“Nothing,” said Abu Mustafa. “I’m happy to help, but I think the last time you followed my advice was when you were eight years old.” Another laugh. “Never mind, go on. What’s the problem?”
Mustafa just said it: “I think Samir is a homosexual.”
His father looked at him quizzically, then waited to hear if there was more. Finally Abu Mustafa said: “Well, that’s not so big a surprise. Really, if you think about it, it explains a few things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember when Samir got divorced?” Abu Mustafa said. “I was struck at the time by how eagerly he confessed his infidelities. In his shoes I think I’d have been more ashamed, and more discreet—unless I were trying to prevent speculation about some other problem with my marriage.”
Mustafa blinked, feeling stupid. “You think Najat knows?”
“The mother of his children? Is that even a question?” Abu Mustafa chuckled. “But what troubles you about this, Mustafa? Are you worried he wants to do something improper with you?”
“What? No! . . . It’s a sin, that’s all.”
Abu Mustafa shrugged. “Fornication with women is a sin too, last I checked,” he said. “But you didn’t get such a look on your face when you thought Samir was guilty of that. Is God’s law really the issue here, or are you just being squeamish?”
Mustafa couldn’t believe his reaction. “You’re not shocked by this?”
“As a young man I might have been. But after forty years teaching university, it takes more than a little sodomy to shock me.”
“Well, there is more. I think Samir is being blackmailed.”
“That’s not all that shocking, either. But it is serious.”
“And now I’m trying to decide what to do.”
“Surely that’s not difficult,” Abu Mustafa said. “Samir is still your friend, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know, father. I think he may have betrayed me in America.”
“Are you still his friend?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Because he betrayed you, or because he’s a different kind of sinner than you thought he was?”
“Both,” Mustafa said. “Tell me what I should do.”
“Let me ask a different question first. Of all the sins a man can commit, which do you think is the worst?”
“Murder,” said Mustafa.
“I would say murder also. And if Samir were a convicted murderer, would you visit him in prison?”
Mustafa thought about it. “Yes. I believe so.”
“Well then,” said Abu Mustafa. “For one such as Samir, I imagine every day is like living in prison—all the more so if his secret shame has been discovered and is being used against him by his enemies. So if you ask what to do, I’d say go to him. Be his friend. And if his sin frightens you, remember your own conduct in this life has been far from perfect.”
“All right,” Mustafa said nodding. Reaching out, he took his father’s hand. “Will you be all right alone here for a while?”
“Yes,” Abu Mustafa said. “For a little while.”
The alarm clock woke Joe Simeon at 9 a.m. A shaft of sunlight was coming through a gap in the window shades, and he marveled at it as if it were the divine light of heaven piercing the firmament. As the alarm continued to sound, he thought: Today I’ll be in God’s house.
He hadn’t taken communion since leaving Heidelberg. He knew there were Christian churches in Baghdad but didn’t know what kind they were or what sacraments they offered, and anyway he wasn’t supposed to leave the hotel before it was time for his mission. So he made do in the room. He took a hunk of leftover bread from last night’s meal and found a bottle of red fruit drink in the mini-fridge. He recited the words of the Last Supper as best he could recall them. Christ’s body was stale, His blood more pomegranate than grape and not at all fermented, but still Joe Simeon felt refreshed, his sins washed away.
Just to be sure, he ran a bath, pouring in a handful of floral-smelling salts. He lay in the tub, pictured Jesus in the river Jordan, and holding his nose and mouth submerged himself completely.
He got out and dried himself off and opened up the shirt box. The suicide vest was heavy, in form very much like a flak jacket, but padded with plastic explosive rather than Kevlar. Strings of nails had been pressed into the squares of plastique to serve as shrapnel. The nails seemed like a crude touch, but the detonator and wire work were first-rate, and great care had been taken to minimize the vest’s profile.
He slipped it on. There was a long-sleeved cotton shirt in the box as well, which he buttoned over the suicide vest, and a second, outer vest of dark cloth that he pulled on over that. He examined himself in a mirror, turning sideways to check: Does this make me look fat?
It didn’t. He’d seen one other explosive vest, worn by a crusader in Bonn to blow up a busload of Israelis, and that one had been a lot bulkier, hard to conceal even under a winter parka. This one he thought might evade the scrutiny of even a trained observer, and he should be able to move in a civilian crowd without drawing suspicion. The hardest part would be not sweating to death in the midday heat.
It was ten o’clock. He still had a couple of hours to wait, so he undressed again, laying the vest carefully back in its box, and sat on the bed in his underwear. He was keyed up and giddy, feeling as though his soul had already begun the process of leaving his body. He picked up the TV remote and channel-surfed manically, unable to focus.
The image of a cross caught his attention briefly. It was a broadcast of a Coptic church service, an Egyptian priest reading from the Gospels: “But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners . . .”
The words, unsubtitled, were just so much babble in Joe Simeon’s ears. He changed the channel again and prayed to God to speed the hour of his death.
Samir was waiting in the tea shop near the Israeli embassy. He had a dark bruise on his cheek and a split lip on which the swelling had only begun to go down.
“Samir, what happened to you?” Mustafa said when he saw him.
“Najat’s father,” Samir told him. He touched a fingertip to his lip and checked it for blood. “I went to Basra yesterday to warn Najat to take the boys somewhere safe. Getting punched in the face wasn’t part of the plan, but it did seem to convince her to take me seriously.”
Mustafa pulled out a chair and sat down. “Idris threatened your children?”
“Among other things.”
“Why didn’t you say something? We could have—”
Samir bristled. “Why didn’t I say something? You mean like, ‘Mustafa, I think it’s a really stupid idea to piss off the head of Al Qaeda?’ Something like that?”
“I’m sorry,” Mustafa said. “You’re right, I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking that too,” Samir said. Then his anger deflated and he shrugged. “What the hell, it doesn’t make a difference. That son of a bitch has had it in for me since grade school. Even if I’d walked away from this investigation—even if I’d convinced you to walk away—he still would have found a reason to ruin my life.”
Mustafa nodded at the suitcase in the chair to Samir’s right. “Is that from your trip to Basra, or are you going someplace else?”
“Keeping my options open,” Samir said. “When I got home this morning, someone had been in my apartment. I was going to make myself a snack and noticed a thumbprint on the refrigerator door. Lost my appetite . . . So I threw some things together and got out.”
“Where would you go? To be with Najat?”
“No, I don’t know where she is going. It’s better that way. I don’t expect to see her again.” His voice hitched. “Or Malik and Jibril . . . I was thinking I might go to Greece.”
“What’s in Greece?”
“A chance I was too cowardly to take.” He smiled sadly. “I’m still too cowardly, really. Really what will happen, I’ll slink around Baghdad for a couple of days until Idris catches up to me. Then my troubles will be over.” He sighed. “Mustafa, I’ve got something to tell you . . .”