The Insurrectionist (3 page)

            Agent Andrews sat back in his seat and stared at Deni. “I don’t have to do anything.”

            “Awesome, then why bother questioning me? Why bother with the interrogation? You can leave, go have Miller Time with your buddies and let me rest,” replied Deni. “Instead of asking me all these ridiculous questions, just find out who is taking credit. Anyone taking credit for it?”

            “Let me explain this to you in another way. Your cooperation goes a long way to deciding whether you live or die. It goes a long way to restoring the reputation of your family and ensuring your family’s safety. You can lie there and be a complete smart ass or we can tell everyone you are being a good boy and coming clean by answering questions,” said Agent Andrews.

            Deni remained silent.

            Agent Andrews shuffled through Deni’s file. He rested his elbows on Deni’s bed and casually said, “Have you ever seen your mother upset?” He leaned closer to Deni and whispered, “Have you ever seen your father cry? Do you know the hope and the pride your father had for you is now destroyed by your senseless act. Your parents are sick with heartache and pain. If you cannot understand the anguish of the parents of your victims, you must understand the anguish of your parents.” Agent Andrews cracked a grin when he noticed Deni’s lips quiver. “So your heart is completely dead,” said Agent Andrews.

            Deni turned his head away from Agent Andrews. His mother’s passionate declarations were nothing new, and were to be expected. The lump that formed in his chest was for his father¾a strong, quiet man who only wanted what was best for his children. It was his father’s shame and pain that stung Deni the deepest.

            “Not so tough are you? Just the mere mention of mommy and daddy and the tears start rolling. Damn, and I was about to give you more credit. You’re just a baby,” said Agent Andrews.

            “You don’t know shit,” Deni spat.

            “Don’t I? Mommy and daddy are the breaking point. That was just too damned easy.”

            Deni turned away and closed his eyes.

 

            It was a warm summer evening many years ago. Outside, the sun was setting on a wide field in their Uncle Aslan’s farm near Volgograd, Russia. Those years living with his Uncle Aslan and Aunt Vera were the best times of young Deni’s life. The air was so clean, the sky was so blue and bright, and the horizon seemed to go on forever in every direction. The world was limitless.

            Sure, they didn’t have all the material comforts they had now grown used to in the States. Uncle Aslan didn’t own a television. The neighbors were few and far between and he and his family only went off to Volgograd on special occasions, but they had all the comforts of a warm family. To five-year-old Deni, it was paradise.

            Uncle Aslan played balalaika music on an old stereo while his mother and his Aunt Vera quietly played a game of cards. His brother stared dreamily out the window, while Deni curled up on his father’s lap. His sisters cuddled alongside on his father’s opposite side.

            Bashir wrapped his arm firmly around Deni and read the Russian fairytale, Tsarevitch Ivan, the Fire Bird and the Gray Wolf:

 

 

            Bashir quickly lifted Deni onto his lap and turned the page of the book. Deni leaned against his father as he continued to read:

 

           

            Bashir closed the book and kissed Deni on the forehead. “It’s time for children to go to bed.”

            “Just one more pop,” whined Deni.

            “One fairytale a night and that way every day you live happily ever after,” replied Bashir.

            That was a fairytale Deni believed¾everyday was happily ever after. And why not, he had everything a boy could want and need: wide open fields to play, home cooked meals every day, a loving family and when exhaustion set in at the end of the day, he had a comfortable bed to sleep soundly. Nothing more was needed or desired.

 

            With all the drugs filling his system, Deni could hardly feel his body and the hospital bed on which he lay.
If only we stayed on the farm in Volgograd. If only we didn’t come to America
, Deni thought and turned his head back to Agent Andrews. He wore absolutely no expression. “You don’t know anything,” he said.

            “There is one thing you can do for your parents and that is to cooperate. Your cooperation and help in this investigation will give you some redemption and restore some dignity to your family,” said Agent Andrews. “So who recruited you and your brother?”

            “Jamestown Foundation,” Deni replied matter of fact.

            “So you two worked alone then, okay?” replied Agent Andrews.

            Deni stared at Agent Andrews; he knew he was fucked. It was just the way. Everyone in the world has a score to settle. Some people score anonymous victories at the expense of those taking the fall. “I can’t believe I was so stupid,” he muttered.

            “So is that a confession?” asked Agent Andrews.

            “You tell me. No matter what I say will be twisted into a confession,” replied Deni.

            “Did you receive a commission or was it just for a place in Paradise?”

            “I have a big college tuition and living in Philly ain’t cheap.”

            “Ah ha, hired mercenary. Apparently Chechens are in high demand these days. What’s the going rate for Chechen mercenaries?” questioned Agent Andrews.

            “I dunno, ask my brother.” Deni turned his head. “Oh right, you can’t. The cops killed him.”

            Agent Andrews looked down at his notes and then continued. “Let’s talk about motivation?”

           
Motivation? Here it comes
—
the why. Why does anyone do anything? Everyone’s actions are tainted with motivation
—
good or bad? Does it even matter why?
Deni thought and was surprised he didn’t have an immediate answer. Months, days, and hours of planning and now everything was a jangled mess in his mind. He tried to recall the conversations with his brother and only one word came forth. “Retribution,” Deni said.

            “Retribution? That’s a new one,” said Agent Andrews.

            “Americans can dish out the terror worldwide, but when terror strikes home, Americans act like a bunch of pussies. Americans have no concept of terror. In my hometown of Grozny, Russian soldiers tied civilians together and blew them up. That’s terror. Body parts where then buried in separate ditches to keep the UN from getting an accurate body count of the atrocity. Moscow is very careful not be charged with a human rights violation, so they made it difficult to count the bodies. Russian soldiers gang-raping a fifteen-year-old girl who is bleeding to death is terror.”

            “That is indeed terrible, but does that make it right to impose terror on others? If you know this, if you realize this and understand the terror, one would think you would do what is necessary to stop it,” replied Agent Andrews.

            “Every day, in some part of the world, a citizen is dying by an American’s hand, whether it is by gun fire, a bomb, or drone strikes. Every day in the world, someone is experiencing terrorism by America, while Americans sit at home and get fat and then take diet pills to get skinny. Every day, someone is tortured and mutilated by an American while Americans stare at themselves in the mirror. Are you all that fucking stupid? Do you all just live in a fucking bubble to think that what American’s put out won’t come back to haunt you?”

            “So you and your brother have taken it upon yourself to give America a taste of our own medicine? Is that the answer?” questioned Agent Andrews.

            “I’m sure America will get past it, build a memorial, have a benefit concert and make a television movie of the week. Who do you want to play you, Agent Andrews? I can see Tom Cruise.”

            Agent Andrews shut his briefcase and stood up. “Retribution is not a motivation; it’s an excuse for violence.”

            Deni said nothing, and turned his head away from Agent Andrews.

            Agent Andrews had seen it all—hardened criminals, psychopaths, sociopaths, and now global vigilantes. He knew the dangers of dealing with certain people; their minds could be infectious. People can be persuaded and people will empathize. He knew much of this conversation will be sealed to the media and that he himself had to remain consciously rigid.

 

            It was the height of the second Chechen war, but it wasn’t a war fought in trenches in distant fields. It was fought downtown and in the neighborhoods. While Russian forces occupied the heart of Grozny, a growing Chechen rebellion formed in the nearby mountains. Russians fought by threatening citizens and the rebellion countered with unsuspecting acts of terror amongst the Russian troops.

            Russia’s latest attack was the most despicable. They struck on Islam’s holiest day, Ramadan. Families celebrated with feasts in gardens and eateries. There was a joyous raucous of friendly chatter, children played and ran between the tables. Deni’s mother chatted and gossiped with other mothers. She paid little attention when five-year-old Deni slipped out of her arms, off her lap and onto the ground.

            Finally, Deni was free. He crawled under the table and exited at the other end. The game was hide and seek, not just from his mother, but to try to be invisible to everyone around. Occasionally he’d steal a piece of cake, or a bon-bon from a service table or even someone’s plate.

            Suddenly a bomb exploded a block away near another gathering. Plumes of smoke were visible over the towering spire of the mosque followed by painful screams. Everyone jumped to attention, screaming for their family members. Kamiila bolted from her chair and counted heads: Mikail, Lulii, and Eliiza. “Deni!” she screamed frantic.

            As people fled but Kamiila, panic-stricken, searched the crowd for her son. It didn’t take much. Deni found her skirt hem and clung to it tightly. She lifted him in her arms and scolded, “I’m not ever going to die from a bomb; you’re going to make me die of heart failure!”

            Deni’s mother and his older brother herded the family back to their apartment, while Bashir, went off to help rescue victims and recover the bodies of those less fortunate.

            As a former Soviet soldier with medical training, it was Bashir’s duty to serve not just his country but the people. The irony for Bashir was that he saw much more bloodshed as a civilian than he ever did as a soldier. Previous threats of war in the 1980s were with the United States. Nuclear deterrence did much to keep both posturing nations at bay, but small civil skirmishes were hell. Many around the world did not see the atrocities and nor did they want to.

            Back home, Kamiila tried to keep calm as the family took cover in their apartment. She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she made some tea. She gave the kids cookies as a distraction, but it didn’t work. They kept staring out the window, intent on the shelling and mortar fire as the initial blast now turned into a full-scale battle in the streets.

            She noticed twelve-year-old Mikail watching out the window and Deni on the tips of his toes trying to see over the window ledge. “Boys, away from the window!” she scolded.

            “I should be out helping pop,” Mikail said.

            “You’re too young,” replied Kamiila. Mikail resisted her command and remained by the window. “Get away from the window, now!” She walked over and lifted Deni off the floor and carried him away.

            Deni sat on the floor and quietly played with a toy truck. He was too young to understand the significance of all the fighting. As long as his parents reassured him that everything was fine, he believed them. It wasn’t the sound of warfare, bombs, gunfire and shelling that upset Deni, it was everyone’s response. He felt the terror and anxiety even if he couldn’t see the damage. His youthful separation from the violence taught him the keen lessons of empathy and compassion without even being touched by it.

            Mikail was greatly affected simply because he was old enough to see and understand. He read about the conflict in the papers. He asked his parents and teachers questions. “Why do people kill? What do people hate?” The answers were hard to explain to a twelve year old.

            “Because people are not taught how to love,” was always Kamiila’s response.

            It seemed easy enough, just love, but how can you love with so much hate? How can you love when people are filled with so much hate and intent on hurting others? Nothing seemed to help Mikail’s angst. He tore himself away from the window and shrugged his shoulders defiantly and slumped on the couch next to his sisters. “I’m old enough. I can help!”