Rashid stands patiently in front of a locked door as the guard locks another door behind him. The transfer from his cell to the room where he can meet with his lawyer strikes him each time as unnecessarily elaborate. What would he do if there were less security? Run away? Plant another bomb? Once the guard opens the door ahead of him, Rashid sees Michael’s face light up. Could there be anything more exquisite? Could a father ever want for more than his son’s love? Would he feel as grateful, would his chest swell with wonder in the same way if he had grown accustomed to this kind of interaction? His life since he decided to surrender has revealed itself like a string of jewels, a series of interactions with Kathryn and Michael, crystalline new memories, separated by long periods of quiet in which to enjoy each facet, to marvel at the complexity of love.
“Rashid, how are you?”
He has no words to adequately express his state. “Fine, I’m fine. And how are you?”
They do not touch. Rashid sits in a molded plastic, prison-safe chair, across a featureless table from his son. The door behind them closes with the sound of a metal deadbolt turning.
Michael leans forward on the table. “The feds are very close to agreeing to our requests. You know that last week I had gotten them to agree to hold you in a minimum security penitentiary, but they wanted you to be on the east coast, one of the facilities where they send people from the D.C. jurisdiction. I argued against it. The D.C. jurisdiction has no bearing, the defendant was from California, the crime was in California. So they’re considering locating you in a facility in San Louis Obispo. The weather’s fantastic, the facility has a library, you’d be placed with other low security…” he hesitates over the word prisoners, “…with low security threats.”
“You know, Michael, beta, I’ll go wherever is decided. I have no more desires for myself.”
Michael shakes his head, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, which Rashid mistakes as a glance toward heaven. “I know you keep saying that, but I want you to be in a place where I could see you. So I’m even trying to negotiate for enhanced visiting privileges. But…”
“But…?”
“They want some additional information about your contacts, the people who arranged for all of your passports, the people who provided the funds for you and Ali.” Michael hesitates; he has conveyed the request already, dozens of times, phrased in every imaginable way.
Rashid shakes his head, only once, as he has done with each request. “I told you, the source of most of that information was Ali. He never revealed his contacts to me. I never asked. Were they Al Qaeda? I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I knew only he served my purpose.”
“And the people who helped you to return to the U.S., you must know who those people were.”
“I knew a man, only by a single name, a nickname really.”
“So tell me that name,” Michael nearly pleads.
“No. No.” He remembers Sheik Omar’s threat. “It’s not worth it.”
“Not worth being in a place where you could see us, your wife and children, more? That’s not worth a name?”
“It’s not safe to give you that name.”
“Not safe?” Exasperation elevates Michael’s voice. “What could happen to you? You’ll be in a secure facility.”
“But you won’t.” Rashid looks his son in the eye, spreads his hands on the table as widely as the shackles will allow. “You…you more than anyone must understand…revenge cannot be stopped. I’m allowing America to have her revenge.” He makes a fist with his right hand. “Let her do what she needs to do. To me.” He bangs his fist against his left hand. “But I will not give the world one more action which could cause another man to seek revenge.” He turns his left hand, palm up, and wraps his fingers around his right fist, embracing the inevitable.