The Camel Club

Franklin flashed a confused look. “Am I missing something here? A Muslim eating Jewish food?”

“Jews are people of the Book, in the Qur’an, I mean. As are Christians too, miss. And Jesus, he is recognized as a very important prophet of Islam, but he is not a god. There is only one God. And only Muhammad communicated the true word of God to the people. But David and Ibrahim, who you call Abraham, are important prophets too for Islam. We respect them for what they did. It was Ibrahim and his son Ishmael who built the Kaaba and established the practice of hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca.”

Franklin looked impatient. “Thanks for the theology lesson, but what does all that have to do with food?”

“Muslims must eat food that is deemed lawful, or halal, and avoid what is haram, or unlawful. These rules they come from the Qur’an and fatwas and other Islamic rulings. We cannot consume alcohol or eat the meat of pigs, dogs or monkeys or other animals that haven’t died by human hand. We can only eat the meat of animals that have the cloven hoof and chew the cud and only fish that have the fin and scales, just like the Jews. The Jews, they prepare their food in ways acceptable to Muslims. As example, they drain all blood from the meat. Muslims, we cannot drink blood or have anything to do with blood in our food. And Jews do not kill the animal by boiling it or by electricity, although they do not declare three times, ‘Allahu akbar,’ that means God is great, when they slaughter the animal. But we Muslims recognize God by saying his name before we eat the food. And God will not let his people starve if they can’t find halal food. You say God’s name over the food, it is halal. Not all Muslims will eat the food of Jews, but if I cannot find halal food, I will eat the kosher.”

Lori Franklin was frowning at her nanny. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t understand that. I pick up a newspaper and pretty much can count on at least one story of Jews and Muslims killing each other somewhere. I know it’s not all that simple, but you’d think if you eat their food and they’re in your Bible, you could find some way to get along.”

Djamila stiffened. “It is not about food that we differ. I could tell you much—”

“Yes, well, I really don’t want to get into it. I have to meet George after lunch. He forgot his plane tickets for his flight tonight. Honestly, George can’t remember anything. You’d think an investment banker would have a better memory.”

After lunch was over and Lori Franklin had left, Djamila put the children into her van and drove to the park. On the ride over, her thoughts turned to her recent past.

She had known young men who’d trained with her in Pakistan that kept what they called journals of sacrifice, their sacrifice. The West, she knew, called them suicide diaries. She had read accounts in the papers of these diaries being found after the young men had died for Islam. Djamila had thought about what the last day of her life would look like. In her head she ran through what she would be thinking when the time came, how she would react. She had many questions and some doubts that troubled her. Would she be brave? She had imagined herself being noble and stoic, but was that unrealistic? Would she instantly be transported to paradise? Would anyone mourn her? And yet this also made her feel guilty, for her love of God should be enough; as it was for all Muslims.

Under normal circumstances it would have been unheard of for women to be deployed in terrorist cells with men, since there were strict rules and tribal customs forbidding unrelated men and women from being around each other. However, it had become quickly evident that Muslim men were almost always placed under heavy scrutiny in America, whereas Muslim women were given much more leeway. Thus, Muslim women were being engaged in much greater numbers now.

Djamila had grown close to one man she’d trained with. Ahmed was an Iranian, which instantly made her suspicious because there had never been harmony between Iran and her country. Yet he described a world in Tehran that was different from what she’d been told in Iraq.

“People want to be happy,” he told her. “But they cannot be happy if they are not free. You can love and worship God, without other people telling you how to live every part of life.” Then he went on to tell her that Iranian women could drive, vote and even hold seats in the Parliament. They were not forced to cover their entire face, just their hair and body, and they had started to wear cosmetics. He also told her that satellite dishes were being smuggled into the country in large numbers, and that, even more astonishing, men and women sat in cars while music played on the radio. If you knew where to go and the right things to say, you could get around the rules and the mullahs. You could have a chance to live life, if only for a little time, he had said. Djamila listened very intensely whenever he spoke of this.

He had also told Djamila that her name, which meant “beautiful” in Arabic, was most fitting to her. Most fitting, he’d said with respect and admiration, his gaze averted from hers. This comment had made her very happy. It had given her possibilities for a future that she had not thought realistic. However, he also spoke often of his coming death, even writing down in his diary the very day and hour that he planned on dying for God. But he would never show her the date he had chosen.

Djamila didn’t know if he’d fulfilled that wish or not. She didn’t know where he’d been sent. She would read the newspapers looking for his name or his picture telling of his death, but she’d never seen it. Djamila wondered if he ever read the newspapers looking for her picture and the account of her death.

He’d been a fledgling poet who had modest dreams of seeing his verses in print for other Arabs to read. His poems were filled with tragedy that Djamila knew came from years of violence and suffering in Iran. One of the last things he told her was, “When one has lost everything except one’s life, it doesn’t make that life more valuable, it only makes the sacrifice of that life more potent. To die for God, life could have no greater purpose.” She would never forget those words. They gave her strength and her life meaning.

The Qur’an said that any man or woman who has led a righteous life while believing in God enters paradise without the slightest injustice. But Djamila had learned that the only way for a Muslim to be guaranteed passage into paradise was to die as a martyr during an Islamic holy war. If that was so, and Djamila prayed every day that it was true, then she would willingly make that sacrifice. The life after must be better. God would not let it be otherwise; she was certain of this.

Sometimes Djamila would imagine her poet joining her in paradise, where they could live in eternal peace. This thought was one of the very few that could still bring a smile to her lips. Yes, Djamila would like to see him again, very much. In life or death, it did not matter to her. It did not matter at all.

CHAPTER

34

STONE WALKED BACK TO HIS cottage and cleaned himself up, putting ice on his face and resting while the swelling went down. Then he used his borrowed cell phone and contacted Reuben and Caleb. They scheduled a meeting for that night; he was unable to get hold of Milton.

After that, he tended to the cemetery and helped a couple of visitors find a grave they were looking for. Many years ago the church had documented the people interred here, but that list had been lost. Over the past two years Stone had checked every headstone and local records to re-create an accurate list. He’d also steeped himself in the history of Mt. Zion Cemetery and acted as an informal tour guide, narrating this history to groups that came by.

As he finished with the visitors and returned to work, he felt his face burn. And it wasn’t from his recent injuries, but rather from embarrassment. It had been so stupid of him to do that particularly in front of Adelphia. He could still feel the weight of the knife in his hand. So stupid.

Later he decided to take the Metro to Milton’s house. If his friend had been able to trace the car tag, Stone wanted to know. Plus, he wanted to make sure Milton was all right. The people they were dealing with could also run down a fingerprint as easily as Milton could.

He was walking down the street toward the Foggy Bottom subway station when he heard a horn sound behind him. He turned. It was Agent Ford. He pulled his Crown Vic to the curb and rolled down the window.

“Want a ride?” Alex suddenly noted his friend’s injuries. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell.”