“Of course they do,” Hemingway said.
“Your country is asking the impossible, you know this. Before the 1970s energy crisis America did not care about the Middle East, other than the Arab versus Israeli issue. Then 9/11 happened and you attacked the Taliban. I have no issue with that. In your place I would have done the same thing. Yet the goal you seek now, turning the entire Middle East into a democracy overnight, is madness. You ask us to do in years what it took you centuries to accomplish.” He paused. “And it is not simply a question of Islam against the West. For thousands of years Arab nations developed customs and cultures inextricably tied to a desert climate with few natural resources, often with the law of the tribe as their base, and the men as their leaders. For a very long time America had no problem with that. And now they do, of course and thus, according to you, we must change. Immediately. So far a hundred thousand Iraqis have died and the country is in chaos. I cannot applaud the progress, Tom. I really can’t.”
“I can only do my best. If it doesn’t work, what will have been lost?”
“Many good lives, that is what will be lost, Tom,” the Arab said sternly.
“And that is no different than what’s happening right now,” Hemingway replied.
“You have an answer for everything. Just like your father. It was in Beijing that he was killed?”
Hemingway nodded.
“Surely not the Chinese, though. They’re vicious but hardly stupid.”
Hemingway shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Officially, it was never solved.”
“It is interesting about the Chinese, Tom. They will one day replace America as the world’s largest economy. They have an army ten times the size of yours, and it is growing stronger and more technologically advanced every day. They have the capability to hit the United States with nuclear weapons. They kill and enslave millions of their own people, and yet you call them friends, while America crushes the Arab world under the pretense of freeing us. Do you know what we Arabs say? We say, go and ‘free’ your friends, the Chinese. But America does not do this. Why? Because the Chinese will not fight back with rifles and car bombs as we Muslims are forced to. Thus, you leave them alone. And you call them friends.”
“My father didn’t think of them as all that friendly actually.”
“A wise man. He has gone on to a better world now.”
“I’m an atheist. So I’m not sure where he’s gone on to.”
The Arab stared at him in sadness. “It is an insult to yourself not to believe in God, Tom.”
“I believe in myself.”
“But when your physical being ceases to exist, where does that leave you?” The Arab paused and said, “With nothing.”
“It is my freedom to make that choice,” Hemingway said firmly.
The Arab rose from his chair. “Good-bye, Tom, and good luck. We will not see each other again.”
A few minutes later Hemingway was walking along the sidewalk back to his rental car. He looked at the sheet of paper his friend had given him, translating the Arabic in his head. The man had thought things out very carefully.
Hemingway was on a flight out of Frankfurt that night and would be in New York eight hours later. He looked at the clear sky and wondered if there were as many gods as there were stars. According to some religions, there might be. The answers really didn’t matter to him. No god had ever answered his prayers. To Hemingway that was more than adequate proof that there was no such being.
Several thousand miles away across the Atlantic, Captain Jack gazed up at the same sky and also pondered the events of the next day. Everything was done and only awaited the arrival of James Brennan and company. As a last measure all laptops used by the members of his operation had been destroyed. There would be no more movie chat room discussions. He would actually miss them.
Later that evening Captain Jack drove into the parking lot of Pittsburgh International Airport. He dropped off his car and headed for the terminal. His official itinerary was fairly straightforward: Pittsburgh to Chicago O’Hare; O’Hare to Honolulu; and Honolulu to American Samoa, where a puddle jumper would take him to his precious island.
His work in Brennan was done. He would not stay for the actual mission. That would be a little too tight even for him. And yet while his work here was finished, in other respects it was just beginning. And now it was time to activate his contingency plan. His partnership with Tom Hemingway was officially over, though the latter didn’t know it. It was fun while it lasted, Tom. He now worked for the North Koreans.
Captain Jack checked in for his flight but kept his bag, which was small enough to carry on. He went to a bar to have a drink. Afterward, he hit the restroom. From there he wandered the airport and then headed to the security lines. Yet instead of going through security he exited the airport, went to a different parking lot and picked up a car waiting for him there. He headed south.
Djamila sat at the kitchen table in her apartment and wrote the date and time of her death in her journal. She wondered how accurate she would be. If she did die tomorrow, her journal would be found. Perhaps they would publish it in the paper, along with her full name, which she wrote next to her time of death. Then, for some reason, she erased it. Would there be a possibility that she would survive tomorrow?
She stood by the open window and looked out, letting the gentle breeze wash over her, and smelled air that held the fragrance of cut grass, a relatively new sensation for her. It was quiet, peaceful here. No bombs or gunfire. She could see people walking together, talking. An old man sat on the front steps of the building smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. She could hear the peals of laughter of children from the small playground nearby. Djamila was young with her whole life ahead of her. Yet she slowly closed the window and drew herself back into the dark shadows of her apartment.
“Do not let me fail you,” she quietly asked God. “Do not let me fail you.”
Barely twenty minutes from Djamila’s apartment, Adnan al-Rimi had just completed his last prayer of the day. As Djamila had, he’d lingered over his words with God too.
He rolled up his prayer rug and put it away. Adnan only performed his prayers twice a day, at dawn and in the evening. He was a reluctant follower of Ramadan, his belly had been empty for too many years to starve it. Over the years he’d had the occasional cigarette and alcoholic drink. He had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca because he couldn’t afford the trip. And yet he considered himself a faithful Muslim because he worked hard, helped others in need, never cheated, never lied. But he had killed. He had killed in the name of God, to defend Islam, to protect his way of life. Sometimes it seemed his entire existence consisted of three elements: working, praying and fighting. He had worked hard to ensure that his children would not have to fight, would not have to blow themselves and others up to prove a point. But his children were all dead. The violence had reached them despite their father’s attempt to keep them safe.