Yusef was responsible for denuding of flesh many Zionist skulls in the hellhole that his kind had made of Beirut.
When the tide turned inevitably against the Palestinian cause, and the PLO had sold out Hezbollah and embraced the Zionist enemy, Yusef found himself not dead but very much alive. He was disappointed. He wanted to die. He yearned to die. He had been taught by the religious leader of Hezbollah that to be martyred was a thing to be embraced wholeheartedly.
"A martyr is automatically granted entrance to Paradise," Yusef was assured. "In Paradise there is no toil, no cold, no pain. Every man wears green silk, and the sweetest grapes are always within reach."
"What about women?" Yusef asked.
"In Paradise the blessed are each allotted seventy-two virgins, untouched by man or jinn. These are called houris. And they belong to the martyr exclusively."
"Seventy-two?" asked Yusef, brightened by his prospects.
Thus, finding himself in a PLO detention camp, still living for his unkissed houris awaiting him in Paradise, only compounded the matter. Here he was no longer the feared Nose, but only Yusef Gamal, out of bullets and out of hope.
"I will never dance with my houris rotting away in this place of pestilence," he complained to a fellow Hezbollah freedom fighter.
"I hear there are great opportunities in Afghanistan," said his fellow Palestinian.
"Afghanistan?"
"Yes. The godless Russians have been driven out. It is jihad."
Yusef had visibly brightened. "Holy war! Killing Jews!"
"There are no Jews in Afghanistan."
"What is the glory in that?" Yusef complained. "Afghan skulls will not break down the gates of Paradise."
"That is not what the mullahs and imams are saying."
Yusef shook his head vigorously. "No, it would take too many Afghan skulls to gain me entrance to Paradise. I do not have all my life in which to martyr myself. What good will I be to the compliant houris if I am too old and feeble to adore them? These women are expecting certain manly duties of me."
"If you change your mind, speak to Muzzamil. He will see that you get to Afghanistan."
Eventually boredom got to Yusef Gamal, and he made the acquaintance of the mysterious Muzzamil. "I am interested in Afghanistan," Yusef explained. "I understand the opportunities for martyrdom are very great there."
Muzzamil had a very thick beard and flashing opaline eyes, which immediately fell upon the exact center of Yusef's visage.
"You have an interesting nose."
"Thank you, but what about Afghanistan?"
"It is a very Jewish nose."
And hearing this insult, Yusef Gamal seized the insulter by the throat and attempted to squeeze his head off.
Others came and clubbed him off Muzzamil. "He is a hothead, forgive him, O Muzzamil."
"He is Palestinian. That is the same thing," Muzzamil said as the good color returned to his dark, bearded face. His voice sounded squeezed, but his tone was without fear or anger.
"It is sometimes good to have a Jewish nose," Muzzamil told Yusef, who promptly threw off his compatriots and took another lunge at the hateful Muzzamil.
This time Muzzamil was ready for him. Yusef, who was used to fighting with Kalashnikovs and RPG's, did not expect something as lowly as a fist to lay him out. In truth, he never saw the fist that connected with the stubbled point of his chin.
When he regained consciousness, Muzzamil was bending over him. "Your nose is not broken. That is good."
"My jaw feels like broken glass," Yusef muttered dazedly.
"It will heal. For what lies ahead, you will need that Zionist nose of yours."
"I go to Afghanistan?"
"No. That is for cannon fodder and other fools. For you, I have special plans."
That night Yusef was spirited out of the camp. A long series of journeys by Land Rover, by boat and camel brought him to a city of minarets he did not recognize.
"What city is this?"
"Tehran."
"I am in Iran!"
"Yes."
"You are a Persian?"
"Yes. My true name is Aboof."
Yusef Gamal frowned. It was true that the Persians worshiped Allah and their leader the ayatollah was a devout Muslim. But they were Persians, not Arabs. It was a very different thing.
"For the work that lies ahead, you will need a new name."
"Abu Gamalin," Yusef said quickly.
"That is a good name for waging terror campaigns and issuing communiques and threats, yes. But I was thinking of a contact name for our files."
"It will not be a name that I use?"
"No, it will be for internal use only."
"Then I do not care what I am called," Yusef snapped.
"Good," said Aboof the Persian, who told him his code name would henceforth be Yusef the Jew.
The only thing that stopped Yusef Gamal from throttling the despicable Persian on the spot was the presence of the armed Revolutionary Guards.
"You will go to America," said Aboof when Yusef had calmed down.
"I will never go to America. It is an un-Islamic place."
"There you will apply for US. citizenship."
"Never! I would rather burn in Hell first."
"You will get a job and you will sleep," continued Aboof the Unflappable.
"What manner of orders are these for a warrior?"
"The job will support you until you are called. The sleep I speak of will be the sleep of a sleeper agent."
"How long must I sleep?"
"Until you are told to awaken."
"What will my duties be at that time?"
"Whatever is decided then. For you may sleep a long time."
IT was, in fact, six years. So long that Yusef the Jew had wondered if he had been forgotten by the lordly Persians. The intifada had ended. Many had been martyred. The Gulf War had also passed. Yusef had missed out on all of it. Worse, he was a lowly American citizen driving a cab in New York City, unmartyred and unfulfilled.
It was a terrible destiny. All of his friends, he had heard, were dead and already in Paradise, safely in the arms of Allah. And he was stuck fighting treacherous traffic and conveying Jews to their destinations like some camel driver of old.
The call came in the middle of the night, six months after the World Trade Center bombing.
"We are assembling an army," the soft voice said.
"Who is this?" Yusef asked sleepily.
"Aboof asked me to contact you."
"Aboof! Where is he?"
"In Paradise."
"He is lucky. For I am living in Hoboken. A place worse than Hell itself."
"Come to the Abu al-Kalbin Mosque in Jersey City, Yusef the Chosen."
"Why?"
"Because we are creating a secret army to smash the Great Satan."
Now Yusef knew for sure he was speaking with another Persian. For only Persians spoke of the Great Satan. But he agreed to go anyway. Driving a cab in New York City was slowly driving him mad.
The Abu al-Kalbin Mosque was a storefront mosque in the heart of the dirty place called Jersey City, not very far from city hall. Yusef took the PATH train to the Journal Square stop and walked as instructed along Kennedy Boulevard.
The neighborhood was unpleasant, but such was the lot of Muslims who came to dwell in America. There was no justice. Never once had the taxi company Yusef worked for given him his Fridays off or allowed him to pull over and face Mecca for his daily prayers.
At the door, he was greeted by an Egyptian face he did not know. But the man's dark eyes exploded as if in recognition. Then they narrowed in anger and disgust.
"Go away, Jew. We want none of you here."
"I am no-"
The plain door slammed in his face. Annoyed, Yusef knocked again.