looked at me.”
“You have to understand my perspective,” Jack said. “There are a lot of radicals out there. Like the Hand of Allah. People who want to destroy America.”
“Yes, and that’s why I agreed to help you and Sara. But don’t you see that when you say such hateful things, it makes men like me feel as if you’re talking about us as well.”
“I understand, but it’s a very delicate balance. And I’m sure you have even more to fear from radicals than I do.”
“You’re a hundred percent right about that.”
He was quiet a moment as he closed his book and stared at the laptop, watching the software do its magic. Then he said, “But it isn’t just the radicals. My mother is Indian, and my father is Pakistani, and our extended family is a mix of many different beliefs. Some are liberal Muslims, and they may well be the worst curse there is.”
“Worse than those who want to kill people? Bomb them?”
“I don’t condone such actions, and I never will. But the liberals are nearly as dangerous in their own way. People who think that pornography and degeneracy and gay marriage are normal, acceptable. To my mind, that’s a bigger threat to the stability of Pakistan and the world than anyone can imagine.”
Jack relaxed a bit and had to stifle a smile. He almost felt as if he were in a bar back home, talking American politics with Tony or the Reb.
“When I’m not at school,” Faisal said, “I work in a mobile phone store. There’s another man who works there, a fundamentalist Christian, and we’ve had many conversations about our beliefs. And when it comes to social values, family values, we’re in total accord. We agree on almost everything with regard to how life should be led.”
The laptop beeped and he checked the screen, then typed in a quick entry and started it running again.
“The point I’m trying to make to you,” he said, “is that there are many varieties of Muslim, just as there are Catholics or Jews. There are Muslims who are not religious, yet use Islam as a political weapon. They have no interest in following the teachings, yet they’re willing to kill for their own self-advancement. Do you realize that in some of our Muslim schools-right here in England-they’re teaching young students how to properly chop off the hands of thieves?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I were. It’s right there in their textbooks.” He paused, clearly disturbed by the thought. “But there are other Muslims, like me, who are very religious yet have no taste for violence, no desire to harm anyone. While I may detest what the liberals believe, and think that their view of society is dangerous, I don’t want to hurt or convert them, I simply want to be left alone. There are many of us who feel that way.”
“And how do you feel when one of these radicals sets off a bomb?”
“Just as frightened as you do. Just as terrified.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Point taken,” Jack said.
“What I want to stress to you is that when you go on television and speak of Muslims, you should be very careful to separate us, not lump us all together.”
“That’s true, but this isn’t one sided, you know. How do you think it feels when Americans are all seen as infidels?”
“Those who say such things aren’t speaking for me,” Faisal told him. “All I really want is peace throughout the world. That’s all any true Muslim wants. We believe in the blessed words of all of the prophets, from Moses to Jesus. We respect others and their religions, and all we ask is that they do the same in return.”
Jack knew all of this, of course. But it didn’t hurt to have a face to attach to it. He had stereotyped Faisal, mistrusted him, the moment he’d walked in the door. And he regretted that.
“That’s good to hear,” Jack said. “And you’re right. I will be more careful.”
Faisal nodded, satisfied to have had his say. He rose from his chair and gestured to the laptop. “This will take some time and I need to sleep. I’ll check its progress in the morning.”
“Thank you, Faisal. I know you didn’t have to help us, and I appreciate what you’re doing.”
Faisal gestured to Sara stretched out on the sofa. “She looks comfortable there, but you can’t sleep in that chair. I have a spare bedroom for when my family arrives. There’s a bed. You are free to use it.”
Then he stepped into the hallway and disappeared.
29
Exhausted as he was, Jack couldn’t sleep.
It was nice to be on a mattress again, and have the warmth of a working radiator, but he spent the next two hours unable to stop thinking.
There were big thoughts. He was unable to put aside the pieces of the puzzle, the disaster waiting for so many people if he failed. His tired brain told him to drop the whole thing in the lap of the FBI or the CIA but he didn’t dare. For one thing, they probably wouldn’t believe that “wacko” alarmist Jack Hatfield. For another, by the time that machine got into motion and up to speed, the event could well be in their rearview mirror.
There were smaller thoughts. He wept inside for his watch, violated by Swain and necessarily discarded like so many other parts of his life. He kept telling himself that it was only a watch, that he’d always have his memories, the good and the bad. It was like death. Be happy for the time you were together, the memories you built, rather than mourn the future that was never guaranteed.
Yet that watch had brought him comfort so many times over the years. A sense of calm. There was nothing that could ever replace it, and he cursed Swain for using him, for knowing instinctively that Jack would never leave something so valuable behind and using that knowledge against him.
Against all of them.
He remembered the violence and death that had descended on that apartment house and was overwhelmed by survivor’s syndrome. He took no solace in his own relative comfort and security. Despite his admonitions that Sara not blame herself for what had happened, Jack couldn’t fight off his own guilt. People had died because of his failure to realize he’d been used. And it was quite possible that many more would die before they saw an end to this.
“Stop it,” Jack finally said through his teeth. “You’re going to save lives!”
It was a tragic corruption of his comment about preferring the death of a hundred million Muslims to a hundred million non-Muslims. The lives of dozens of people had to be surrendered in the hope of sparing millions more.
That was the math of modern-day antiterror activities. It was only a waste if he failed. That kept returning him to the biggest thought of all:
“The infidels will soon see destruction that will make 9/11 seem like child’s play.”
Operation Roadshow, coming to a city near you.
When? How? That question had yet to be answered.
Jack was finally starting to drift off when he heard the faint flush of a toilet down the hall. A moment later a silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway-Sara, barely visible in the light from the window.
“You left me alone,” she said softly.
“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Probably happy to be rid of me for a while.”
“Never,” he told her.
She came into the room. “I said some terrible things to you last night. Sometimes I speak without thinking.”
“You’ve already apologized for that, even though you didn’t need to. You had a right to be upset. We both did. Nobody should ever have to see what we saw.”
She closed the door behind her now, then moved to a small television in the corner and turned it on, tuning it to an Arab station, which was playing only Arabic music at the moment. Jack wasn’t sure what she was up to but he didn’t protest when she came over to the bed and lit the scented candle that was sitting on the nightstand. Her long brown hair was highlighted against the window and he saw a light snow falling outside.
