Fatal Convictions

18

the present washington, d.c.

Hassan jerked awake and was half out of bed before he could gather his thoughts. Feet on the floor, he looked at the clock: 3:30 a.m. He felt his heart pounding, the images still vivid in his mind. His childhood dream had returned, as it often did the night before a gruesome assignment. But it had been different tonight, distorted by what lay ahead.

He had again been riding through the armies of infidels, wielding his sarif, severing heads. But this time, in the midst of the conflict, he had been surrounded by women and children, even infants. Nevertheless, he kept fighting until he felt the piercing arrows enter his body.

When he appeared before the throne of Allah, there was no chanting. Hassan bowed his head, mindful of the women and children he had killed.

Once again, Allah had dropped Hassan’s blood on the scales and placed the crown of virtue on his head. But rather than thundering his approval, Allah’s voice was soothing, his sad eyes registering his approval. “Only my loyal Hassan would complete such a difficult task,” he said tenderly. “Welcome to your reward.”

Hassan shook away the lingering images and turned on his light. He put on a pair of shorts and walked out onto the second-floor balcony. The parking lot was quiet at this hour, the night air muggy and thick. He took a deep breath and looked up to the heavens, asking Allah for courage and discernment.

The task ahead was more difficult than combat against armed adversaries. When the enemy took the form of a pleading woman or when collateral damage included small children, Hassan’s nerves and devotion were tested to the limits. He forced himself to look past the innocence in their eyes and into the darkness of their souls. Allah made no mistakes. Some were destined to die.

He went inside and got out a flint stone and his long, double-edged sword. He removed the sword from its brown leather scabbard. The blade glistened as it reflected the glare from the overhead light. He began stroking the edge of the sword with the flint, first one side and then the other. The sword was already razor sharp, but the task calmed his nerves and strengthened his resolve.

Perhaps Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi would repent and renounce her Christian faith. Perhaps Hassan could spare her life and deal only with Martin Burns, the infidel who led her astray. But if not, he could at least make her execution as painless and quick as possible.

He made a few more strokes with the flint.

The handle was made of steel covered with well-worn leather. The crosspiece was brass, polished so it reflected Hassan’s face like a mirror. Hassan’s name and a verse from the Qur’an were engraved on the upper end of the blade. Verily the promise of Allah is true: nor let those shake thy firmness who have no certainty of faith. Al Qur’an 30:60.