The Thirteenth Second: a 9/11 Novel

Copyright © 2021 Carl H. Torrson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner or form by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission by the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations or passages in reviews.

To request permission, please contact the copyright owner at

Carl H. Torrson, c/o AutorenServices.de

Birkenallee 24, 36037 Fulda, Germany

First eBook (English) edition: September 2021

Translated from German by Richard Urmston(†) and Hannah Kurz

Copy-edited by Sara Magness

Cover art by Mascha Seitz

Cover images © www.depositphotos.com

Table of Contents

Preliminary Note

Baghdad, February 16, 1991

1. Saturday, September 1, 2001

2. Sunday, September 2, 2001

3. Monday, September 3, 2001

4. Tuesday, September 4, 2001

5. Wednesday, September 5, 2001

6. Thursday, September 6, 2001

7. Friday, September 7, 2001

8. Saturday, September 8, 2001

9. Sunday, September 9, 2001

10. Monday, September 10, 2001

11. Tuesday, September 11, 2001

Baghdad, April 8, 2003

A Note On The Text

Tuesday, September 11, 2001—THE DAY that changed the world. THE DAY when Islamist terrorists hijacked four planes to deal America a blow it would never forget. THE DAY they piloted two planes into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, a third into the Pentagon, and crashed the fourth, possibly meant for the White House or the Capitol. THE DAY when 2,977 people lost their lives.

In real time a horrified world watched the collapse of the two giant towers of the WTC—shocking images that were indelibly etched in many people’s memories. The attacks triggered a spiral of violence, the so-called War on Terror, which continues to this day and has since cost the lives of tens of thousands of people.

Two decades have passed since the 9/11 attacks. Today’s young people have no direct memories of that tragedy; for them, 9/11 is just one of the many major historical events they know from school textbooks or from their parents’ stories—or from TV reports on the anniversaries.

This novel attempts to preserve the memory of that fateful day. The plot is fictional but set against the background of the real course of the attacks. The author hopes that the novel will bring the events closer to readers, especially younger people—and that it will help strengthen their resistance against any kind of religious fundamentalism, fanaticism or intolerance.

This book is dedicated to the memory of the victims of 9/11.

.

He is ten, still a child. And he is swearing revenge on America.

Lost, he stands before the smoldering ruins, black smoke barely visible in the darkness of the night. The fire has burned itself out now, but he remembers the last roar of the flames, greedy and insatiable and angry when they found no more sustenance. But they had already found more than enough. His shirt flapped in the cold night wind. Between the blackened mud bricks, he could see the thin, charred rafters smoldering still. Here and there a few small flames, fanned by the wind, let out a last gasp of destruction—or perhaps it was the final, desperate death rattle of the life that they had consumed—but the light of those flames is not enough to illuminate the black night sky: the blackness from which their aircraft swooped down on the city like monstrous, hungry vultures delivering their deadly cargo to the target.

He does not feel the cold; the glow warms him. The last warmth his parents’ home can provide to him.

The house had not burned long. His parents’ home was one of the countless poor dwellings in Baghdad. The fire had raged violently, and in no time had enveloped the thin rafters that flared up like matches and promptly collapsed. The brittle mud bricks, which his father had gathered from all over the city, must have unfurled themselves like a heavy shroud over all who were sleeping in the house. The fire had not found much to consume inside the house either: the few pieces of furniture that his parents owned, the stack of old newspapers that his father had kept, for reasons known only to him. The clothes that belonged to his mother and his two sisters. His jeans, the only ones he had. Shoes. And the well-thumbed Quran.

No, the house itself had not offered much food to the flames. But their insatiability had been amply rewarded with those who had been inside.

His parents. His sisters, Fatima and Adiyiah, just eight years old. They had lived here for only two years, not Iraqis but Saudi refugees, since Jamal’s father was wanted by the Saudis for alleged terrorist activities.

The heat has parched Jamal’s eyes; he has no more tears. Allah kept me alive, he thinks while staring unseeing into the fire, it cannot be otherwise. Allah is great, just, but also cruel. His parents and sisters had to die, but he, Jamal, must continue the fight.

He had not been at home when the bombs hit. Mustafa, the boy next door and his best friend, had called out to him with the usual, secret cat-meow in the middle of the night. That happened often; at night, the two boys made their raids, when the supermarkets were being restocked.

But that night there had been nothing to bring home. For days, the attacks had been anticipated in the city, and the inhabitants had hoarded all they could to survive the hail of bombs. Curfew. Blackout everywhere. No streetlights. No trucks were seen—only military vehicles patrolled the streets to prevent looting.

Then a deep droning sound that seemed to fill the sky. The two boys huddled in a corner of a wall, not far from the school. Mustafa pissed his pants out of fear. And then, all hell broke loose.

And so, he vows revenge. Allah is great, and there is no god but Allah, and he, Jamal, will avenge his parents and his sisters who died in the bombing. He swears revenge on the infidels who want to destroy Allah’s peoples with their aircraft. Revenge on their families. Ten—no, a hundred of them—will have to die for each member of his family.

Revenge will keep him alive. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and senses that the imam is standing behind him; he feels the anger and the hate physically emanating like hot rays from the holy man’s body and penetrating Jamal’s, grasping him, clawing their way painfully into his deep internal wounds. He does not resist them; rather, he welcomes and absorbs them.

Something inside him dies this night. But the pain gives him the assurance that he lives on and has been chosen by Allah to exact revenge. Hatred fuels his revenge; from this day on, it will live in him as an internal organ, it will beat like a second heart that keeps him alive, impels him forward, makes him relentless. He is only ten, but he is as old as the desert.

He, Jamal, swears revenge on America. He swears by Allah to deliver a blow to America that it will never forget.

[Passport Check, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:09 a.m.]

Immigration Officer Jack Lewis casually flipped through the pages of the young Arab’s passport, as the man stood in front of Jack’s counter, number 8. Jack was taking his sweet time. The terminal was crowded, as was typical for this time of day. Several Jumbo Jets and DC-10s had just arrived from overseas and hundreds of people were jostling in front of the immigration checkpoints. To regulate the rush, retractable belt barriers had been set up in the hall, forming the crowds into long snake-like lines of people. Many of the arrivals had to be turned back, even after waiting for a long time, because they had filled out the visa waiver forms and customs declarations incorrectly or not at all. Angry outbursts over the long wait, however, could only be heard from American citizens. The others, the foreigners, wouldn’t dare. For the immigration officers sitting behind their bulletproof counters were the gods of fate at the gates of the new world.

Immigration Officer Jack. was such a god; he could therefore afford to have a laid-back attitude about it all. He glanced at the two adjacent counters. The new co-worker to his left, on counter 7, was working conscientiously and consequently very slowly. His colleague Jerry Malone at counter 9 on his other side, however, had closed down and was nowhere to be seen. Again—for the second time within an hour. Jack had been keeping track of his many restroom trips for a while now, along with the passport inspection stint Jerry did on average, in preparation for a complaint that he was planning to present to the duty officer. Jerry didn’t even manage half as many inspections as Jack did.

Jack’s bladder was fine. He didn’t need to hang out in the restroom for hours on the government’s dime and at the expense of his more diligent co-workers. Jack loved his job, and he loved it because it gave him power—not necessarily at home, but certainly here, right in front of the computer and behind the bulletproof glass, where Jack was a truly powerful man. Not because he tipped the scale at about 240 pounds, at least, oh no. Jack was powerful because he, and he alone, decided whether a passenger was allowed into the country or would find himself on the next flight back home.

Much like this Arab here in front of him, for example. Jack had a vague but pretty strong hunch that he would be better off in his desert backwater. Jack never relied on papers and documents alone to make his decision, no: he also studied the facial expressions and body language of his customers, which often spoke louder than many words. And this Bedouin’s physical features Jack didn’t like at all. The long, hawk-like Arab nose, the close-set eyes… You could tell right away. On the other hand, his papers appeared to be in order, and without a reason, not even Jack the Almighty was able to deny him entry.

Jack let out a sigh. How long do you plan to stay in the United States, Mister… huh, Ali?, he wanted to know.

Jamal el-Gawad, the young man corrected him politely. Uh, ten days, er, two weeks only?

Which one is it, ten days or two weeks? Jack raised his eyebrows to the point where they almost merged with his hairline. Because on the entry form you clearly stated that you are planning to leave the country on September eleven.

Yes, yes, okay, but that two week, roughly, is correct?

Jack frowned and slid his glasses down his stubby, short nose to shoot the guy a dirty look over the rim. He typically saved his smile for the good ones. White Americans. Blonde long-legged Swedish girls. The occasional Canadian, if there was no way around it. But not, never ever, for camel jockeys. No way. Correct? He shook his massive head. To him, there was a big difference between ten days and two weeks. It wasn’t an unimportant detail that this bloke was planning to spend four more additional days on American soil than he had initially stated. That provided him with more opportunities to do something sinister, something really nasty—for example, blow up something or other. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wasn’t that what these Arabs did in Palestine every day? If it were up to Jack, the fewer days this chap got to spend here, the better. He was usually a pretty laid-back guy, but his relaxed attitude always ended when he felt like one of the passengers was trying to pull a fast one on him. And this was just the goddamn feeling he was getting now. You could say that he felt it in his gut. Among his colleagues, his gut was famous for never being wrong. Never. At that moment, the young Arab was a lot closer to a premature return flight back to the desert than he could have ever known.

Where are you traveling to? Jack inquired.

First Philadelphia. Then I go, uh… Los Angeles.

Jack reacted with another sigh. The brief hesitation told him a lot. No way Los Angeles was on the itinerary for this kid, that he was sure of. His inner alarm was going off and he became increasingly suspicious. What exactly is the purpose of your visit?

I am… uh, I want visit National Parks.

In Philadelphia? Jack said with a sarcastic undertone in his voice. The National Parks that he viewed as worth seeing were located more than two thousand miles away from Philadelphia.

Philadelphia just short visit. One day. Two day. Then vacation somewhere else. Eight days. Or nine. Am tourist, understand?

Oh yeah, Jack understood perfectly. A few too many words for an explanation, he thought. He placed the passport back on the scanner one more time and hammered the name onto the keyboard again. But to no avail. The database didn’t give him any hits for this chap’s passport, nor did running his name provide him with a plausible reason to send the kid back to his camel herd. Or was it dromedaries that they had there? Whatever. Jack could never remember the difference between the two anyway, maybe there wasn't any. He leaned back in his chair and tapped on the thumb of his right hand with the closed passport, while looking the foreign young man up and down suspiciously. Should he let him in or not? If not, how was he supposed to explain the denial? Denials came with a bunch of paperwork and problems, and right now he was just about to grab some lunch. There probably wasn’t much he could do. The young man seemed polite, was obviously well-mannered, spoke English, albeit with a terrible accent that made the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stand up. Plus, he had even dutifully checked the No box on those clever questions on the immigration form, such as was he carrying any weapons, had he ever been convicted of a drug-related crime and had he served time behind bars. But on the other hand, Jack had never come across anyone who had voluntarily checked off Yes.

After staring down the young Arab for another half minute, Jack had to come to terms with the fact that he had absolutely nothing on this boy. As angry as that made him, he would have to let this guy into God’s own country. He hunched his massive shoulders. He didn’t like the look of it one bit, but… He grabbed the stamp and slammed it down on the passport so furiously that the imprint could still be clearly read three pages down.

The Arab took his passport back with a wide smile. When he bowed slightly and mumbled, May Allah be with you, Jack Lewis could not miss the ironic undertone in his voice. It took all he had not to throw the stamp at the guy’s head.

[Gate 14, Departures, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:26 a.m.]

Stop it already, Mom, Suzanne and Kathleen moaned in chorus as their mother began to recite the long list of rules again, which her children had heard countless times over the past few days already. She had a very unusual talent for imagining the worst and painting the scariest scenarios in her mind.

Emma Dean sighed. Take good care of yourselves, she started again and hugged her daughters, one after the other. And call Uncle Dave right away if there’s any trouble! And make sure to always lock the door and arm the alarm so that…

Suzanne and Kathleen glanced at each other, then took their mother by the arm and gently pushed her behind their father toward the airport security checkpoint. On the boarding display the American Airlines flight to London had long since begun to flash and the line in front of the ticket control had shrunk to just a few passengers. From London the parents would fly on to Malaysia, where they would begin their adventurous survival vacation.

C’mon, get on the plane! Suzanne ordered. Enjoy yourselves, don’t eat too many bugs and snakes and don't get lost in the jungle!

[Door 2, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:33 a.m.]

Over there! Suzanne said a few minutes later, pointing at the glass doors of the arrival terminal, which were marked with a sign saying Door 2. Outside they spotted a bus labeled Washington Flyer. It was parked behind a row of yellow cabs. I think it’s about to leave.

At that moment the rear door of the bus started closing. Suzanne started running.

Dammit, Kathleen grumbled, we are late! Why does this damn bus have to leave from the arrival terminal anyway?

Mumbling curses under her breath, she ran after her sister, who had already reached the big glass door. Both parts of the door glided open. After passing through, Kathleen suddenly had to dodge a fat man who had stepped right into her path.

[Door 2, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:34 a.m.]

Jamal had sat his duffel bag down on the covered walkway in front of one of the terminal exits. He stepped up to the curb to be able to take a better look around. Should he take a cab to the hotel or rather catch the bus? To his right, there were a bunch of yellow cabs lined up and behind them stood a green bus. It bore the inscription Washington Flyer on the side. Jamal had inquired at the help desk and knew that a bus ticket from here to the nearest metro station was only a few dollars, while a cab would be pretty expensive. He had been warned that the taxi drivers at the airport charged exorbitant fares and that it made sense to negotiate a better price with the drivers.

Behind him the glass doors of the terminal slid open. He heard a sound and remembered his bag, which he had put down in the middle of the sidewalk. At the same time, the warnings that they had hammered into his head over and over at the training camps flashed through his mind: Always pay attention to what’s going on behind you. Watch your back. Instinctively, he looked around. And froze.

Ever since that fateful night, the night when his entire family had perished in the fire of the enemies, Jamal had often wondered in what shape or form Allah was going to send him a sign. He had always been sure that the sign would come. The sign of his revenge, the sign that he was doing the right thing. All those years, Jamal had waited for the sign every hour, every day, had pleaded, had prayed for it—and had always known, whatever it might be, once it came, he would undoubtedly recognize it as a sign straight from Allah. Nothing would surprise him, in whatever form or vessel God would choose to communicate His will.

But when the sign finally came, it still came as a shock. Stunned and paralyzed, he just stood there, unable to think clearly, unable to act. A stabbing pain, one that he had felt many times before, pierced his brain. His breath hitched; his heart stopped. The world around him became dazzlingly bright and everything fell silent.

The glass doors had slid apart. And his sisters were coming toward him.

[Door 2, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:34 a.m.]

Suzanne was a few steps ahead. Kathleen dodged the fat guy, at the same time looking in the direction Suzanne was pointing, not paying attention to the path. She tripped over a black duffel bag that some knucklehead had put right in the middle of the sidewalk. She didn’t manage to stay on her feet but was able to break her fall with her hands. Pain shot through her hands, arms and knees. The strap of her purse slid down her arm and the contents spilled all over the duffel bag and the sidewalk. Quickly she got back to her feet, ran her hand over her aching knee, cursed irrepressibly and hastily picked up keys, wallet, papers, sunglasses, gum and tissues.

Out of the corner of her eye and only half consciously, she noticed a young man with jeans and black hair just standing there, watching, whom she fleetingly guessed to be an Arab. She looked up. He just continued staring but didn’t move. Not a single muscle. He seemed shocked but hadn’t even shown any sign of reaction when Kathleen fell; probably it was his bag. Stupid idiot, she wanted to yell at him—but out of the corner of her eye she saw that the front bus door was now beginning to close as well.

Come on! Suzanne yelled back at her over her shoulder.

The young man was still standing there without moving. His dark, mysterious gaze went back and forth between Suzanne and Kathleen. The twins were used to being compared again and again—their resemblance was striking, and identical was a term that truly described them. But this guy’s gaze was different, unfathomable—he seemed absent, as if he were in some kind of trance. Is that your damn bag? Kathleen barked at him angrily, pointing at the duffel bag. He didn’t respond. Kathleen grew even more furious. She wanted to slap him—after all, she could have broken both her arm or leg. Idiot! I almost broke my neck…

But words were wasted on him, as he still showed no reaction. Kathleen hastily stuffed her belongings back into her bag and ran after her sister.

[Door 2, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:35 a.m.]

Jamal’s brain had stopped working. The world around him had slowed down, had come to a standstill, had fallen silent. A dense fog seemed to have descended over him, so that he perceived everything only dimly. In the complete silence, thoughts of prayer set in, repetitious, mantra-like. But the familiar holy words were swirling around in his head and seemed to have lost all meaning. He was still paralyzed with shock and only very slowly was he able to stir again. He felt and heard his heart, beating dully up to his throat. Shreds of suras were echoing through his head; he started praying, anxiously, hastily, frantically, an agitated, confused stammering, without meaning or context, fragments of the Quran, from the Imam’s sermons… The sharp, white-hot pain pulsed directly behind his eye, through the left temple.

A car honked, one of the cabs. He flinched: the sound was overloud, cruel, and chased new, even more painful throbbing through his brain. This attack, too, hit him right behind the left eyeball. Jamal abruptly returned to reality.

The sign. Allah’s sign. He looked around. The bus doors had closed; the vehicle had started to pull away from the curb and was looking to merge into traffic. The sisters were gone.

The sign was on the verge of slipping away from him. He had to reach the bus.

He rushed forward two steps, out onto the street, then returned and grabbed his bag, about to pick it up, panic-stricken; then spun around again, with only one goal in mind: the bus.

That was the moment he saw it.

A small piece of paper, more like a white rectangular card, had gotten caught on the seams of his bag, next to the main zipper, in a way that meant it could not be missed. He seemed to remember that one of the girls had dropped something. A purse? And this little card was… what? A business card? Instinctively, he grabbed the card, at the same time snatching up the bag from the floor and clutching it tightly to his chest, and while he started to make a quick run to the bus, he turned the card over and gave it a cursory glance.

No, not a business card. On one side there was a picture of a green tree in the middle of a yellow circle. Next to it, he could read the words Oak Tree Public Library. Underneath there was the address of the library. He flipped the card around. The owner’s name and address were printed on the reverse side in simple black letters. In Latin script. The words in the foreign script didn’t register with his brain as easily as Arabic letters would have.

The bus had already merged into traffic and rolled past the row of cabs, and was accelerating fast. Too late! He would no longer be able to reach it.

He saw the faces that were so familiar to him, as if he had seen them every day of his life, staring at him through the dirty bus windows, shadowy only because the sun and the lamps were reflected in the smudged panes, so that their faces seemed almost ghostly white to him… They were moving their lips, seemed to be calling him.

Jamal broke off his hopeless run and stared after the bus in desperation, feeling numb and still dazed. Allah’s sign disappeared from his sight.

He just stood there, motionless. People jostled him, but he didn’t even notice. Only after a while did he look down again at the small card in his hand.

Something was wrong with his eyes. The letters were blurry, danced in front of his eyes, some disappeared, then appeared again… But slowly, very slowly, his eyes refocused and he managed to concentrate on the Latin script. A name. An address. Phone number. Email address. Everything was written in those hated characters that his mind only reluctantly deciphered, but that he now began to read and hesitantly comprehend.

Allah’s ways were mysterious, inscrutable. Still dazed, Jamal shook his head. The fog had lifted. She was a different person. An American. Kathleen Dean. An infidel.

Only a few heartbeats later did he realize that the name meant nothing. Not to Allah. Only His sign was important, the sign that He had sent him, Jamal.

Jamal started praying again, this time in silence. He was now completely sure, and for that, he thanked Allah.

[Washington Flyer, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:36 a.m.]

What the hell happened? Suzanne wanted to know when Kathleen sank on the seat next to her, breathing heavily.

Kathleen nodded toward the sidewalk. There, next to the row of cabs, a young, dark-skinned man was running across the sidewalk parallel to the cab line, without taking his eyes off the bus. His gaze seemed to be glued to her window.

Kathleen rubbed her knee. It was just a graze, but it burned like fire. What a fucking idiot! she ranted. Leaves his bag in the middle of the entrance for everyone to trip over! I could have broken my leg!

Suzanne nodded and watched the young man. What a weird dude. Look, he is actually trying to catch up with our bus…

But he is not gonna make it, Kathleen said, not without relief. He’s giving up. Thank God. That guy had a weird look in his eyes, the way he stared at me, it was kinda creepy…

[Taxi Stand, Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., 11:51 a.m.]

To Georgetown? Ahmad asked suspiciously. He was sitting on the driver’s seat of his cab and looked the young man up and down through the open window. The kid didn’t look like he would be able to afford a hotel in the upscale neighborhood of Georgetown. Also, Ahmad had just treated himself to a second breakfast, or more precisely, an early lunch—a chicken burger with fries, loaded up with ketchup—which was why he was inclined to send this kid down the line to another driver. Or was this customer worth making an exception? He was an Arab, sure. Definitely a fellow Muslim. Saudi? Algerian? Ahmad wasn’t really sure but would have guessed Saudi. Saudis who came to D.C. were usually quite wealthy. Though this one here didn’t look like it. Ahmad didn’t see a need for special rates just because someone believed in Allah. After all, his cut-throat landlord also prayed to Allah and still charged an arm and a leg for the rat-infested hole in the wall in the northern part of the city that Ahmad rented from him. And if this kid was really a rich Saudi, he saw plenty of reasons to come up with some creative pricing for the cab ride. Though Ahmad did have a meter in his car, unlike cab drivers from the neighboring state of Virginia, Washington cabbies were not obligated to turn it on. Wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, because Ahmad’s meter hadn’t been working for a while now. He sighed and gave the half-eaten chicken burger a rueful glance, then decided to add a twenty percent penalty for the interruption of his feast. Sixty-five dollars, he said nonchalantly and took another big bite of the burger.

The young man just nodded and walked around the car to the trunk, where he attempted to load his luggage. He failed miserably, since you could only open the trunk in a certain way. Ahmad was so flabbergasted that he just sat there, rooted to the spot, full mouth open. Sixty-five dollars! He hurried up to exit his car and open the trunk for his guest. All you had to do was press down on the half-rusted spot next to the Ford sign. Ahmad’s new customer required similar assistance to open the passenger door. Ahmad had no problem with the fact that his colleagues called his car a rust bucket. As long as it drove and customers didn’t crash through the rusty floor, it served its purpose just fine.

The young man dropped into the worn-out passenger seat. Ahmad assumed that the kid had missed the Washington Flyer bus, which had just left. A ticket for the bus to get downtown was only a few bucks. The buses were going every half hour, so it would have been worth waiting for the next one. Some of the other cabs tried to compete with that price, but most were charging twenty-five to thirty dollars. Sixty-five bucks might set a new record. Seemed like a good start to a promising day. Swiftly he put the car into drive before the kid could change his mind. He wedged the Styrofoam tray between his chest and the horn button, ate with his left hand and steered with his right. The longer he thought about the fare, the more annoyed he got at himself. He probably could have asked for a tenner more. Another missed opportunity. But would the kid even be able to pay? Ahmad’s foot abruptly jerked back from the gas pedal.

Excuse me, but… do you have the money for the fare? Uh, what I mean is, were you able to change money into US dollars yet? he added hastily. Because I don’t take credit cards.

The man in the passenger seat shot him a disdainful look, then casually reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. He flipped through them deliberately slowly. From the corner of his eye Ahmad saw they were almost all one-hundred-dollar bills. The kid must be holding several thousand dollars in his hands, he thought. He decided to no longer doubt his passenger’s solvency.

The young man pulled out one of the bills and tossed it into Ahmad’s lap. This enough? was all he asked.

Ahmad swallowed hard and nodded. Quickly he let the one-hundred-dollar bill disappear into his pocket. With so much generosity from the stranger, Ahmad remembered his own good manners. Where are you from? he asked politely.

From Afghanistan.

Allah be praised! That’s where I’m from, too! Ahmad exclaimed enthusiastically, then continued in Pashto: Welcome! My name is Ahmad Navid.

Jamal, the other man said curtly.

Ahmad smiled. What area…?

His passenger shook his head. I flew here from Afghanistan, but I am originally from Saudi Arabia, he said briefly, then turned to look out of the window. He didn’t seem to be interested in engaging in conversation with other Muslims.

A few minutes went by and the two men sat in silence. The young Saudi appeared to be deep in thought, but finally, he turned to the cab driver and said, Why are you here in America, bro?

Ahmad hesitated. This was actually a sensitive issue and he had been advised to be careful. He had heard rumors that assassins had been sent after other refugees. Though killers didn’t usually give their victims a hundred dollars prior to murdering them. But the money had loosened Ahmad’s tongue anyway. Well, he said, I fled. From the Taliban, those sons of bitches. Got political asylum here. But now I’m staying here.

The other didn’t reply, and after a while, Ahmad stole a furtive glance at him. Startled, he realized that Jamal was staring at him—staring at him with smoldering, hateful eyes and undisguised anger. Immediately, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The enemies of my Afghan brothers are my enemies, too! the passenger burst out in fury. Enraged, he pounded on the shelf above the glove compartment. A Muslim who lives in the land of Allah’s enemies and licks their feet has turned away from the true faith!

Ahmad flinched. Now the blood was rising to his face, too, and it was pure rage. He opened his mouth for a sharp reply but then he felt the gentle pressure of the one-hundred-dollar bill through the fabric of his pants. A hundred dollars were way more useful than a theological dispute with a religious fanatic. He closed his mouth and stared ahead.

They spent the remainder of the drive in icy silence. Ahmad focused on the traffic, while his passenger stared somberly through the side window. Ahmad thanked Allah when he finally stopped the car in front of the Georgetown Holiday Inn. Swiftly he retrieved the bag from the trunk.

Jamal snatched the bag from his hands, turned without another word and stalked toward the hotel entrance. Ahmad watched him go as he got back into his cab. What a strange bird, he thought, relieved that the uncomfortable ride was over. Still quite young, but kind of creepy. Completely screwed up.

But Jamal suddenly stopped and turned back to face him. You are a traitor to our faith, Ahmad Navid! he screamed shrilly in Pashto. You should know what the Quran says: ‘Allah does not love the treacherous’… And don’t think that the infidels are going to win. They may never weaken Allah!

[Meadows Crescent, Washington D.C., 1:22 p.m.]

She had barely closed the door when a melody could be heard throughout the house. It took a few seconds until Kathleen recognized it as the ringing of the phone. Suzanne had apparently changed the ringtone once again.

I am not here! Suzanne shouted and ran up the stairs to the bathroom.

Kathleen took the call.

Hi, Kathleen, Dave said matter-of-factly. Her uncle Dave was Kathleen’s absolute favorite. Are they really gone? he asked.

Kathleen laughed. "Yes, they took