Sheikh Omar has aged well. His beard is completely grey, but he still looks fit, his eyes are still clear. As we sit on the cushions of his majlis, I see his middle has thickened, but he has avoided the paunch and jowls most wealthy Pakistanis display at his age.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to ask me another favor,” he smiles, intrigued to see me.
“I think I’m no longer as essential to you as I once was.” I run my hand over my beard. “The cars don’t come as often, and the circuitry is so complex now that I can’t always restore them.”
He nods. “Since the Americans retreated a few years ago the conflict has shifted. Now we must contend with the simple criminals and ambitious clan leaders who try to sabotage the rare earth mines.” He strokes the smooth screen of a palm-sized mobile computer. “It’s a much preferable business, keeping the world addicted to their phones and networks, easier than running poppies and heroin as we did in the old days.”
“And I think I’ve served you well, I never requested much.”
“Yes, Ismail,” he speaks the name ironically, “I took to thinking of you as a monk, a Sufi of engines, satisfied with a little grilled mutton and an occasional musical concert. So tell me, what favor do you ask for your service?”
“I want my freedom.”
He laughs, somewhere between a disgusted snort and a response to a good dirty joke. “You’ve never been confined. I never kept you from leaving. I’ve supported you all these years as a favor, out of loyalty for your jihad.”
The word reminds me of Ali, a bit of youthful jargon which never described my intention. But I will not argue the point, my objective is beyond this. “I want to be able to travel, abroad.”
The Sheikh nods thoughtfully. “Where? Morocco? Europe? Maybe Australia?”
“America. I want to go…” I stumble over the word home. Of course the country is not my home. I want to see Kathryn and the boys, though I am no longer sure they are my family. What I really want most is to go back, the most impossible desire of all. But I cannot express this to him either. So the sentence hovers, open ended.
He exhales, leans back against the cushions, thinking. “This is much more complicated. I cannot arrange for a U.S. visa.” He shakes his head to end the discussion.
I press him, “How about Mexico or Canada? I could figure out my own way across the border.”
“What about this is in my interest?” the Sheikh asks. “Why would I possibly want you in America with what you know of me and my business?”
“I’m not asking for this as a business transaction, I’m asking for your help as a man, a father. My sons are grown. I would like to see them again before I die.”
“You think now that your father-in-law has died, yes, I saw the Washington Post obituary, now you think you have the balls to go back.” He shakes his head with mock sympathy. “You have grown so pathetic.”
I cast my eyes down to the carpet, trace a geometric pattern in the pile with my index finger. “Sometimes,” I begin politely, quietly, “a car’s ignition can be triggered remotely, sometimes when the speedometer hits a certain speed, something malfunctions, something explodes.” I look into his eyes, whispering as if I were revealing a confidence. “I had thought about a kind of trigger like this when I was in Los Angeles. I read a lot about them. I could easily install one.”
He reaches for his tea, momentarily unsettled. “You know of course that I would know immediately if you provided any information that might compromise my situation. You know, as well as anybody, that the consequences would touch not just you, but your family,” he narrows his eyes, “that American woman you married, and your sons.”
“I understand.”
He sits back, looks up, closing his eyes, consulting with himself. “I can get you to Spain, Guatemala maybe.”
“Mexico. A flight to Mexico.”
“Give me some time.”