THIRTY-EIGHT

BUCK WILLIAMS—even he had embraced the nickname now—had never been to the White House. But now as he sat in the Oval Office with his boss and his boss’s boss and a photographer, not to mention both President Gerald Fitzhugh and his wife, Wilma, Buck fought to keep his composure. Inside he felt like a kid, eager to get out of here and tell one and all where he had been, whom he had been with, and gush every detail.

But, of course, this was not about him. This was about a president elected for a second term and having been chosen a second time as Global Weekly’s Newsmaker of the Year. Buck could save his enthusiasm for later. Now he had to look and sound and act professional. He wanted this to not be the highlight of his career. He foresaw international assignments and—he hoped—more cover stories.

Buck wasn’t even half the president’s age, but his charm kicked in the moment he met the man and the First Lady. He maintained eye contact, listened, didn’t talk about himself, and yet was able to empathize and show true interest when they talked about their home and their children. Mrs. Fitzhugh clearly seemed to connect with Buck, and the president had to notice.

Gerald Fitzhugh quickly lost his formal air, crossed his legs, gestured more broadly, was funnier than normal. At one point he stood and shed his suit coat, his wife whispering that he might want to reconsider that, due to the magazine photographer capturing every moment.

“Ah, it’s all right, Wilma,” he said. “It’s not like I can run again anyway.”

Cameron had expected the president to be vulgar and profane, which was his reputation. Fitzhugh had often been compared to a young Lyndon Johnson. Perhaps it was because of the presence of his wife, but Fitzhugh did not utter so much as a mild epithet the whole time. His outbursts were legendary among staff members, but Buck found him merely robust and youthful. Exuberant.

Buck’s style was not to come in with a prescribed list of questions he would have to keep referring to. Rather, he listed on a small index card five areas he wanted the president to discuss. He hoped to not refer to it unless he thoroughly blanked, and he planned to base his follow-up questions on Fitzhugh’s responses. That made it less formal, more like a conversation than an interview, and allowed Cameron to remain engaged rather than constantly scanning a notebook. His colleagues had proved more helpful than he had expected, suggesting tough questions and even tougher follow-ups, predicting the stock answers.

Every time Fitzhugh gave a canned response, Buck pressed him, respectfully but forcefully, making him explain himself to the public. Buck believed that was the highest calling of the journalist.

They discussed international trade, defense, the budget, health care, and Social Security. Finally Buck even delved into personal style. “Is it true?” he said. “Are you a shouter? a man with a short fuse?”

Fitzhugh didn’t hesitate. “Guilty,” he said, glancing at his wife. “Of course, I don’t get away with that with this one in the private quarters. Can’t fire her, know what I mean? But, yeah, I’ve been working on toning it down with my people. We’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t have a lot of patience. I can improve in that area. Will I? I doubt it.”

After a little less than an hour, Fitzhugh’s chief of staff entered and signaled that the time was short. The president stood and put his jacket back on, thrust out his hand, and vigorously shook Buck’s. “Don’t think I don’t know what a baby you are, son.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve got a staff that researches all this stuff, no surprise to you. I know your age, your background, your credentials. And I got to tell you, this was as enjoyable an hour as I’ve spent with a journalist since I’ve been in office.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“He’s not just saying that,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said. “I seldom see him this relaxed. I trust you won’t take advantage.”

“Take advantage?”

“He was more forthcoming than his people would suggest.”

“Well, ma’am, it was all on the record.”

“I know,” she said. “I just hope this wasn’t an ambush. We have had people come in here and pretend to be allies, then go back and write awful things.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m an ally, but you may rest assured I am not going to ambush you either. This will be a straightforward Newsmaker of the Year piece, giving the president a chance to speak his mind, which I feel he did here.”

Maddeningly, Yasmine chose to wait until after the evening meal and the kids were in bed before being willing to talk seriously. That only added to Abdullah’s frustration and worry. He found himself eating too quickly and too much, which was wholly unlike him. Then he sat studying her as she tidied up and put the kids down, searching her sad, tense face for any clue of what was to come.

Finally they sat together before an open window, Abdullah hoping for even a small breeze, anything to move the air inside the house where the temperature remained stiflingly hot.

For the longest time they just sat, Abdullah waiting, Yasmine sighing as if she was about to begin, then falling silent again. Abdullah thought he would go mad.

Finally he could take it no longer. “What is it, Yasmine? Tell me.”

“I met someone,” she said quietly.

Abdullah froze. Then he stood. “You met someone? There is another man?”

“Sit down, Abdullah. It wasn’t a man.”

“You think that makes it better? You met someone and it’s a woman?”

“Sit. No, it’s not like that. You need not worry about my loyalty to you. I am worrying about yours to me after you hear this.”

“Hear what?” he said, sitting. “Please!”

“About three weeks ago I was in a market near the airport when tourists came through. They had a longer layover than expected, and someone at the airport suggested they get a taste of the local culture and sent them to the bazaar.”

“So you met one of them.”

Yasmine nodded. “Elle Lindquist. In her sixties, I would guess. Married, though her husband was not with her. They are missionaries to the United Arab Emirates. He is waiting there for her. She had been back to the United States to visit family.”

“What kind of missionaries? CIA, oil, Catholic, what?”

“She called herself an evangelical Christian.”

“You talked to her long enough to learn that?”

“It was one of the first things she said, Abdullah. She was wonderful and sweet, but I did not know what to think. So often when you are accosted by a stranger in public, they want something from you. Money. Your time. Something.”

“What did she want?”

“Elle just wanted to know me. She said she felt drawn to me in some way and was curious about our life and ways. The differences and similarities between here and the UAE seemed to fascinate her.”

“Go on.”

“Almost immediately, after courteously determining that I had time to talk—and I have to say, Abdullah, I felt a bond with her right away too; I have no idea why—she asked me directly about my religion. She said, ‘I assume you are Muslim.’

“I said, ‘You assume correctly.’

“Elle said she had studied our religion and wondered if I could confirm some things for her. She asked all about the mosque and rituals and the prayers, and I told her she had apparently studied good sources. Then she asked how I felt I benefited from Islam.”

Yasmine looked Abdullah full in the face with a knowing expression. It had been the very issue he and she had talked about years ago.

“What in the world did you say?”

“I didn’t know what to say, Abdullah. What could I say? I planned a lie. I wanted to tell her that I felt content and fulfilled and obedient and that I looked forward to eternal rewards someday.”

“But?”

“But I could not speak. Every time I opened my mouth I had to choke back my tears.”

“Your tears?”

“Elle was looking at me with such curiosity and love and sympathy that I was overcome with the need to tell her the truth. I did not understand it, Abdullah. I had known her only a few minutes and there I stood in public, trying to speak and able only to weep.”

“What did she do?”

“She touched me. You know how rare that is here. She guided me to a tiny café, where we sat outside. She apologized for upsetting me and told me I did not have to answer, that I could collect myself and that she would carry the conversation for a while if I didn’t mind. Not only did I not mind, but I was impressed anew at her sensitivity. It was just what I wanted and needed. I just nodded, and as we sat sipping coffee, she told me about herself.”

“Americans are funny that way, aren’t they?” Abdullah said. “Rayford Steele tells me things he does not tell his wife, and he has since the day I met him.”

“She told me her life story, about growing up as the daughter of missionaries to South America, then moving back to the States when she was a teenager, meeting her husband at Bible college, and the two of them feeling called by God to be missionaries to this part of the world.”

“ ‘Called by God’?”

“That’s what she said. I had finally calmed myself and found my voice. I said, ‘And what has God called you to do here?’ She said, ‘To tell people the truth about Him. That He loves them and cares about them and wants to know them and have them know Him.’ ”

“That’s a different God than I know,” Abdullah said.

“That is exactly what I thought,” she said. “Elle looked at her watch and said she had to start heading back to the airport, so did I mind if she just rushed through a few things with me. I told her I’d be honored to hear more, and she talked as we walked. She said she served a God of love who did not demand rituals and obligations and did not look for reasons to punish His children. She called herself His child, Abdullah. Have you ever felt like a child of God?”

Abdullah shook his head. Where was this going? It was one thing to be a lazy Muslim. It was quite another to consider defecting to another religion.

“I never have either,” Yasmine said. “Elle asked if she could pray for me, and when I said yes, she bowed her head right there and talked to God. I was so embarrassed, and yet she talked to Him as if she knew Him, as if He was her friend, as if she simply accepted that He loved her and accepted her and cared for her. I was deeply moved.”

“You still are. I can tell.”

“She had to go then, Abdullah, but I was not willing to let her. I walked with her all the way to the airport, and she kept talking the whole way. I was hungry, thirsty for something like she had. She promised to e-mail me and to keep in touch. And she has. I go back and forth with her every day, often several times a day. She is teaching me, showing me things from the Bible, pointing me to the one true God who loves everyone, even if they have sinned.”

“Have you sinned, Yasmine? Is that what you are telling me?”

“I am learning that we are all sinners. We are all separated from God. But He has provided a way back to Himself. He will forgive us and wash our sins away. It is the most beautiful love story I have ever heard.”

“What has you so troubled?”

“Worrying about your reaction.”

“My reaction to what? Are you converting?”

“I want to with all my heart, Abdullah. But I don’t know what it will mean for you, for us. To have your wife, a mother, turning her back on the religion of her childhood, bringing disgrace on both sides of the family, making many think I am worthy of death . . . this would be no small decision.”

“But what kind of a decision is it? What would be required of you? How will people know?”

Yasmine stood and moved to the window, then turned to face her husband. “There is no such thing as a secret Christian,” she said. “I could not pretend to be something I was not, the way you and I have been practicing Islam for years. Part of becoming a Christian is throwing off the old life and taking on a whole new one. I could not become a believer in Christ without telling people.”

“Muslims believe in Christ! You can be both!”