Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

20

AMMAN, JORDAN

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 1:32 a.m.

Tahir entered his home in the dark, shaking with fear. An unfamiliar voice called to him from the living room.

‘Come in, Tahir.’

It took the bureaucrat all of his courage to cross the hallway towards the small living room. He searched for the light switch, but it didn’t work. He then felt a hand grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to his knees. The voice came from the shadows somewhere in front of him.

‘You’ve sinned, Tahir.’

‘No. No, please, sir. I have always lived my life according to taqwa, to honesty. The westerners tempted me many times and I never gave in. This has been my only mistake, sir.’

‘So you say you are honest, then?’

‘Yes, sir. I swear to Allah.’

‘And yet you allowed the kafirun, the infidels, to own a piece of our land.’

The one who was twisting his arm increased the pressure and Tahir gave a muffled scream.

‘Don’t scream, Tahir. If you love your family, do not scream.’

Tahir brought his other arm up to his mouth and bit down hard on the sleeve of his jacket. The pressure continued to increase.

There was a terrible dry crack.

Tahir fell, crying in silence. His right arm hung from his body like a stuffed sock.

‘Bravo, Tahir. Congratulations.’

‘Please, sir. I followed your instructions. No one will go near the excavation zone for the next few weeks.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Yes, sir. Anyway, nobody ever goes there.’

‘And the desert police?’

‘The nearest road is just a track around four miles away. The police only visit the area two or three times a year. When the Americans set up camp, they’ll be yours, I swear.’

‘Good, Tahir. You’ve done a good job.’

At that point someone switched back the electricity and the lights came on in the living room. Tahir looked up from the floor and what he saw made his blood run cold.

His daughter Myesha and his wife Zayna were tied up and gagged on the sofa. But that wasn’t what shocked Tahir. His family had been in the same condition when he’d left five hours before to carry out the hooded men’s demands.

What filled him with terror is that the men no longer wore hoods.

‘Please, sir,’ Tahir said.

The bureaucrat had returned in the hope that everything would be all right. That the bribe from his American friends wouldn’t be revealed, and that the hooded men would leave him and his family in peace. That hope had now evaporated like a drop of water on a red-hot frying pan.

Tahir avoided the gaze of the man sitting between his wife and his daughter, their eyes red from crying.

‘Please, sir,’ he repeated.

The man had something in his hand. A gun. At the end of it was an empty plastic Coca-Cola bottle. Tahir knew exactly what it was: a primitive but effective silencer.

The bureaucrat couldn’t control his shaking.

‘You have nothing to worry about, Tahir,’ said the man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. ‘Hasn’t Allah prepared a place in Paradise for honest men?’

There was a light report, like a whiplash. The other two shots followed a few minutes apart. Putting on a new bottle and securing it with duct tape takes a little time.