NanoStrike (4 page)

His father waved him on as though David were the one who had stopped.

“I felt a searing pain in my arm, like being stabbed with a hot poker. My feet left the ground, and I flew through the air and landed, hard. When I next opened my eyes, it was light. I lay on top of a car. I knew I must be on our street. But it was unknown to me.”

“Were you concussed?”

A hand wave dismissed David’s suggestion. “The houses were all gone. The mosque was a shell of three walls. Tiles from its golden dome were scattered like garbage. Everywhere was fire and smoke. The air stunk of burning rubber. I slid off the car, and my arm dangled by my side; it would not move when I asked.” His father flexed his left arm. He had never been able to fully straighten the limb.

“I looked for a marker, something to lead me home through the dust and stone and rubble. Then, near the top of a pile of rocks, like a beacon, my mother’s orange and black headscarf flapped in the breeze. She always wore the same colors . . . orange and black.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, feeling the cloth.

“Many stones lay atop the material. I dragged at them with my one arm and threw them down. When her scarf came free I held it to my face and breathed in her scent. I shouted for them, ‘
Mama
.
Baba
’.”

His father stopped walking and bent over as though he might throw up. He snatched an inhaler from his pocket and took two rasping puffs.

David had never seen his father so weak, so sad. He didn’t know how to react. Tears welled in his eyes.

When the old man recovered, he stared into the distance. “All day I dragged at rocks. No one could help. Out of six hundred Muslims in our village, twenty survived. Weeks later, men came with machines. They dug pits and pushed the rubble in. I never saw their bodies.”

“
Baba
, why have you never spoken of this?”

He paused, then sighed. “It is not a memory I wish to recall.” After a long silence, he turned back to David, straightened his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “But, Dawud, you are soon to be a Haji. Understand, when you complete the fifth pillar, when you finish your Hajj, Allah will expect you to shoulder your responsibility. I am from their seed and you from mine. Their deaths are yours to avenge.”

His father’s face was stone gray, his small fists balled. “My son, here in America we are shielded from the war against Islam. Imam Ali is near the battle. Listen to what he says. Only if each Muslim does his duty can the war be won. Each of us has a part to play. Allah guided me, and I brought you to America. I am old. Now my son must take up the fight. Go to Imam Ali. Trust in his wisdom. He will help you understand how your piece should be placed in Allah’s divine puzzle.”

Three weeks later, an Asian woman approached David as he left the Akron-Canton Airport express security gate, which was reserved for passengers on private planes. Her almond eyes were warm, and her black hair, pulled tight into a bun, was held with a carved ivory pin.

“David, I’m Keisha, Mr. Nazar’s personal assistant.” She shook his hand, and he blushed at the softness of her skin. She stood close, and he smelled her perfume as her hand pressed gently on the small of his back to guide him. “Over here.”

A sleek jet waited on the concrete. Inside, the pilot stood at the cockpit door. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Baker.”

David nodded and took one of six seats. So far, he was the only passenger.

“Would you care for a drink?” Keisha asked.

“Water, thank you.”

“Right away. I’ll serve a meal once we reach cruising altitude. Just sit back and relax, David. This is a great way to travel.” Nazar had promised a guide to accompany him and get him safely to his hotel, but David hadn’t expected a woman.

Once they were airborne, Keisha brought food. She leaned toward him to serve, and her white blouse stretched tightly across her breasts. David’s pulse raced. Sweat formed under his arms.

Later, as she cleared the dishes, she bent her knees so her face was close and level with his. Her tight black skirt rode up and showed the flesh of her thighs. David filled his mind with prayer to block out the temptation.

“It’s a twelve-hour flight. Just press the call button should you require anything, David.”

The words triggered more wrong thoughts. Would she really do anything he wished? After she left, he waited a few moments to be sure she wouldn’t return. Then, with shaking hands, he laid his prayer mat on the floor in front of the cabin seats, estimated the location of Mecca, and recited morning prayers. He needed to clear his mind. Sexual thoughts were unfitting for a pilgrim of the Hajj.

A few hours into the flight, David needed the bathroom. Not wanting to face the woman again, he opened the door at the rear. His mind reeled from the opulence: walls draped in silks, a huge bed, dozens of liquor bottles hanging from dispensers behind a bar.

Behind him, someone coughed, and he spun around. Keisha stood at the front of his cabin.

“That’s Mr. Eudon’s private accommodations. Can help you, David?” She smiled, but there was tension in her voice.

“I . . . I need the bathroom.”

She walked toward him. He pressed his back flat against the rear seat to give her room. As she turned sideways to pass, her left breast brushed his chest. She positioned herself in the doorway and pointed to the forward cabin. Her naked, tanned arm hung inches from his face. “Your bathroom is through there.”

He went quickly, blushing, his head bowed. Behind him, he heard her lock the door to Nazar’s room.

They landed in Jeddah at midday on October 10th. Keisha guided him through Passport Control. He could tell by the way the agents stared that they assumed she was his harlot.

Once out of the terminal, Keisha hailed a cab and slid into the back seat next to him. Her skirt rode up her legs; they were smooth and shapely and bare. He sat on his hands, body pressed hard against the car door, and stared out the window. He was a pilgrim. He should not be with her. Thankfully, she stayed silent until they reached the hotel. She paid the cab and left him to follow with his luggage while she handled his check-in.

At the elevator, Keisha said, “You’re all set. The bellhop will show you to your room. I hope the Hajj is a rewarding experience for you, David.” She held out her hand.

David dared not touch her. “Thank you for your help.” His voice came out as a dry-throated croak. He did not make eye contact.

When he reached his room, the message light was flashing. Imam Ali had left his number.

David called back. “I am honored to speak with you, Imam.”

“Dawud, your father is so proud. Your Hajj is a wonderful gift for him.”

“I am excited and humbled to be visiting Mecca, Imam. I understand you are to instruct me. My mind is open, a blank page ready for your wisdom.”

“I have readied fourteen others for their first Hajj. Come in the morning. This mosque will act as your Mikat, your place of preparation. You may stay here tomorrow night before traveling to Mecca.”

David slept poorly in the luxurious suite Nazar had arranged for him. He worried about his ability to fulfill the complex pattern of prayer and mental cleansing the Hajj required. How wise his father had been to arrange for Imam Ali to guide him through this unique experience.

After an early breakfast in his room, he packed his things, checked out of the hotel, and took a cab to the mosque. The taxi dropped him at the base of a set of white marble steps. He climbed, removed his shoes, and walked through arched doors into the huge, domed building.

Imam Ali strode toward him across the prayer hall, and the sound of his footsteps echoed with meaning in the open space. Robed in plain black cotton, the Imam stood six feet tall, with a bronzed face and a full, neatly trimmed beard.

He pierced David with an intense stare, and when they shook hands, an electric charge traveled along David’s arm. “Welcome, Dawud, we are ready to begin. Please use my office to change.”

At the center of the prayer space, fourteen men, already dressed for Hajj, sat cross-legged in a semicircle. David hurried past them and into the Imam’s office.

David’s hands trembled as he removed his street clothes. From the suitcase he took out his father’s Ihram, wrapped one sheet around his waist like a skirt and the second around his torso, tossing the loose end over his right shoulder. 

When he stepped from the Imam’s office into the Mosque, the air felt cool against his skin. The men opened a space for him, and he joined them on the floor, feeling self-conscious about his near-nakedness.

“Good, we are all here. Names are unimportant. You are pilgrims now and for the next six days until your pilgrimage is complete and you become hajis. Tomorrow, you will begin to fulfill the fifth pillar of Islam.”

The Imam gazed around the group, lingering on each face before continuing.

“I will never forget my first Hajj. The pilgrimage satisfied a deep yearning. Before, I missed something in my life; a piece of my soul remained dark. At Mount Arafat, Allah showed me the way to light that dark place. Each pilgrim experiences the Hajj in his or her own way. But one thing is certain; you are here today because Allah has shaped your lives to make this event happen. Now!”

This last word, spoken with force, echoed around the mosque.

As he studied the Imam’s still body and calm face, David’s heart pounded, sending blood whooshing through his ears. He had always believed Allah planned a greater purpose for him. The knowledge had drifted like mist at the corner of his eye. At times, during prayers, he turned inward and almost grasped Allah’s intention, but always it eluded him. This great man had felt the same. The Hajj had freed him. Allah had shown him his destined path. Perhaps it would also happen for David.

After a few seconds of silence, Imam Ali spoke in a soft voice, “Come. We must practice the key prayers and ensure the ceremony’s sequence is understood.”

In the evening, they used the mosque’s bathrooms to cleanse themselves according to the required rituals. The Imam handed out sleeping mats and showed them to a conference room where they would spend the night. As he was leaving, he turned to David.

“Dawud, can you spare a few moments?”

David followed the Imam to his office.

“Dawud, your father encouraged me to speak to you.”

Guilt and fear washed over David. Perhaps he had been remiss in his preparation. Maybe the Imam had listened to his clumsy prayers and decided he was not ready.

“After my first Hajj, I made the decision to become an Imam,” Ali said. “The path Allah had chosen for me blazed in my mind bright and clear. Since then, I have occasionally been the unwitting channel for Allah’s message to others. An ability I can neither initiate nor control.”

Sitting across the desk listening to the Imam, David’s body vibrated as though a low-voltage current coursed through his muscles. He clasped his hands together so the Imam would not see them tremble.

“Your father has witnessed this prescience firsthand. In a dream, I saw him leaving Lebanon and taking his family to America. The day after, your father called me for advice. He had received an offer from a Christian group that sponsored families, moving them from war-ravaged territories and giving them haven in Ohio. I told your father of the dream, and he followed the path Allah showed me.” When the Imam finished speaking, his eyes were closed, and he became still.

In the silence, David heard the distant sounds of traffic—the world without. He waited, and when Ali opened his eyes again he smiled at David, as if he had just noticed him in the room.

“Now you have come to me and yesterday, on the eve of your Hajj, I dreamed of you. In my dream, you were a warrior for Islam wielding a powerful weapon for Allah. I called your father and asked his advice. As always, he was wise beyond his years.”

David thought his heart would burst with pride. This holy man had taken advice from David’s
baba
.

“After your Hajj, I wish you to return to the mosque to meet another Imam.”

”If my father counsels this, I do it gladly. Who is this man, and why should we meet?”

“This prescience is a vague thing, Dawud, a series of feelings, nuances, and hints shrouded in mist. I believe, at Mecca, you will find the knowledge you seek.”

David walked back through the dark prayer-space guided by the light shining under the door of the conference room. He lay on his sleeping mat and pulled up his single cover. Unlike the previous night, the day’s worries did not churn in his mind. He did not dwell on the Imam’s words, nor think of the harlot on the plane. He had no fears. No qualms. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Tonight, he was in Allah’s hands.

Chapter 5

Fifteen men wrapped in white sheets and wearing open-toed sandals climbing aboard a bus at five in the morning would look strange in most parts of the world, but not Saudi Arabia. In Jeddah, they didn’t warrant a second glance.

Each selected an empty double seat. With so few clothes on, David felt uncomfortable sitting close to another man. He wondered was it the same for the others, or had they turned inward to focus on the experience to come.

The roads were choked with vehicles. The one-hour drive to Mecca became a five-hour crawl. The bus dropped them at a dusty parking lot.

Thousands of pilgrims leaked like white liquid between the buses and flowed toward a distant grouping of tall, elegant spires. The outline of Mecca’s buildings was familiar to David; a picture of Masjid Al Haram, the largest mosque in the world, hung on his office wall in Arizona. Covering 360,000 square meters, the equivalent of sixty-six contiguous football fields, this holiest of all mosques housed the Ka’ba. The place that billions of Muslims faced each day as they prayed.

David turned his back on the bus and walked with his fellow pilgrims. Once they cleared the chaos of the parking lot, they joined a human line of cloth and prayer that stretched for two miles to the outer walls of the mosque. David glanced around. Already there was no trace of the men he’d traveled with. They, and he, were one, blended into the white pilgrim trail.