She asked me, “Are you excited?”
“I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
She stayed silent as we walked to the elevators, then said to me, “I feel better that we’re together and we can look out for each other.”
“Right.” I remembered an old Arab saying. “When walking through a minefield, make one of your wives walk fifty paces in front of you and your camel.” I didn’t say that, of course. I said, “If I had three more wives, we’d have a whole five-person team looking out for each other.” Actually, I didn’t say that either. I said, “We always look out for each other.”
She kissed me as we waited for the elevator, and we held hands on the way down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Al Rasul said he wanted to see me before I left, so I went to his desk and he suggested a cup of coffee in the break room.
We sat at a table with our coffees, and I said to Al, “Tom has agreed to send you to Yemen with us.”
He smiled, then said, “You know, I’ve never actually been to a Muslim country.”
“Except Brooklyn.”
He smiled again and said, “I don’t think I’d like it. I know my wife wouldn’t.”
“She Muslim?”
“Yeah. But born here. She sees the new immigrant women with the scarves and veils and it makes her crazy.”
Which reminded me of the question that had been bugging me, and I asked him, “Maybe you can tell me why some American-born Muslims have gone to Sandland to fight for the bad guys?”
Al Rasul replied, “The short answer is jihad. The long answer is God, history, Sharia law, and lots of hate. And here’s a secret-they hate the West only slightly more than they hate their own corrupt governments, and a little more than they hate themselves.”
I thought about that, and I guess I understood what he was saying. But it didn’t really answer the question of how all this had translated into a growing jihad.
Al had part of an answer and said, “Islam began with military conquest, forced conversions, religious fundamentalism, and an intolerant theocratic state. And then there was a period of enlightenment. But what you’re seeing now is a return to the good old days. The Dark Ages.”
“Right. But don’t forget those seventy-two virgins in Paradise.”
He smiled, then got serious and said, “The fundamentalists take that literally. If you kill innocent non-believers, you don’t go to hell where you belong-you go to Paradise.” He added, “Their goal on earth is Sharia law and world domination. Their spiritual goal is to ascend into Paradise.” He advised me, “Don’t try to make sense of it. And don’t think that what these homegrown radicals need is a good dose of Western civilization and a few beers. They’ve had that-here and in Europe-and they reject it.”
“You don’t reject it.”
“I’m a bad Muslim. At least by their standards. I’m also a marked man.”
“Right. Don’t sit so close to me.”
I looked at the Department of Justice wanted posters on the wall. Mostly bearded guys with dark, dead eyes. Almost all the captions said Wanted for Murder, some said Suspected Murder, and some said Conspiracy to Commit Murder. Murder used to be my game, but this wasn’t murder. It was something else, and it wasn’t war; it was sick and it was evil.
Happily, a lot of the posters had big red Xs on them, and notations: Killed, Captured, Convicted.
There was no wanted poster for Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. The Panther, and I wondered why not. I guess for the same reason that al-Numair came up empty on the automated case system; The Panther had gone from wanted by the Department of Justice to the CIA kill list.
Anyway, assuming that Al Rasul wasn’t Al Qaeda, I confided in him, “I’m going to Yemen to look for an Al Qaeda guy who was born here.”
“I know that. The Panther. Al-Numair.”
“How do you know that?”
“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”
“Right. Any advice?”
“Yeah. Watch your ass.”
“That’s it? That’s the total wisdom of the East?”
“That’s the total wisdom of East Flatbush, where I grew up, and the Lower East Side, where you grew up. But here’s another tip-this guy is not some rural desert hick like your last big cat, The Lion. You may or may not be able to get into The Panther’s head, but he’s multicultural so he’s already in your head.”
“Right. I know that.”
“Good. So don’t try to guess what he’s going to do as an Arab. Try to guess what his conflicts are. His strength as a Westernized Arab is also his weakness. His head is on Channel One some days, and Channel Two other days, and sometimes both channels, and that’s when he gets static. He would tell you that he has no sympathy and no admiration for the West, and that the West is not in his heart or soul. But it is in his head, and if he were honest with himself, he’d understand that his hate was, in fact, a form of respect. You don’t bother to hate what you think is contemptible.”
“Right.” And Al Rasul knew all of this because…? I asked him, “How do I actually find this guy?”
“You know very well that he will find you.”
I was afraid he was going to say that.
“Make sure you let everyone know you’re looking for him. The word will reach him-if it hasn’t already.” He reminded me, “You understand that you have somewhat of a reputation after The Lion. Asad Khalil was not Al Qaeda, but as you well know, he worked with Al Qaeda on his last mission here. And he was a respected jihadist, and because you sent Khalil to Paradise, you are not unknown to Al Qaeda.” And then the kicker. “In fact, Al Qaeda would like to see you in Yemen to even the score.”
Actually, that thought had occurred to me. In fact, it kept occurring to me, but I’d put it into my denial file. Now good old Al had pulled it out for me. Also, I think Tom Walsh forgot to mention that I was actually going to Yemen to be red meat for The Panther. See what I mean about Tom?
I asked Al, “Did someone tell you to brief me?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Not officially. And not Tom Walsh.” He confided to me, “I’m working this end of the case. Mommy Panther and Daddy Panther in New Jersey.” He let me know, “They’re clean. Good citizens. Very upset. But they’re not giving up their son… Still, we might get some leads through them.”
“Let me know.”
“Will do.” He also let me know, “Bulus ibn al-Darwish is on the CIA’s kill or capture list, and Mom and Dad have actually brought suit in Federal court to get their son removed from the kill list. Their reasoning is that their son is an American citizen and therefore can’t be assassinated by the American government.”
“Okay. But did anyone explain to them that their son has killed American citizens? Like seventeen U.S. sailors.”
“In fact, that’s why they may get their son removed from the CIA kill list.” He explained, “His parents have also made the legal argument that what their son did, did not constitute an act of terrorism, but was an act of war.” He further explained, “This legal theory is backed by some past decisions in American courts and the International Court. So if attacking an American military target-as opposed to attacking civilians-is ruled an act of war, then The Panther has committed no crime and he will not be brought to trial. He will be detained as a prisoner of war, and under the Geneva Convention he is not obligated to give any information other than his name, rank, and service number.”
That sucked. I mean, not only couldn’t I kill him, I couldn’t even torture him. I said to Al, “Sounds to me like Mom and Dad are playing it both ways. First, their son is an American citizen with Constitutional rights. Next, he’s a soldier in a foreign army and he has protections under the Geneva Convention.”
“Right. Whatever works.”
I said, “What he actually is, is a traitor to his country, and that’s a hanging offense.”