20
A doorbell rang in Manassas, Virginia. Yasmin Oan came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. She opened the front door. And froze. He husband always told her to look before answering the door. Today she wished she had.
“Good day to you, sister.”
The man spoke Arabic in the Egyptian dialect.
“You can’t come in,” Yasmin said quickly.
“Spoken like a good Muslim wife,” said Abdallah Karim Nimri. Yasmin tried to shut the door; his left hand held it. When Nimri turned sideways his jacket opened and revealed the right hand holding the pistol. “Please do me two favors, sister Yasmin. Do not be afraid, and do not make any noise.”
Yasmin took a step back. Her legs were shaking so hard she almost fell over. Nimri entered the house. Behind him Omar paused in the doorway and nodded at the car parked across the street.
“What do you want?” said Yasmin, her voice shaking like her legs. She felt stupid as soon as it left her lips. She knew what they wanted—only the particulars were a mystery. But it was as if her mouth was giving voice to all her terrors.
“To speak to your husband,” Nimri replied pleasantly. “To stay with you for a day or two. Then we will leave you in peace.”
Yasmin wore her skepticism across her face.
“You have my promise,” said Nimri.
Yasmin’s face also made plain what she thought of that.
From the top of the stairs, “Mom?”
“Ah, Steven,” Nimri said in English. “Come down and join us.”
No response. Nimri turned to Yasmin with a look that chilled her. “Steven!” she shouted. “Come down right now!”
A dark-haired boy came down the stairs slowly.
“It’s good to meet you, Steven,” said Nimri. “Your uncle was my friend.”
“Then why do you have a gun?”
The boy was so calm and self-possessed he made Nimri uneasy. Perhaps he was retarded. “How old are you, boy?”
“Twelve.”
Nimri moved closer to him. “Steven, this is serious. You cannot leave this house without my permission. You cannot contact anyone outside this house without my permission. If you do any of these things, your mother will die. Do you understand?”
Nimri expected the boy to cry. Or beg. The boy did none of these things. Steven merely stared up at him and said, “It is written that he who kills a believer by design shall burn in hell forever.”
Nimri had not expected to have the Holy Koran thrown in his face by a child. He felt like hitting the boy with his pistol, but held himself in. “Such are God’s words to the Prophet, peace be upon him. It is also written that if a believer commits aggression, it is permissible to fight against the aggressors until they submit to God’s judgment. To refuse to support jihad is to commit aggression upon the faithful.”
“So you say what is written,” Steven shot back. “It is also written: fear Me, and do not sell My revelations for a paltry end.”
“I will not debate the word of God with you, boy. God the Merciful and Compassionate will judge us all. Listen to me and know that what I say I will do, I will do. Now, do you own a mobile phone? Do not lie to me.”
“I don’t own a cell phone,” said Steven.
“Then go upstairs with this man. Unplug all the phones and bring them down. Any computers also.” Nimri nodded to Omar. Then to Steven, “Remember your mother.”
When they went up the stairs Nimri turned to Yasmin. “Sister, if you do what I say you and your family will come to no harm.” He repeated his warning to Steven, but this time made him the object. “Do you understand?”
She at least did not argue with him.
Al-Sharif and Dawood came in the front door. “Bring in the bags?” asked al-Sharif.
“Wait until dark,” said Nimri.
Steven and Omar came down the stairs, Steven carrying telephones and Omar a computer tower.
“Sister Yasmin,” said Nimri, “now that Steven has returned to us, perhaps you should make some tea. After you give me your mobile phone.”
Yasmin handed it to him and went into the kitchen.
Commuting in northern Virginia had been known to literally drive people crazy. Joseph Oan never minded it. He spent all day in traffic anyway, and he knew all the back roads between his work in Springfield and his home in Manassas. He was singing along with the car radio, and his hair was wet. He always showered before leaving work—his wife hated the smell of gasoline.
After parking in the driveway, Oan walked back out to the street to roll the empty trash container back to the garage. Steven should have done that, but getting a boy to remember anything to do with work was an impossibility.
Closing the garage door, Oan went through the gate in the wooden fence that bounded his backyard. Steven was usually kicking his football against the garage when he came home. He must have had extra homework.
Oan couldn’t resist touring his garden. He was going to have to prune his roses back before it got any colder. Maybe this weekend. The grass needed to be mown again, but in a week or two he wouldn’t have to worry about that until spring.
The back door was open. Trying to get his wife to lock doors was like trying to get his son to do his chores.
“I’m home,” he called out. No answer. Oan’s stomach tightened slightly, registering his alarm. His family was always home when he returned from work. His wife’s car was in the driveway. Could something have happened that they had to call an ambulance? “Is anyone home?” he called out again.
Oan moved faster through the kitchen and into the living room. At the sight of his wife and son on the couch he stopped, relief flooding through him. Then he followed his wife’s eyes and his gaze found the two Arabs sitting off to the side. His stomach contracted again. A noise behind him made him turn about. Two more appeared, cutting off his retreat.
“Greetings, Youssif al-Oan,” said Abdallah Karim Nimri.
Oan’s chest felt numb. He could not move his legs. It was as if, wide awake, he had walked into the exact same nightmare he had in his sleep once a month. “Who are you?” he said, and just like his wife felt like an idiot for saying it.
“Friends of your brother, Rashid,” said Nimri.
Oan did not ask them what they wanted. He knew exactly what they wanted. He looked over helplessly at his wife.
Even though he didn’t ask, Nimri told him anyway. “We require your hospitality,” he said.