“Now you must shave,” Abdullah said. Naseer reached for the razor but Abdullah stopped him. “No, wash your face with soap and water.” Naseer started to argue but Abdullah stopped him. “I know these things. Wash your face with hot water and soap. It will soften the hair and make the shaving easier.”
Nasser washed his face with hot water and the bar of hand soap next to the sink. When he finished, Abdullah instructed him to use the shaving cream to lather his face. With Abdullah’s help, his face was soon smooth and bare.
Abdullah eyed him critically. “Take the scissors and trim your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows?” Naseer asked, incredulous.
Abdullah couldn’t help but laugh. “We must not look like Mujahideen. We are Indian business men from Mumbai. That is our new identity. The Americans accept Indians.”
“How am I to trim them?”
“Cut them short. You must look well kempt, as if you lived in a city.”
Nasser grumbled but trimmed his eyebrows, twisting the scissors back and forth to cut the fine hairs. When Abdullah opened a black plastic container and removed electric shears for haircutting, Naseer shook his head sadly. “I only do this because it is for Jihad.”
Abdullah smiled at Naseer’s discomfort, then proceeded to cut away most of Naseer’s hair. After much fussing, he had Naseer well-groomed.
“Now bathe. When you are done, put on the clothes. Make sure you put on undergarments. That includes the white undershirt. Then the socks, pants and dress shirt.”
Naseer had never spent much time in cities, let alone a Western-style city, and Abdullah remembered how it felt when he first went to New York, completely lost, no idea how to act, dress, or speak. He sighed. “Naseer, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important.”
Naseer smiled reluctantly and Abdullah left him to bathe and dress. When Naseer finally opened the door, Abdullah nodded his praise. “You look like a different man.”
Now it was his turn. He ushered Nasser out and went to work cleaning the remains of his Afghanistan life from his body. When he was done, he inspected himself in the mirror. His beard was gone, his face soft and supple. His hair was trimmed and the streaks of gray dyed black. He looked ten years younger than his forty six years. He dressed in the Western clothes and paused for effect.
Yes.
He looked the part of a successful businessman, from the fashionable suit to the shiny leather shoes. He stood, lost in thought, and wondered about what might have been, if only he had convinced his wife to stay in New York instead of moving back to Afghanistan.
The memories of his house came, unbidden, his ears ringing, his screams muffled as the others in the village emerged from their houses, looking on in shock.
He ran to the remains of his house and saw his wife, eyes empty, her body stained with blood. He held her in his arms and begged her to come back. He begged until his voice was ragged, and the blood cool and stiff against his clothes, and he knew she was gone. He screamed, howling like a maddened animal as the villagers stared, their faces bearing silent witness to his grief.
The realization finally broke through his grief, and he knew they had never accepted him.
His wife may have been born there, but he was a foreigner, a Saudi. Someone had passed information to the Americans. The local Taliban leader, Azim, had just been promoted but he was a vain and shallow man and disliked Abdullah.
He had been betrayed, either by Azim or the locals. They had fed information to the CIA, perhaps, even to his old friend Jack.
Jack, the man who came to see him shortly after the towers fell in 2001.
Jack had asked for his help in tracking Bin Laden, in helping overthrow the Taliban. As much as he wanted to help his old friend, the man who taught him to build bombs, the man who smuggled him out of Afghanistan and gained him entry into the United States, he wanted nothing to do with the madness.
He begged Jack to leave him in peace. And, for a time, it had been peaceful, until the Mujahideen came. He wanted nothing to do with them, but they begged. And, after all, they were brave and loyal Muslims and it was his duty to help with Jihad.
Someone had betrayed him. Even now it brought forth such rage he found he could no longer see his image in the mirror. The world went black, only a pinpoint of light in the middle of his vision. He focused on that spot and took deep breaths, his hands grasping the cold porcelain sink for balance.
That man, Azim, that man who pretended to be a good Muslim, that man would pay. Abdullah had seen to that. The Mujahideen owed him many favors and after Koshen was safe they would execute the traitor.
As for his old and dear friend Jack, it took months before he found Jack’s location, but when he learned of the Army base to the northeast of Kandahar, he knew that Allah was guiding him, and that Jack must pay for what he had done. That bomb was the beginning in his war against the Americans, those who had taken so much from him. The American military would pay the price.
Or, perhaps the civilians.
No, he shook his head, those were Naseer’s words. He would not think of it. They were innocent, he knew that from living in New York City. They lived blissfully unaware of what the military did in their name, of the lives they destroyed.
Oh, how he missed his wife. If only could talk to her, ask for her opinion, to beg her for help, but to do so would be to commit shirk. Only the living could answer pleas for help. The dead were beyond such things.
His hands trembled on the cold porcelain. Nothing would stop him. He prayed to Allah for strength. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands stopped shaking and he felt his rage and grief and pain slip away until there was only the plan. He would strike back in the name of Allah and his enemies would finally know justice.
Hobert answered the video call with a grin. “Miss me?”
Smith glared at the video monitor. “Your humor is lost on me. Was she hurt?”
“She’s fine.”
He breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Did they find anything?”
Hobert shook his head. “Nothing.”
“I hate sending her into danger.”
“Of course, but you can’t protect her forever. Besides, it’s one place where she might have an advantage.”
“I could remove her from the OTM,” he said. “It would ensure her safety.”
Hobert sighed. “She would never forgive you. Could you live with that?”
He slammed his hand against the desk. “How could it have come to this? I never should have agreed to let her join the Office.”
“You didn’t have a choice,” Hobert answered. “Once she entered your world, there was no turning back.”
Smith sat back in his chair. “It’s hard to let her go, Hob. Much harder than I expected. I worry endlessly.”
Hobert nodded, his face softening. “You’ve done everything you can.”
He wanted to remove his daughter from the OTM, lock her up in a padded room where nothing bad could ever hurt her, but he knew that like all good parents he must let his daughter find her own path. He laughed mirthlessly. “It’s killing me.”
“I know,” Hobert said.
He switched gears. “How did he perform?”
“Well above expectations. He’s the one,” Hobert said.
“Why so surprised?” he asked.
“I’m not surprised,” Hobert said, raising an eyebrow, “but I prefer skepticism. That way I’m rarely disappointed. And, occasionally, pleasantly surprised.”
CHAPTER TWELVE