Escape (5 page)

The discord between Karp and Newbury had quickly become common knowledge among the several hundred assistant district attorneys and bureau chiefs, as well as several hundred more support staffers. Even some of the regular street people who hung around the Criminal Courts building knew that closed-door meetings between him and V. T. were growing increasingly rancorous.

And now there was even more fuel for the gossip-mongers,
Karp thought as he glanced at his receptionist, who kept looking under the pile of papers on her desk as if whatever it was she was searching for would magically appear where it had not been before.

He was about to invite the wide-eyed ADAs into his office when a large black man burst through the door. Clay Fulton pulled up short when he saw Karp standing a few feet from him. Fulton nodded toward the inner office. "Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked.

Karp walked back into his office with a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. A former college football player who still looked like he could tote the rock, as well as a New York Police Department detective, Fulton wasn't the sort to make dramatic entrances or mysterious requests for a private audience unless something important was up. He was in charge of the NYPD detectives assigned to investigate cases for the DAO, as well as to provide security for Karp, and he took his job very, very seriously.

Fulton followed Karp into the office and shut the door. His big, broad face was creased into an angry scowl. "Boss, we got a problem," he said. "It finally happened."

All of Islam will know your name."
Khalifa could still hear the promise above the honking of the taxis and general roar of traffic on Third Avenue.
I will be somebody. And, with Allah's blessing, they will pay.

Imam Jabbar had been saying that Khalifa and his other "American mujahideen" would soon be called upon to wage jihad against white America and the Jews. Then in March, the imam had announced that they would begin their training for a "spectacular" task. Soon a man whom he called only "The Sheik," along with one of the foremost mujahideen in the world, known as Tatay, would arrive, and together—with the help of Jabbar's handpicked jihadis—they would rock the world.

They needed to prepare themselves physically as well as spiritually for the event, which in all likelihood would result in their martyrdom—and, Jabbar noted quickly, their automatic admittance to Paradise. If anyone had reservations about his ability to make the sacrifice, he needed to make it known then and there, the imam warned.

When no one bowed out, Jabbar hugged each man, saying how proud he was to be their imam. It was clear that he had no real idea of what the event would be, but he asked if there were any questions.

A quiet, bookish man named Omar Al-Hassan raised his hand, as Khalifa and the others cast knowing sideways glances at one another. Omar, a native of Pakistan and the only one in the room not raised in Harlem, was a computer genius, and for unexplained reasons, that gave him special status .with Jabbar. The imam even seemed to put up with what Khalifa and the others considered a lukewarm commitment to jihad. So it did not surprise them that he asked again to hear how his family would be taken care of
if
they did not return from the mission.

"Your families will receive a generous stipend provided by some of our wealthy benefactors in Saudi Arabia," the imam promised, with a grand flourish of his large, spider-like hands.

"And, as the widows and orphaned children of martyrs, they will have the goodwill of Muslims all over the world and be blessed in the eyes of Allah." The imam fixed the questioner with his protruding eyes the way a large brown lizard sizes up a bug. "However, be forewarned; it is highly unlikely that you will return from this mission. Resign yourself to the will of Allah, or leave now."

Omar averted his eyes. But Khalifa and his friend Abdalla could see his face and later told each other that they thought the man looked troubled. Not the right attitude for a mujahideen.

Abdalla raised his hand next. Most of the others in the room didn't like him because he had a skin disease that was turning him white. Even Khalifa, who was about his only companion, thought he tended to be a bit of an ass-kisser. "I have a question, imam," Abdalla said.

"Yes, Suleiman?"

"Would this sheik be Osama?" he said, turning to inform the others, "Osama is sometimes referred to as a sheik by Al Qaeda."

Jabbar raised an eyebrow. "No, it is not Osama," he said. "He is the new Osama, but more than that I cannot say at this time."

Training was broken into two phases. Phase One, they were told, would be conducted in the administration building on the mosque grounds, late at night after all worshipers and staff had left.

At the first meeting, the mujahideen were introduced to a woman who spoke with what sounded like an Eastern European accent of some sort. She said she would be leading one of two teams on the mission. However, her purpose at this phase was to teach them what they would need to know for Phase Two.

Khalifa was surprised by her presence. For one thing, she was a woman, and Jabbar rarely spoke of women except as property, and for another she was white. In fact< she was a good-looking blonde of about forty years, immodestly dressed in pants and a cotton shirt that accented her breasts. But even Jabbar deferred to her.

"You may call me Ajmaani," she said. "You will do exactly as I say, when I say it."

Despite her gender, no one voiced doubts about her intensity. Someone later said he thought she might be from Chechnya, "one of them little countries over there by Russia where the Muslim brothers are trying to break free. I hear they're vicious motherfucking holy warriors; they cut the throats of any Russian soldiers they catch."

At first, they'd trained like any new military recruits. They learned to address their superiors—Ajmaani and Jabbar—in a respectful manner and do as told without comment or question. They were taught to disassemble, clean, and reassemble a variety of weapons, and they studied tactics for fighting inside a building.

Each man was taught how to create vest bombs for the purpose of killing as many people as possible while seeking martyrdom. ("We do not say 'suicide,'" Jabbar had instructed them. "Suicide is prohibited by the Qur'an. You are seeking martyrdom. These are martyr's vests.") The vests were lined with C-4 plastic explosives and filled with ball-bearings; they were triggered by yanking on a cord attached to a small detonator that would in turn ignite the explosives.

They were instructed to keep the vests handy in their homes in case they were called upon to make an impromptu sacrifice, or if the police showed up. If the latter, they were to strap on the vest before the police could come through the door, and then yank the cord.

As the group trained, they became more and more curious about the mission and this mysterious leader who would be arriving to take command of what was to be a two-pronged attack. Ajmaani wouldn't talk about either mission specifically, but she did reveal a little about The Sheik.

The Sheik was indeed "the successor" to Osama bin Laden, who was a great warrior but whose value to jihad was diminished because he was hiding in the mountains of Pakistan. "He served Allah well and now waits for glorious martyrdom," Ajmaani said as Jabbar stood behind her, nodding sagely.

"But his time has passed. This is a new era that requires constant adjustments to counter the enemy's strategies. It is time to move beyond merely shedding the blood of infidels, though that still is an objective, toward the primary goal of destroying the United States. But such a blow will take more than talk, it will take a man with a greater vision than Osama. The Sheik is such a man." Jabbar added that The Sheik would lead the Muslim world to the establishment of a single Islamic state that would stretch from Spain to China as it had in the past. "Which will be the next step toward the ultimate victory of Islam over the West."

As he listened, Khalifa day-dreamed of what the event might entail and his role in it. Perhaps he would receive flight training and destroy a building. Or maybe it would be a poison gas attack in the subway system. His name would live forever, his son would be proud of him, and his wife would come to understand that he'd done what needed to be done for the glory and praise of Allah. Someday they would meet again in Paradise, and she would apologize for the bad things she'd said.

However, with just two months to go, Allah's plan for Khalifa took, an unexpected turn after he got into another fight with Miriam. He'd never told her what he was doing, afraid that she'd try to talk him out of it or report him to the police. Instead, he told her he was taking special classes to become an Islamic scholar, possibly even an imam someday. She'd happily congratulated him. At least imams were paid by the congregation—not much, but it would be more regular, and more honorable, than providing security for Imam Jabbar, whom she did not like.

However, the next time he told her the lie, Miriam started asking why class was being conducted at such a late hour instead of in the evening. He explained that these particular classes were for especially dedicated students; Jabbar did not want to make anyone who had not been selected jealous.

Then she'd apparently started asking around about the late-night classes at the mosque, and she did not like what she learned. In particular, Miriam did not like who his classmates were. "These 'chosen' few are not spiritual men," she said. "They are extremists and sheep; many of them have been gangsters and criminals."

"I was a gangster and a criminal," Khalifa reminded her.

"Yes, my husband," Miriam responded tenderly. "But you've changed. I've seen the peace that worshiping Allah gives you sometimes, and I know that in your heart, you are a good man ... a good father ... and a good husband. But sometimes you don't separate reality from the nonsense that Jabbar spouts."

The criticism of Jabbar angered Khalifa, partly because it was probably true, but that didn't alter how he felt about the man. "Yes, I have changed through the grace of Allah," he retorted. "And it was the imam who brought me to the true path. What kind of man would I be if I did not honor that and do as he asks, and what I believe Allah commands me to do?"

"And what is it that Allah commands you to do, Jamal?" her dark eyes sparkled in her pretty round face. "I hope for your eternal soul that you do nothing that brings shame on Islam and do not blame Allah for any sins you commit."

Khalifa had no response to that except to storm out of the apartment and go for a walk. It seemed that two voices argued in his head for his conscience.
"Jabbar saved you from a pointless life, a life as a nobody,
" said one voice.
"Look in your heart, you know Miriam is telling you the truth,"
replied the other, which eventually won the debate. He was about to return to the apartment to apologize when a voice from the past interrupted his thoughts.

"Well, if it ain't our old homeboy, Scratchy!"

Khalifa turned around. Several of his former gang friends approached from behind. The one whose voice he had recognized, a big hulking brute nicknamed Killah with a lazy eye, chortled and said, "Say niggah, where you been?"

"Praying to Allah, brother," Khalifa responded. Saying it, he felt a moral superiority to his old friends, who, by the look of them, were still gangbanging. Every inch of exposed skin on their bodies—hands and arms, necks, chests—was covered with black prison tattoos.

"Oh thass right," Killah snarked. "You a Muslim now."

"Praise Allah for that," he responded. "He saved me from my wicked ways. Ain't you brothers tired of banging? Ain't you getting a little ol' to be committing crimes and chasing loose women? Maybe you should get your black asses over to the mosque."

Killah laughed, "Ain't never too old for easy money and booty," he said. "I like to see my ho's big backdoor before I get busy with her. What them Muslim women hiding 'neath them gowns anyway? Two pussies? Or, maybe just big ol' hairy legs, like a gorilla."

Khalifa thought about Miriam's beautiful figure and thanked Allah that her body was his and his alone to view. Again, the feeling of superiority washed over him, and he accepted the ribbing good-naturedly. He'd grown up on the streets with Killah and the others, and there'd been times when they had been his only family. That was why now, he let them talk him into going with them to another part of the park, where they were meeting up with a couple more of Khalifa's old running mates. They found the others sitting on a picnic table, passing brown bags containing 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor.

In his sinful past, Khalifa had developed quite a taste for malt liquor and the respite it gave him from feeling like a nobody. Alcohol had always been involved when he got into trouble, and he thought he'd now put the desire for it behind him. Ever since converting, he'd done his best to adhere to the teachings of Islam and its principles of self-denial, including staying away from alcohol and his old gang.
Praise Allah.
But the sight of the bags and the smell of the malt liquor on the breath of the others revived old memories, and he watched the others drink while licking his lips.

The first time the bottle came his way, he held up his hand and said his new faith didn't allow it. Then someone offered a joint of marijuana. He suspected that Jabbar would frown on it, too, but he knew that some Muslims in the Middle East smoked hashish, and he didn't see the harm in taking a puff or two. Or three, so that when his friends pressed the bottle of malt liquor on him again, he let himself be talked into taking a sip
"for old times' sake."

Three hours later, he'd shown up drunk for evening prayers at the mosque. He wouldn't have gone, except that they were supposed to meet afterward to discuss Phase Two of their training.

The imam listened to his slurred excuses and looked into his bloodshot eyes, then declared that he was no longer mujahideen. "You have disgraced yourself, Jamal," he said scornfully. "And this mission is too important to trust to someone who cannot resist the temptation of alcohol. I need men whose minds and souls are clean for the task ahead."

Khalifa begged to be forgiven. "Give me one more chance," he pleaded. "I'm ready to die for Allah!"

"Then rededicate yourself to your prayers and ask that there will be another time," the imam rebuked him. "The Sheik has sent instructions that I am to select only the most trusted men ... those who can resist all temptation and put away all Earthly vices."

Ashamed and despondent, Khalifa stopped at the liquor store on the way home, where he purchased four more forties. Back at his apartment, he guzzled two of them, and when Miriam complained, he beat her until their son begged him to leave her alone.

The next morning, he woke up with his head pounding from the aftershock of the alcohol. He yelled for his wife, but she didn't answer and wasn't in the apartment. Nor could he find her at the mosque. Finally, he called his fatherin-law, who admitted that she was there—with their son—and she would also remain there. "And if you come here," Mr. Juma spat, "I will cut you open and gut you like I used to gut fish. What kind of a man would beat a woman when she was only trying to save you from yourself? You are not Muslim, you are nobody."

The man hung up without waiting for Khalifa's response. The word "nobody" stung and left him speechless. He spent the day sitting in the dark, alternately crying and throwing their few possessions around, until the neighbor below pounded on the ceiling and threatened to call the police. That night he faced east and said his prayers alone, too ashamed to go to the mosque. He would be nothing more than the drunken mujahideen, too drunk to be trusted with an important mission—a laughingstock, a nobody, as his fatherin-law had reminded him.

His life had tumbled downhill ever since. He no longer had his job with the imam, and he'd had to sell almost everything he and Miriam had bought together just to pay rent in the crummy little flat he'd moved to. He had a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and a framed photograph of his wife and son. If not for food stamps, he wouldn't have had anything to eat. He kept an old video camera they'd bought to record Abdullah's progress, but that was only so that he could watch the tapes and remember when he had been a father.

He was lying on the floor of his bedroom crying again when he noticed the martyr's vest lying beneath a pile of clothes.
"You will feel no pain,"
Ajmaani had assured them.
"One moment, you are looking into the terrified eyes of your enemies when they realize what is about to happen, and the next moment, you awake in Paradise."

As he picked up the vest, he heard another voice. Not Ajmaani. Not his own. He didn't know where it came from. But he was sure it was the voice of God, and it was telling him how he would earn his place in Paradise.
"And all of Islam will know your name,
" it said.

As Khalifa stood looking up at the synagogue, a young white couple walked toward him. She was laughing, but when she saw him she stopped and clung more tightly to her boyfriend's arm.

But Khalifa hardly noticed their wary looks, and they gave him a wide berth and passed. He was too busy wishing that he was with his wife and that they were the ones walking down a sidewalk arm in arm. But that could never be.

His hand dipped into the pocket of his coat and felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out—a food-stamp certificate good for twenty dollars. Might
as well give it to someone,
he thought. A young black woman approached, and he held it out. But she shook her head like he was one of the addict-hustlers in Times Square handing out leaflets advertising "Gentlemen's Clubs... All Nude Dancers," and hurried past without making eye contact.
Thinks I'm some sort of junkyard dog.
He crumpled up the certificate and tossed it to the ground.

His attention was drawn to an old couple at the bottom of the steps leading up to the synagogue door. They were both short, shorter even than Miriam, who had only come up to his chest. The man had a big nose and ears that jutted from the side of his head like a monkey's; everything about the woman was tiny, as if she'd never quite left childhood, and she wore her short red hair in small ringlets.

The woman kissed her husband on the cheek as he patted her affectionately on her arm. They reminded him of his grandparents, though they looked nothing like them; maybe it was just the way they seemed to belong together.

The woman did not speak but stepped back from her husband and signed something with her hands. The man responded with other signs.
One of them is deaf,
Khalifa thought.

As if she'd heard his mind, the woman glanced down the sidewalk, and her eyes met Khalifa's. She smiled, and unable to resist the simple act of friendliness, he smiled back. Then she turned and walked away, while her husband climbed the steps to the synagogue.

Khalifa hardened his heart.
They're Jews,
he told himself.
Don't be fooled by appearances. They're the enemy.
And he would be the sword of Allah.

He was committed now. He'd even videotaped his last will and testament, explaining the reasons for his actions this day and his last instructions for his son. He'd placed the tape in a large envelope, addressed it to the imam, and then dropped it in a mailbox before catching a taxi to the synagogue. He hoped that the imam would send it to Al Jazeera television and, as the imam had predicted, that he would be a martyr known throughout the Muslim world. The Sheik and Tatay would hear his name and use his death as an inspiration when the others went forward with their missions.