And now, once again, most people had no idea what had really happened a little over a week ago in Oklahoma City. But she did, at least somewhat. That information alone made her a keenly sought target by both American law enforcement and the members of her former cell. One wanted to question her; the other to kill her.
Shohreh was five foot three, petite, barely a hundred pounds. What chance did she have, a woman alone against powers so great? But what chance had she ever had? What choice did she ever have?
None. None at all.
Her identity papers said she was Saudi Arabian, a deceit practiced so commonly in the aftermath of President Bush’s invasion of her homeland that it was barely worth the trouble. In truth, she was Iraqi, a Sunni Muslim. Globally, more than eighty percent of all Muslims were Sunnis. Only in Iraq were they in the minority. The division was almost as old as Islam itself, dating back to the seventh century. The Shiites believed that Muhammad had selected his son-in-law and cousin, Ali ibn Abi Talib to be his successor prophet. Shiites traditionally performed a hajj to the Blue Mosque in Mazari-Sharif where Ali was buried. Sunnis believed that Muhammad had not chosen a successor so the church leaders, the caliphates, should guide the church. The differences were trivial compared to the doctrinal distinctions that divided the hundreds of Christian denominations. But the differences had proved great enough to produce incalculable bloodshed, leading to the loss of millions of lives. Sunnis and Shiites were impossible to distinguish by appearance, but their names were often a clear indicator to the knowledgeable elite, and all Iraqis were required to carry a national identification card. Omar, Marwan, and Othman were popular Sunni given names; Ali, Abbas, and Hussein were equally popular among Shiites. So those in the minority often changed their birth names, even though to do so was considered shameful and abhorrent-but not enough so as to inspire many to reveal a name that in the wrong circle could be an instant death sentence. During the Gulf War, when Iraqi civilians were often stopped at military checkpoints or even randomly on the streets, a name or hometown suggesting affiliation with the rival sect could lead to summary execution. Identification forgery became a boom business.
Shohreh was a “Saudi Arabian” name she adopted when she came to America, although her associates knew her only as 355. She resisted both changes. What was wrong with her original name?
A good deal, as it turned out.
She heard something move behind her and froze. She hated these streets. She might as well be walking through a war zone in her home country, waiting for another American bomb dropped from thirty thousand feet to kill anonymous targets.
Someone was moving back there. She was certain of it.
A cold sweat broke out all over her body. She felt paralyzed, afraid or unable to move. She was breathing fast and shallow, making noise at just the moment she knew she most needed to remain silent. The people looking for her were trained to kill instantly, efficiently, in so many ways that there was always some means available. They could kill with a pencil, a matchstick, a spoon. They could kill with their bare hands and it would take only slightly longer. They were the deadliest people on the face of the earth.
Had they found her at last?
Her knees trembling, she turned slowly to face whatever lurked in the darkness.
A cat jumped off a trash can and scampered away.
She would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified. This was only a temporary reprieve, not a release. The General had said he would come alone, but she knew better. He would not come at all. He would send someone else; he would take no risks, not even with a tiny woman with no friends or resources. Not even with a former ally.
Shohreh had lived a privileged life, once upon a time, far from the cliche American view of life for a woman in the Middle East. In Iraq, even while Saddam Hussein ruled, Shohreh’s mother could drive a car, she could vote, she could leave home without a note from her husband, and she didn’t have to be completely covered from head to foot-unlike Saudi women. Shohreh had been well educated. She wore clothes she chose herself. She welcomed the American invasion.
And then one day she came back and found her entire affluent neighborhood was gone. Flattened by an off- target American air strike. It was the last day she saw her parents.
It was the last day she saw Djamila.
She initially lived with relatives in Tikrit, thought to be much safer than Baghdad. They died in a car bombing. She found work as a servant in Mosul, demeaning for a person of her background, but still, a way of living. But the war followed her there, too. All at once, this privileged well-educated woman was homeless, caught in the crossfire between the rapidly growing army of the insurgents and the Americans. What was she to do?
The General had the answers she sought. And she would regret that every day thereafter.
General Yaseen Daraji hated the Americans for, he claimed, philosophical and political reasons. They cared nothing about human rights for Iraqis, or freedom or self-governance. They didn’t even care about the supposed weapons of mass destruction or catching the perpetrators of 9/11. All they cared about was oil, he preached. This was a war of aggression carried out not by political ideologues, but by businessmen.
As she would later realize to her great dismay, the General was a businessman, too. In the most horrible business imaginable.
As all good Muslims knew, the greater jihad was the internal struggle to obey the teachings of Muhammad. In time, thanks to the General, she was allowed to join the lesser jihad, the holy war, the struggle against the invaders who had divided her country. She should have known better-but what choice did she have, really?
She arrived at the appointed rendezvous and, although it went against her every instinct, she turned down the alley that bisected the Dove Avenue and Second Street block and plunged in. If it had been dark before, it was black now, an absolute Stygian nothingness. The stench was tremendous. Even without vision, she knew she was plunging into a sea of mud and grime and human waste.
She could not see anything. She did not hear anything. And she knew they were there. Three of them.
She slid on her glasses and waited for them to make the first move.
“355?” one of them said, in their native tongue.
“I’m here, Ahmed.” She recognized his voice. They had been associates, companions. They had worked together on many occasions. “Where is the General?”
“He has unfortunately been detained. And please do not use my other name. You know how this is done.”
“Sorry, 111. The General said he would come alone.”
“He thought it unwise to leave the safe house. Given the current state of national security.”
“I’m sure the current state of affairs has not prevented him from conducting his business. I was not anxious to leave safety, either.” She could sense that the two men behind her were moving closer. “And yet I came.”
A long pause ensued. She waited. Even at this point, she held out hope that she would be honored by those with whom she had worked so long and done so much.
“Please follow me,” the one she called 111 instructed.
The other two silent men inched even closer. They were near enough now that she had a sense of them. They were huge men, bulky, both at least a foot taller than she. And she knew from experience how formidable Ahmed was.
“Please, 355. Follow me.”
Again the two associates stepped closer. She did not move at all.
“If you planned to take me to the General,” she said, her voice calm and even, “you would blindfold me. You have not come to escort me. You have come to kill me.”
Ahmed was silent; then he gave a quick gesture to his companions that they heard more than saw. “I told the General you would be wary.”
“But he did not really care, since he was planning to have you kill me anyway.”
Ahmed did not bother to respond. “You are a woman, vastly outnumbered. Our strength far exceeds yours. It would be better if you did not struggle.”
“Better for you, at any rate,” Shohreh said, and a moment later, she felt one of the men behind her wrap his arms around her body while the other crept toward her from the front, his arms outstretched to strangle her.
She knew she must act in seconds, or she would lose the opportunity forever. She recognized the Thai clinch; she knew how to break it and she knew how to make it work to her favor. Bracing her arms back against the man holding her, she used him as a fulcrum and flung both feet forward in a frontal teep, or foot jab. She caught the man
