absolutely,” Woods said excitedly. “Come on in.”
Rayburn and Maloney entered the stateroom and looked for somewhere to sit down.
“Pull up a bed,” Woods said, indicating his own tightly made bed, which of course was welded to the deck. They sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward so their heads didn’t hit Big’s upper bunk. Woods turned his chair to face them. “I was just drafting a letter to Congressman Brown, the congressman from my district in San Diego,” he said, trying to contain his excitement. “He’s got to love this — he’s a retired Vice Admiral. Former AIRPAC.” AIRPAC was the Commander of Naval Air Forces, Pacific. “He was the one in charge of all the carriers in the Pacific, all the airplanes and all the training.”