9/11 TWO. Chapter 1. Commencement

Chapter 1. Commencement

Mrs. Kohmsky leaned her head against the cold window of the Amtrak train. She was dreaming again of their honeymoon. The two days they had in a little hunting lodge in the hills just outside Tulgovichi. There was one of those tourist magazines left in their room. And on the cover was a picture of a yellow school bus picking up a couple of kids, the bus framed in front of nicely clipped lawns, mom and dad waving good bye. It was the suburban America she had dreamed about ever since. Dreams, though, are only that. They’re meant to deceive. Now, after almost forty years of marriage and twenty five years living in America with Mr. Kohmsky, seven of those in New York City, she felt like giving up, felt almost as ground down as she did when they lived not far from Chernobyl in Tulgovichi. She glanced at Mr. Kohmsky whose large frame barely fitted into the small space beside her. He looked gruff and morose. He was gruff and morose. He had always been like it. He had only one love, and that was Russian literature. So naturally, he despised America.

Sarah was just five years old when they left the USSR for America soon after the Chernobyl disaster. Mrs. Kohmsky had no family, and Mr. Kohmsky’s two brothers up and left right then. The youngest one, Nicholas, was only fourteen. He just disappeared one night and hadn’t been heard of since. And the other one, Sergey, came to the bus station to see them off and said, “you’ll be hearing from me one day,” and winked as though he had some secret plan. And Mrs. Kohmsky could hardly contain her delight when Mr. Kohmsky had been offered an adjunct position at the State University of New York at Albany, teaching Russian literature. The image of the yellow school bus leaped into full view. She was going to heaven and Sarah would grow up there. The disaster was heaven-sent as well because it made it easier to get the necessary visas to get out of the USSR.

The real school bus wasn’t like on the magazine. Well, it was, but the picture had lied to her, there wasn’t any other way to describe it. Just like in the picture, she stood in front of their little modest suburban house, its lawn, though, unkempt, holding Sarah’s hand as the bus pulled up. Sarah pulled back and did not want to get in. The bus driver came down, nice and friendly, and between the two of them they coaxed and prodded Sarah up the steps and into the bus. Mrs. Kohmsky knew right there that the dream had been shattered. Every morning she had to push and cajole Sarah on to the bus. The other kids pointed at them and laughed.

A battle had begun. Sarah did everything to delay getting ready for school. Mrs. Kohmsky cooked her a hot breakfast every morning. And every morning Sarah sat stubbornly and refused to eat it. And as the years of school passed, a terrible thing happened. Sarah gained weight, even though she seemed to eat so very little. And her father one day, in one of his fits of depression, called her a fat little pig, and Mrs. Kohmsky cried as she cooked the breakfast. How could this happen in American heaven?

At first Mrs. Kohmsky blamed America – the fast food and all that. And besides, Sarah wasn’t all that much fatter than the others. Yet, every time the school bus stopped, the other kids taunted her, until Mrs. Kohmsky had to admit that her daughter was in fact, a very fat person, so fat that people noticed and looked at her with the disdain that they save for parents they blame for their children’s defects. Instead, Mrs. Kohmsky blamed the Chernobyl disaster for it.

Sarah, for her part, withdrew into herself. She rarely spoke to anyone, including her parents. And she was mercilessly bullied on the bus and at school. She told no one because there was no one to tell. She made up for it all by burying herself in her studies, excelling in everything, thereby incurring further the wrath and derision of the other kids who were “cool.” But she got her reward with a place at NYU, which was immediately neutralized by her parents’ insistence on moving to New York City to take care of her. And then she won a public service scholarship to Columbia Law School and before they knew it she had graduated from there too. Then, instead of joining a law firm, she received a fellowship to pursue a master’s degree at Oxford University, the one in England. These were amazing achievements that the Kohmskys took for granted.

Mrs. Kohmsky remembered well the day Sarah left for Oxford. It was July 4, 2003. They drove her to the airport, and not a word was said, except finally, by Mrs. Kohmsky, “have you got your ticket and passport?” to which Sarah did not answer. A terrible thought shot into her head. Would Sarah disappear like her uncle Nicholas?

They had never told Sarah how they managed to get free of Russia, of the groveling helplessness of their lives in the USSR. Sarah had never shown any interest, anyway. She had no doubt heard of the Chernobyl disaster, but never seemed to link it to their coming to America. She seemed to remember little of her childhood in the USSR. No wonder, really, because she was kept at home as much as possible confined in their one room, and schooled by both her mom and dad who would not entrust her education to the Russian bureaucrats. Perhaps it was their fault. In those days, life was difficult for Jews anywhere, and it was especially so in the USSR then. And everyone lived in such terrible poverty one could hardly say that Jews fared any worse than others. But they were not really Jews, they didn’t really believe in the spiritual stuff.

So in contrast to her scholarly endeavors they had not taught Sarah anything of the spiritual side of life, never gone to temple. They had just gone along with the annual Jewish celebrations, good excuses to enjoy dining with Sarah at home and on rare occasions with a few of their friends. Of course, Sarah had no friends.

“Last call for Albany,” called the station attendant. The train pulled away from Penn station. Stragglers walked up and down the aisle looking for any remaining seats. Soon, they would be heading up the Hudson.

There had been a freak April snow storm. Everything would look beautiful, though there was something somber about blossoming trees drooping sadly under the weight of snow. It reminded her of the last good-bye. At the airport, Sarah had insisted on saying good-bye from the curb. They never had a chance even to get out of the car. An all-too-quick good-bye. Cruel, really. They had never heard from her again. That was eight or nine years ago. They had sent letters, of course. Even phoned Oxford university officials. She had graduated, they knew that, but since then, no trace.

***

The head office of the FBI in New York was in Albany, the state capital. Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky had tried contacting the FBI in Manhattan, but it was impossible to get their attention. They had more important things to attend to, trying to protect New Yorkers from terrorism, they said. Investigating the whereabouts of a missing adult daughter was way down their list.

The FBI office in Albany was housed in the old Post Office Building, an imposing 19th century edifice on Broad Street, built of huge chunks of concrete, gray and heavy, seeming to lean forward to pedestrians as they approached the entrance. Why a post office should look so serious was anybody’s guess, but it seemed right for an FBI office.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chomsky, just take a seat and the Director will be with you in a minute.

“It’s Kohmsky.”

The receptionist had already left her desk to notify the Director of their presence. Mrs. Kohmsky rummaged in her handbag and withdrew a crumpled photo of Sarah. She turned it over in her hands, rubbed it hard between her thumb and fingers.

“The Director will see you now.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Chomsky. Welcome to Albany,” smiled the Director.

“It’s Kohmsky, not Chomsky,” grumbled Mr. Kohmsky as he and his wife stood stiffly in front of the large mahogany desk, confronted by the big American flag, the golden eagle looking down on them from atop the pole.

”Oh yes, of course, my apologies. A simple mistake — must happen often.” The director rummaged around in his desk drawer and withdrew a folder. “Please take a seat.”

“We’re hoping you can help find our daughter Sarah,” said Mrs.

Kohmsky as she handed the photograph across the desk.

“But why have you come all the way to Albany? We have a very big office in Manhattan, you know.”

Mrs. Kohmsky sighed. “We’ve been there on many occasions. We’ve tried the New York Police Department. Tried and tried. They say it’s a low priority case.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I assure you I’ll do everything I can to help you.” The Director pressed an intercom button on a desk unit that probably dated back to the 1960s. “Agent Jones, step in a moment.” He looked closely at the photograph.

“When was this photo taken?”

“The day she graduated law school. About eleven years ago,” replied Mrs. Kohmsky.

There was a knock at the door and Agent Jones entered. “Ah, Agent Jones. Take this photo and see what you can find in our missing persons database. Her name is Sarah Kohmsky and these are her parents.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Chomsky. I’ll get right on it.”

“Excuse me, it’s Kohmsky, and we know she’s missing, so why do you want to look her up in your missing-persons database?” Mr. Kohmsky was annoyed, as usual.

“Mr. Kohmsky, please be patient,” replied the Director. “Our databases are used extensively by our agents all around the world. We will put out a request. Our agents are very thorough. If she has been sighted, we will quickly hear about it.”

“But they did that in the Manhattan office. It seems hit or miss to me. Why can’t you send an investigator to where she was last seen, which was Oxford university where she graduated in the summer of 2004?”

The Director ignored the request. “Do you still have family back in Russia?”

“My husband has two brothers, I have no family. They were killed in the war and afterwards.”

“Are you sure Sarah has not gone there?”

“We have lost touch with everyone. After the Chernobyl disaster his brother Sergey, who worked at the power plant but thankfully was not on duty at the time of the meltdown, took off to we don’t know where. And the youngest, Nicholas, who would have been only about fifteen at the time, still in high school, took off, he was talking about that even before the disaster.”

“They didn’t migrate like you did?”

“Not as far as we know. Sergey had a pretty good job with the government. But when things broke down, he wasn’t paid. He probably left for the mountains, that’s where he always said he’d go if things got too difficult. But which mountains, we have no idea.”

“We did receive some money once,” said Mrs. Kohmsky, trying to be helpful. Mr. Kohmsky pressed his foot against her toe.

“You did? From your brothers-in-law? Is that unusual?”

“Well, we thought they had no money.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“A few years, maybe four. Not sure.”

“How much was it, if I may ask, and how did it get to you?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with our missing daughter,” Mr. Kohmsky interjected.

“Maybe if we can find your brothers, there might be a lead to Sarah. That was her name, right? Sarah?”

“She never knew them. Never met them. We hardly spoke of them to her.”

“So the money?”

“We bought a car with it. It was one of those Visa gift cards that had a fixed amount of money and you used it like an ordinary credit card. Didn’t need a PIN or anything. Quite a lot of money. Our old car hadn’t worked for a couple of years.”

“I see. So what bank was it?“

“There didn’t seem to be any particular bank. Or if there was I don’t remember. The car salesman was suspicious, but when the money came through, he was happy.”

“Do you have any receipts or anything like that we could use to trace the money?”

“We never kept anything. We sent a thank you card to the address on the envelope, but it came back address unknown.”

There was a light knock and Agent Jones returned.

“I take it you found nothing?” asked the Director.

“She is listed, sir, missing since June of 2004. Nothing else though, just a copy of the photograph you gave me.”

“Have another look for cross links to our other databases. There might be something.”

“I’ll get on it. Shouldn’t take a minute.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky, you understand that there is a rule of thumb that after five years missing, we in law enforcement classify such cases as probably deceased.”

“She is not a case. She’s our daughter and we love her.”

“Yes, yes of course. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to give you any false hopes.”

“False hope is better than none,” said Mr. Kohmsky aggressively, “anyway I thought it was ten years.”

The Director ignored him and turned to Mrs. Kohmsky.

“Is there any reason why Sarah would just go missing like this, without a word to you? Was she —”

“Rebellious? A bad girl? Is that what you want to say?”

“Well, I —”

“The answer is no, but I can tell you that she was different from us. Though she wasn’t born here—she came to America when she was five—in many ways she’s more American than Americans. We tried to explain a couple of times, at least I did, but she never understood our roots in Russia, and was embarrassed by it all, and made fun of our Russian accents.”

Again, Mr. Kohmsky pressed on Mrs. Kohmsky’s toe, but she shifted away.

”Remarkable,” said the Director.

“She is a very smart girl.”

“Too smart,” interjected Mr. Kohmsky, unable to stop himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it.”

“So there was a disagreement?”

Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky looked at each other, then at the floor.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky you must tell me as much as you can. Without detailed information that only you can give, there’s little chance that we can find her.”

“We did have an argument one time, but it was a while ago,” said Mrs. Kohmsky glancing nervously at her husband.

“And?”

“She told us we were stupid Jews and it was people like us that caused 9/11,” interjected Mr. Kohmsky.

“She said that? But, if I may say so, you are all Jewish, aren’t you?”

“It sounds worse than it was. Sarah and I were just arguing over her not eating her breakfast and she burst into tears and yelled at us then ran out.”

“And when exactly was this?”

“It was the day she graduated from Columbia Law School.”

Both the Kohmskys looked down, ashamed.

At this point Agent Jones returned, looking concerned. He stood behind the Kohmskys. “I did find one cross link but I think you need to come and verify the link because it requires an extra level of security access that I don’t have.”

“Excuse me a minute,” said the Director as he followed Jones out of the office, closing the door carefully behind him.

“What have you found, Jones?”

“There may be a link to a known terrorist, Shalah Muhammad. He’s Iraqi, Shiite, but may be working for the Iranians and could even be Iranian. The record isn’t clear. Anyway, he lectured in political science at Oxford on and off up to some years ago, then dropped off the radar screen. That’s all I had access to. If you can get us the additional level of security, we can find out more.”

“Surely the boys in the Manhattan office know about this. But where’s the link with Sarah Kohmsky?”

“I’m hoping it’s in the next level of security.”

The Director punched in his password. A photograph immediately popped up of a group on the Oxford campus, standing on the lawn of the campus coffee shop, the famous round library in the background. Shalah Muhammad stood proud, supremely confident, amidst a group of happy students, all dressed in graduation regalia. Sarah stood right beside him, her head leaning on his shoulder, he with his arm reaching around her waist. She was much fatter than in the photo her mother gave them. He read the risk profile:

Shalah Muhammad is the suspected master mind of the USS Cole attack and probably consulted extensively for the Nine Eleven attackers. He is considered the brains of Iranian terrorist intelligence. He has cut ties with Al Qaeda considering them to have deteriorated into an amateurish terror group, prone to hasty and poorly planned missions. Before suddenly giving up his position at Oxford, he advocated the overthrow of America and the West and destruction of Israel, all in the name of establishing an Iranian caliphate that would contain all the countries to the immediate south and east of the Mediterranean. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants and is a heartless, violent disciplinarian. Probably the most dangerous terrorist today, who, with his extensive network, has replaced the remnants of Al Qaeda.

“But she’s Jewish, isn’t she? That would be a mighty leap, and would indicate a huge rift between her and her poor old mom and dad.”

Agent Jones nodded in agreement. “But sir, the guys down in New York must know this too.”

“That’s why they’ve given them the run around. I’d better give them a call.”

***

Shalah Muhammad was a popular fellow at Oxford. He hung out at the local pubs with his students, bought them drinks, got them and himself drunk often. The more boisterous and irreverent students took to calling him Moses, which he pretended to take good-naturedly, but got back at them by constantly demonstrating to them how poorly educated they were. He especially delighted in stopping them in mid-sentence to correct their sloppy grammar. He was a master of the English language, having been educated at Harrow, the school for England’s upper crust.

There, he had excelled at everything except cricket and refused to play grid iron. For that, he was mercilessly bullied and he still held a grudge against all those who took it out on him. Sarah could see how much he hated being made fun of. She felt very close to him because she thought she saw how vulnerable he was. She knew what it was like to be bullied and made fun of. She never joined the other students in taunting him, though she could not be sure of that because there were times when she got very drunk and couldn’t remember much of the night before.

The night of Sarah’s graduation was such a night. She woke up the next morning in Muhammad’s flat. She was lying on his bed, but he was nowhere to be seen. Had he? Had they? It was some time until she staggered off the bed and made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. She wondered if he’d said his prayers, being a Muslim and all. He had been at her to convert. But she had refused. Kept saying that she had no faith and saw no need of it. Her parents didn’t have any either, so they said, yet they celebrated the special religious holidays with other Jews.

And they never had any friends who weren’t Jewish. So they were hypocrites, in her eyes. She’d never told them of course. She never told them anything. They were like strangers to her. Strangers from a far off land. Besides, her mother berated her for being fat even when she herself wasn’t all that thin. And her father, well, who knows what was hidden behind his gaunt face and bushy beard? He was so deep, her mother always said. Fact is, he just never talked hardly at all. Just grunted and mumbled. One day she had asked him why they came to America. “Don’t you remember?” he said scornfully, “you were five when we left. It should be obvious.” She pursued the matter no further. He had no time for her, no time for anyone. He was completely stuck inside his 19th century Russian novels. And her mom waited on him hand and foot. Not that he needed much waiting on. She served him up a Russian stew on Sunday, and they ate it for most of the week, garnished with a different boiled vegetable each night. And he washed it down with vodka, which almost made him happy.

In 1996, Sarah went to college at NYU, where she made the shocking discovery that she was a lot like her dad. She liked to be on her own, to bury herself in her books. It served her well. She began to master Russian literature too. But she also read Arabic which she guessed would have appalled him, so it gave her all the more pleasure to indulge in it. Being fat at college wasn’t good either. Though she was not made fun of like she had been at school, the other students mostly ignored her, or behaved as though they were embarrassed to be with her because they didn’t know what to say. Sarah could guess what they were thinking. “How could you let yourself get so fat? Why don’t you stop eating?” Her books were her answer. And getting A’s on everything she did, especially Arabic in which, by the time she graduated and went on to Columbia Law School, she was wonderfully fluent.

It was through her Arabic that she discovered the existence of Shalah Muhammad. She had started to browse through Arabic web sites, reading the classics in literature, following the political diatribes of the mullahs, which she recognized as way over the top very early on. Then she one day caught a reference to Shalah’s accomplishments at Oxford; he had given a talk on the political future of Iran, and had challenged the received doctrine that Iran was run by incompetent nincompoops. On a whim, she sent him an email asking if she could come to study with him.

To her surprise she received a quick reply, written in perfect English, suggesting that, once she finished her law degree she apply to Oxford’s special Masters in Law program in criminology.

The noise of a key in the door shook Sarah back to consciousness. She was sitting on the toilet, mostly clothed. Struggling to stand, she managed to drag herself into the hallway. It was Shalah Muhammad.

“So you’re awake! Do you know what time it is? You look like shit!”

Sarah stood, leaning against the wall. “I, I don’t really know —”

“OK. OK. Don’t worry. Nothing happened. You passed out at the pub and we had to get you to bed. My flat was the closest.” Shalah smiled his nicest, superior smile. His face was gray, the creases around his mouth and eyes accentuated. His gray beard was carefully and impeccably groomed, but he still looked every bit of his forty five years.

“You don’t look that great yourself.”

“Come on. Clean yourself up a bit and I’ll buy you a coffee. Or a hair of the dog, if you would prefer.”

“But I look like hell. And my clothes, they’re a mess.”

“Come on. I have a proposition for you.”

“Like what?”

“Can’t tell you here.”

“Woo! Sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

***

Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky grabbed a seat on the Hudson River side of the train. Their visit to Albany had turned up nothing, except to confirm what they had long suspected. The FBI was keeping something from them. They said Sarah was dead. The FBI were such simpletons. The Kohmskys, especially Mr. Kohmsky, were very experienced in dealing with the most corrupt and devious government officials one could imagine — those in Chernobyl. Government officials rarely told the truth. Lying was an occupational necessity.

Mrs. Kohmsky leaned her head against the window and let the cold come through to her forehead. She could read the lying right in their faces; the slight twisting of the mouth, an air of superiority, the deep love of power, imperceptible except to the experienced victims of government officialdom. A small tear snaked down from the corner of her eye and began its journey over her wrinkled, reddened cheek. Sarah wasn’t dead. She knew it. They would find her. They would never give up. And going to study for a Master’s degree at Oxford wasn’t running away, was it? It’s true she hardly ever talked to her parents, but that was understandable. Her father hardly ever spoke either. It was left to her, the mother of the house, to do the talking. Maybe if they’d given Sarah more freedom earlier. Maybe they should not have moved to New York when she went to NYU. They did it because it saved a lot of money. She did not have to live in the dorms, which Sarah would have hated anyway, wouldn’t she? Mom knew her Sarah. She liked to keep to herself, and how could you do that in one of those awful dorms that reminded her of an orphanage for grown-ups?

Mr. Kohmsky stirred, stretched his long legs into the aisle. The train was well on its way, skirting the river, flying past the last remnants of 19th century factories. There had been a lot of rain over night. The river was high. The trees getting greener the closer they got to New York City. “We have to take it to another level,” he said.

“You mean the CIA? But how do you contact them. They’re not in the phone book, are they?”

“We’ll go to the State Department. They’ll help us.”

“Perhaps the Russian consulate too?” Mrs. Kohmsky realized how silly that was as soon as she said it. Her husband of course did not answer.

***

“So what’s the big mystery?” asked Sarah. She had insisted on dropping by her little flat on the way to the coffee shop so she could put on some fresh clothes, not that she had many, and comb her hair and splash a little water on her face. She put on her long draping dress, one that she had bought at a second hand shop. It was the kind that pregnant women wear, a dark blue, almost black, and made of a material that hung very loosely, rather like a big shawl. It had tiny flecks of silver woven into it and matched her small sequined pocket book that was just like her mother’s. Now they sat in a little pub restaurant, looking out over the river. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Shalah had insisted on taking her out for a good solid English breakfast. It was the best thing to overcome a hangover, he said. But she couldn’t face it. She just wanted tea and toast.

“I’d like you to come and work for me,” Shalah Muhammad said as the waiter arrived and plunked down his large plate of three eggs and several rashers of bacon.

“Really? Are you serious?”

“But first I have to give you a job interview to see if you’re qualified,” he smiled mischievously.

“Only if I can ask you some questions in return,” Sarah countered.

“Fair enough. But tell me first, how come you are so well educated, you know so much English and European literature, your Arabic is impeccable, and you are an amazing lawyer. I thought the American education system was the worst in the Western world.”

“You forget my parents are Russian. They made sure I was good at languages, and of course my father lives and dies for Russian literature. It’s all his life is, actually. And my mother. Well, let’s not go there. But what about you? How come you teach Marx and Engels all the time, and hardly ever mention Islam, except when you’re trying to convert me? Are you not a believer?

“And you are not a believer, you are not a Jew?”

“My parents are Jews, or at least they call themselves secular Jews.

They say they don’t believe, but they made me sit through all the Jewish holiday celebrations, most of which celebrate Jews getting slaughtered, or just escaping slaughter.”

“So I ask again. You are not a Jew?”

“I told my parents that I hated Jews.”

“So you hate yourself?”

“And you are not a Muslim?”

“Ah, we have reached an impasse. It is important for your job that I know where you stand. Do you really hate Jews, or just your parents?”

“I think Judaism is a narcissistic religion that encourages individuals to set themselves apart, think they’re special, better than everyone else. The American version is especially so, because American culture is ‘all about me’ so Jews are very comfortable in that culture, even though they criticize it as being crass and boorish. And Islam?”

Shalah Muhammad chopped up his fried eggs, mixing the runny yoke into a half cooked (by American standards) rasher of bacon. He gulped it down, chewing noisily, his mouth open. He wiped some yoke from the corner of his mouth and stared carefully into Sarah’s eyes. His gray eyes were cold and penetrating. It was a look that would scare any young woman, or man for that matter.

Sarah took a loud bite of her toast and chewed it aggressively. “Well?” she said, her mouth full, “what about Islam and Marx? Aren’t they incompatible? Marx was an atheist wasn’t he?”

“He was a Jew and an atheist, just like you.”

“I am not a Jew. I just happen to have parents who are, although, as I said, they claim they are not real Jews, just secular Jews.”

“There is no half way. You are either religious or you are not. I am a devout Muslim, but because of my work, I do not practice it openly, and I must even appear to be an unbeliever.”

Sarah stared back at him. “You’re lying.”

“You are very perceptive, my dear, which is why I want you to work for me.”

“Well, I can tell you I don’t believe in Judaism or any other religion.

They’re all self-serving nonsense.”

“So this is your American education speaking.”

“Prove to me you are a devout Muslim.”

“I have three wives.”

“Liar. Anyway, that’s hardly evidence of devotion.”

“I have a wife in Baghdad, one in Teheran, and another in Cairo.”

“Your wives must be very happy. How can you afford them?”

“I am paid very well for my work.”

“Professors do OK, but they’re not paid enough to support three wives in three different countries are they?”

“Teaching at Oxford is not my full time job. I just do it so I can look over bright students and recruit them to my cause.”

“Your job is a ‘cause’? What kind of job is that?”

“It’s political.”

“What kind of political?”

“If I tell you, there is no going back.”

“Tell me!”

“I work for MEK, a terrorist group with a long history in Iran. I am a follower of Massoud Rajavi.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I don’t joke about my cause.”

“What’s MEK?”

“The People's Mojahedin Organization of Iran, Mojahedin-e-Khalq or MEK for short.”

“You’re a terrorist then?”

“That’s not the right word. But yes, my work involves managing much of the organization and planning of missions designed to destabilize the Western world.”

“Why pick on the West?”

“Because it is a venal, ruthless, violent, so-called civilization that has oppressed my people for hundreds of years. It is corrupted by greed which eats away at its very soul.”

“So why not let it destroy itself, just like Marx predicted?”

“Marx was wrong. He underestimated the power of greed. Not to mention the power of power. The latter, Stalin understood that.”

“Then why do you teach Marx? Why not teach how good and superior Islam is?”

“Islam is a complicated religion that cannot be taught easily to Westerners like you. They do not understand it because its logic and thinking are not Western. Marxism, on the other hand, is very Western in its logic, and the emotional appeal to young people of Marx’s ideal of ‘equality for all,’ never fails to entice them into a revolutionary ideology.”

“And after the revolution?”

“As you know, that was Marx’s weakness. He had really no idea. It’s where the dictatorship of the Caliphate comes in. That’s what we are aiming for.”

“The destruction of Western Civilization?”

“Much of it. Actually, only the democratic part of it, which has clearly become an absolute failure. Look at America. It’s collapsing. Its political and economic structure are in turmoil.”

“But that’s because of capitalism, not democracy.”

“Capitalism and democracy are not compatible.”

“And the U.K.?”

“It is already finished. Look at it. All that’s left is a nation of drunkards. But we will hasten the fall.”

“So you want me to become a terrorist too? It’s ridiculous. I don’t hate anyone or anything that much. Not even my parents. I’m just not political.”

“As I said, this is no joking matter.”

“But I know nothing about bombs.”

“You don’t need to. I need you because you are a non-believer. It means that you will think in an objective way, see things that I may not.

Make sure my logic does not stray. Humans are weak. They stray from the course very easily. And, most important, I know I can trust you,” he paused for effect, “and, just as important — maybe the most important reason — you’re a lovely sweet person with whom I know I’ll be spending a lot of time.”

Sarah looked down at her now half cold cup of tea. She lifted it for a sip, staring into the cup. She placed it on the saucer and reached for the hot water. No one had ever expressed the slightest interest in her in any way, least of all acknowledged how smart she was. People always simply assumed that fat people were happy, silly people who should go on a diet.

She was overcome. “I, I don’t know.”

“I can pay you a lot of money. Our organization is supported by some of the richest people in the world. My main job, in fact, is to manage that money and to spend it wisely.”

“It’s not the money. I mean, you can’t expect me to decide, right here and now, to become a terrorist. It’s crazy.”

“I’m sorry, I know. But there’s no other safe way to ask you.”

“And terrorist attacks, how do you do them?”

“We have an extensive network, including links with organized crime.

So we can get anything or do anything we want. Doing stuff is not the hard part. Figuring out what to do is the biggest challenge.”

“I need to think about it.”

“You understand that, now I have told you all this, you are already recruited. And once hired, in the European socialist tradition, you can never be fired.”

Shalah Muhammad grinned, almost sneered, giving her his piercing look, “I’d have to kill you if you quit.”

Sarah was not quite sure if he was joking or not. He had always seemed a very gentle person. It was one thing she liked about Muslims.

All those she had met had a very gentle nonviolent disposition. It was hard to think of them as terrorists.

“I, I, don’t want to go back to America. I don’t have any real plans.

Just drifting along you know. And there’s my parents. They will wonder what happened to me. I haven’t corresponded with them since coming to Oxford. I should let them know.”

“So your answer is yes?” It was as if he were asking her to marry him.

Sarah looked at Shalah’s gray handsome eyes. They beckoned her. He smiled kindly, stroked his graying beard, then reached across and held her hand softly. He thought so highly of her, he had been honest with her.

She could love this man, maybe she already did. She smiled back, her eyes watering.

“I, I want to, I really do. But it’s so quick. It’s not fair to make me decide so quickly. I need a cooling down period.”

“Do you have a mobile phone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Give it to me.” He extended his hand. She reached into her pocket book and gave it to him, all without thinking.

“I am going for a walk along the river,” he said. “Stay here and I’ll be back in half an hour. You can then give me your decision. Don’t speak to anyone while I’m gone.” He walked out.

Sarah watched him stroll along the riverbank. He was smoking a cigarette, looked so calm. She ordered another pot of tea and went to the bathroom while she waited for it to come. She already knew what she wanted. She wanted him. But getting what one wants isn’t always a good thing.

The tea came and she set about the ritual of pouring herself a cup. She had ordered a slice of chocolate hedgehog as well. Without realizing it, she had turned her time to ruminate on her situation into a modest celebration. She thought of her mom and dad. First time she had called them ‘mom and dad’ for a long time. It was always ‘my parents.’ She didn’t quite know why it had been so hard for her to communicate with them all these years. They didn’t make it easy. They obviously disapproved of her looks and took her academic accomplishments for granted. It wasn’t enough, though, for her to hate them. And she didn’t hate them. She just didn’t care much about them. Wasn’t really interested in their lives, because they didn’t really have lives. And living with them was like living in a freezer that had no food in it, just ice cubes. Her mom babbled on about the good times in Chernobyl, even though everything she said about life there sounded awful. And her dad, well, he simply lived in his books and never communicated anything personal at all. So one talked, and the other didn’t. It made them both into distant, unreal persons. Not ‘family’ if that is supposed to mean that the members of the family loved and talked and understood each other. There just wasn’t any feeling there at all. But in Shali (her secret name for Shalah, which she dared not use in front of him) there was feeling, lots of it. Complicated she acknowledged. But it was life. In him there was the promise of a full life, brimming with excitement. How could she refuse?

Sarah finished off her hedgehog slice and sipped her tea. She did not have her watch, but she guessed it must be near half an hour since he left. There were some postcards by the restaurant checkout. She quickly retrieved one and the cashier kindly loaned her a pen. She returned to her table and was about to write a note to her parents when Shalah Muhammad appeared beside her. He smiled kindly down at her, his upper lip, though, wanting to curl, as it does when one sucks a lemon.

“Well?” he asked, taking his place across the table.

“Will I have to kill anyone?”

“It is terrorism, after all, so people will die most likely, but not directly by your hand.”

“Well, look at me. I couldn’t hurt a fly!”

“That’s another reason I want you to work for me.”

“And there’s another?”

“Yes. Your Russian heritage. I have a deal brewing with the Russians and need someone like you to see it through. There’s a lot of money involved.”

Sarah sipped her tea. She looked around the room and saw the many old ladies sipping their tea also. She looked directly at Shalah.

“OK. I’m in!” She wanted to leap up and kiss him. But he saved her the embarrassment. He leaned across the table, his jacket almost tipping over the little milk jug, and kissed her on the forehead.

“There’s my girl! I knew you’d do it. We will do great things together!”

“But I will need to contact my parents.”

“I see you are ahead of me. But now I’m afraid you cannot. It will help the CIA or FBI or whoever starts trying to track me, if they are not already doing it. As a matter of fact, I am concerned about that photo one of our little group took in front of the library on graduation day. It is probably already in the hands of the CIA, and we are in it, rather close to each other.”

“You mean one of our group is a spy? Don’t be silly! You’re paranoid.”

“Sarah. You must be careful. The CIA is everywhere. They probably already know who I am. Paranoia is a benign affliction in my — our — business.”

“You’re making me scared.”

“Scared is good.”

“And speaking of business. I never even asked how much my salary will be and how many days off I get for holidays!”

Shalah Muhammad reached inside his jacket and withdrew a wad of tightly bound notes. “This will get you started.” He counted out a few thousand pounds.

Sarah had never seen so much money all in one place. She took it without counting and stuffed it into her pocket book. “And my holidays?”

“That’s the bad news. Like cops, terrorists are always on duty.”

They both laughed. Shalah reached over and retrieved the postcard on which she had written only three words: Hi Mom and Dad.

She barely noticed.

“In two days we leave for Cairo. I will introduce you to one of my wives so she will see that our relationship is strictly professional. You should buy some new clothes, pay off anything owing on your flat. If you need more money, let me know.”

Sarah looked at him, unable to control her inner passion. A strictly professional relationship? It didn’t seem possible. She knew she loved him, but now it was infused with the glamour of his profession.

“So what will be my first mission?” she asked, half joking.

Shalah Muhammad surveyed the entire restaurant with a hawk’s eye. He leaned across the table, whispered in her ear, his nose rubbing her lobe, “to kill Yasser Arafat.”