Hassan had already moved all of the furniture to one side of the room, stacking the barstools next to the pool table and wicker furniture, and had covered the floor and the bottom half of the wall with heavy plastic. He had pulled the blinds and turned on an overhead light. The room was now quiet except for Ja’dah’s ragged breathing.
He squatted in front of her. “I am about to perform the evening salat,” he said softly. “Will you join me?”
Ja’dah’s eyes were rimmed with tears and wide with fright. She shook her head quickly. Decisively.
Hassan rose without speaking and headed to the wet bar at the far end of the room. He washed quickly. First his hands-right, then left. Then his face three times. His mouth. His nose. A dash of water to his hair and beard. Next his arms, wrists to elbows. Last, he washed his feet.
He pulled a prayer mat from a nearby bedroom and unrolled it on the plastic in the middle of the floor, facing east, toward the ocean. His melodic chants echoed off the walls, and soon he lost himself in the rhythmic worship of Allah. The prayers calmed his nerves. Strengthened his resolve. Deepened his convictions. At first, he was cognizant of Ja’dah watching his every move, trembling in fear. But soon enough, he became oblivious to her and lost himself in reverence.
He concluded his prayers, prostrate before Allah, and rose to his feet. Without speaking, he returned the prayer mat to the bedroom and knelt to face Ja’dah again. She had stopped sobbing and trembling. She regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and terror, her eyes locked on his.
“You have dishonored Allah,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You have dishonored your family.”
She shook her head again, and rage welled up in him. He grabbed her chin and squeezed, holding her head still. Her eyes popped open with a new wave of fear.
“You have become a prostitute,” he sneered. “A whore of the West.”
She didn’t move, frozen by fear.
He let go of her chin, took a breath, and relaxed. “You must renounce the Christian faith and return to your family.” His voice was again soft, a plea of reason. “Perhaps Allah will have mercy on your soul.” Slowly, he reached out and stripped the duct tape from Ja’dah’s mouth.
To her credit, she didn’t try to scream or curse or otherwise lash out. Her lips shook, and when she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “I cannot,” she stammered. “I am no longer a Muslim.”
As she said these words, Ja’dah looked past Hassan, but then she gathered the strength to again look him in the eye. “Nor are you. The Holy Qur’an teaches submission, not the sword.”
Enraged, Hassan slapped her. “‘I will cast dread into the hearts of the unbelievers,’” he said, his voice staccato. “‘Strike off their heads, and strike off all of their fingertips.’” He was quoting Sura 8:12, the words of the Prophet.
“That is not what that Sura means,” Ja’dah responded, her voice soft but certain. “I can quote Suras on mercy and forgiveness. Islam is submission to Allah. I have submitted to the God I hear.”
Hassan did not react emotionally to the blasphemy. He would not avenge the name of Allah in a fit of rage. His convictions were grounded in the certainty of the Prophet’s words and the faithfulness of a warrior’s heart. He was an instrument for Allah, nothing more.
“Renounce,” he said simply.
“I cannot.”
He shook his head in pity. She was a beautiful woman, full of courage and conviction. He could understand why Fatih Mahdi had chosen her. He had to protect his own heart from desiring her even now.
“Then you must pay.”
Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi did not respond.
Hassan rose and went into the adjacent bedroom to retrieve his sword. Returning to the rec room, in plain sight of Ja’dah, he removed the weapon from its sheath and placed it on the floor. Light reflected from the polished metal. Hassan studied his captive. Staring at the sword, her eyes glistened with tears.
He dragged her to the middle of the room and raised her into a kneeling position. He picked up the sword.
He had expected her to collapse in fear. She had been shaking almost uncontrollably as he pulled her to the middle of the room. But now, she seemed to find a new resolve. She looked straight ahead and closed her eyes. The trembling stopped. She held her head high, her hands still tied behind her back, her neck an easy target.
Somehow, in these last few moments, she had found the courage to accept her fate with dignity. She was still wrong. Still an infidel. Still destined for Allah’s wrath. But in that moment, Hassan couldn’t help but admire her.
He took a breath, whispered a quick prayer, then swung the sword in a giant arc, its swoosh filling the room as it sliced through the air. Ja’dah kept her eyes closed, her head held high, and let out a muffled shriek of terror.
He stopped the sword-inches from her neck.
She froze for a second in a state of shock, then collapsed to the floor. She curled into the fetal position, her knees tight to her chest.
Hassan knelt next to her.
“Renounce,” he whispered into her ear.
Ja’dah lay trembling for a moment, as if enduring a seizure that his words could not penetrate. After a few seconds, she grew still.
“Renounce,” he insisted.
She opened her eyes and tilted her head slightly to face him. Her eyes hardened, and she gave him a small shake of the head.
Hassan shook his own head in sadness and disappeared once more into the ground-floor bedroom. This time, he returned with a black hood and placed it over Ja’dah’s head. He pulled her back to her knees, held her there with one hand, and said a final prayer. Was this truly what Allah required?
Hearing nothing, he stepped back to swing the sword again. Just as he did in his dreams, this time he would swing with all his might. There could be no mercy. The sword would complete its deadly arc, and Mahdi’s honor would be restored.
“Allahu akbar,” he said as the sword sliced through the air.
22
Following the execution, Hassan did not allow himself the luxury of emotion. There was nothing to celebrate, nothing to mourn. He was only following Allah’s will. There was still much to be done.
The marriage between Ja’dah and Fatih Mahdi could now be expunged. It would be as if she had never existed. The gruesome manner of her death would strike fear into the hearts of other Muslim women who were considering dishonoring their families. At the same time, it would repulse and terrorize Americans, reminding them that there were jihadists among them, here on American soil.
Beheadings were commonplace in parts of the Middle East, an accepted form of capital punishment. But in America, they were regarded as a grotesque novelty, one that would have the media chattering for months. Muslim scholars and moderate imams would condemn the brutality and claim Islam was a religion of peace.
But radicals like Hassan would be energized by it. A personal attack deep in the heart of the enemy’s territory. A clinical strike. One that would frustrate millions because the agents of the Great Satan would never find the responsible party. On the other hand, Hassan would make sure the bodies were found, even though they would never be traced back to him.
Though Ja’dah’s death would be repulsive to Americans, in truth she did not suffer. Hassan hadn’t wanted her to. She was courageous, though misguided. He understood her resolve and commitment, a reflection of his own. She was in many ways a victim. The one who shouldered the greater part of the blame was this man named Martin Burns, an infidel who had lusted after a Muslim woman and led her astray.
For him, death would not come so easily. Ja’dah’s beheading would deter other Muslim women, but Hassan needed something just as strong to deter American men. Martin Burns had to suffer. He needed to die in a way that would play on the fears of Americans, something that would command the attention of even those who gorged themselves on Hollywood horror movies. And Hassan wanted to create some religious symbolism as well. It would be a shame that the irony would be lost on most.