They opened up the newspaper. The ornate typeface at the top of the front page was opaque to Samir, but Amal, whose high school French had given her a firmer grasp of the Roman alphabet, was able to deduce that this was, or at least purported to be, an American publication: “New York . . . Times,” she read.
The above-the-fold photograph had an eerie familiarity: twin skyscrapers, one partially obscured by the black smoke pouring from its sides, the other wreathed in an expanding billow of flame. But these were not the Tigris and Euphrates towers, nor did the stone-piered suspension bridge in the foreground resemble any of Baghdad’s bridges.
“Something from the war?” Amal speculated, sounding doubtful.
“I’m leaning towards Photoshop,” Samir said. “I don’t think America has buildings that tall. Besides, it looks fake. Can you make out the headline?”
“ ‘U.S. attack . . . destroys towers,’ then something about a pentagon. And the last word is ‘terror.’ ”
“Wait.” Samir tapped his finger on the dateline. “What month is this?”
“September. September 12, 2001.”
Samir laughed. “September 12 . . . So the day before was September 11 . . . 9/11, get it? These towers, they’re located in the magical American superpower. And the guys flying the planes into them, they must be those poor loser third-world Arabs . . .”
There was a loud thump from the front of the apartment. They heard footsteps in the living room. “Maybe I spoke too soon about the microwave,” Amal said.
Frowning, Samir leaned his head out the bathroom doorway. “Hey!” he called. “Who’s out there?”
No answer but abrupt silence. More annoyed than concerned, Samir walked forward through the bedroom, saying: “This is Homeland Security! Whoever you are, if you don’t have a federal badge you’d better start running n—”
As Samir entered the living room, he was attacked from the side, punched in the head and spun around to face the wall. He tried to jab behind him with his elbow, but a sharp blow to the kidneys dropped him to his knees, and then he felt a gun muzzle press against the back of his neck.
A second assailant had darted into the bedroom to grapple Amal. Samir heard her cry out, and the clatter of her pistol being knocked to the ground. He watched from the corner of his eye as she was dragged by the hair into the living room and shoved to the floor; her attacker squatted on her and aimed a submachine gun at the base of her skull, commanding her to lie still. About the only good news in all of this was that the gunman was an Arab, which meant he probably wasn’t a terrorist.
A voice demanded: “Who are you?”
“I told you, we’re Homeland Security,” Samir said, then hissed at a jab from the gun muzzle. “Homeland Security, damn it! My ID is in my pocket.” A rough hand was already inside his jacket, removing first his pistol and then his identification.
“Homeland Security has been ordered off these premises. What are you still doing here?”
“We received no such order.”
“You are lying.” A pause, as the speaker examined Samir’s ID. “Samir Nadim . . . Where do I know that name from?”
“Oh God,” Samir said. That voice . . . “Idris?”
He was dragged to his feet, turned around, and shoved back against the wall. His assailant, like Amal’s, was armed with a submachine gun, but Samir barely glanced at the weapon before focusing his attention on a third man, a tall bearded figure who stood behind and slightly to the left of the gunman.
“Idris,” Samir said, not at all happy. “It is you.”
“Baby-fat Samir,” Idris said. “Not so fat anymore I see. But you still insist on trespassing where you don’t belong.”
Samir bristled. “We have every right to be here. We are conducting an investigation—”
“The investigation has been reassigned, as you well know. You are trespassing.” Idris bent to pick up the copy of the New York Times, which Samir had dropped during his brief scuffle. “Where did you get this?”
“We found it in the bathroom. Costello had a—”
“Who else has seen it?”
“No one,” Samir said. “We just—”
“I will tell you what I think,” Idris interrupted him. “I think you are not with Homeland Security. I think you are a common thief, one of the Shia riffraff who infest the slums of this city. I think you heard this apartment was vacant and broke in to see what you could steal.”
“Right . . . Fine then. Arrest me.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“What, then? . . . Wait.” His eyes widened. “Idris. You can’t be ser—”
“Shoot them both,” Idris said.
“Wait a minute!” Samir shouted. “Idris, you can’t— . . . Do you know who this woman is? She’s Anmar al Maysani’s daughter! Do you have any idea what kind of trouble—”
“Anmar al Maysani’s daughter. And whose daughter are you, eh?”
“That is a very rude thing to say,” a new voice spoke up. “Is this what passes for manners in the capital these days?”
“Farouk!” Samir said. “Mustafa! Thank God!”
“It’s all right, Samir,” Mustafa said. “Relax.”
“Yes, relax,” said Farouk. “We’ll discuss your disregard for protocol some other time.”
“Farouk.” Idris took a moment to hide his irritation before facing him. “We seem to have a misunderstanding here.”
“Indeed,” Farouk said. He nodded to where Amal was pinned to the floor. “Please tell your lackey to get off my agent.”
“Of course. Abu Asim, release her.” Freed, Amal got up slowly, rubbing the back of her neck. Idris asked: “What are you doing here, Farouk?”
“I’ve had a call from Riyadh.”
“Yes, I—”
“No, sorry,” Farouk corrected himself, “I’ve had two calls from Riyadh. It’s the second call that brings me out. There’s been a change in plan.”
“Senator Bin Laden hasn’t told me anything about a change in plan.”
“Senator Bin Laden’s wishes are no longer relevant, I’m afraid. The president has asked me to retake control of this investigation.”
“The president?”
“The commander in chief,” Farouk said. “Surely you’ve heard of him?”
“Why would the president—”
“That brings us back to the subject of disregard for protocol, and, oddly enough, to Senator Bin Laden.” Stepping forward to pluck the New York Times from Idris’s grasp, he continued: “Let’s discuss this back at my office, shall we?”
THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA
A USER-EDITED REFERENCE SOURCE
Al Qaeda
Al Qaeda is an alleged clandestine agency of the Arabian government, supposedly specializing in anti-terrorist operations. Although Al Qaeda’s existence has never been officially confirmed, it is a popular subject of Internet rumor and speculation, particularly among conspiracy theorists.
CLAIMS MADE ABOUT AL QAEDA
·
Al Qaeda’s purported mission is to hunt down and destroy “the worst enemies of God and the state.” It is said to operate outside the bounds of
civil law
and to be answerable to only a handful of government officials.
·
It is claimed that Al Qaeda was founded by combat veterans of the