Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

47

Friday, 14 July 2006. 8:34 p.m.

Nazim took a sip of Coke but immediately set it aside. It contained too much sugar, as did all the drinks in restaurants where you could refill your cup as many times as you wanted. The Mayur Kebab shop where he had bought dinner was one such place.

‘You know, I saw a documentary the other day about this guy who only ate hamburgers from McDonald’s for a month.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

Kharouf had his eyes half closed. He had been trying to fall asleep for a while but couldn’t. Ten minutes ago he had given up and tilted the car seat upright again. That Ford was too uncomfortable.

‘They said that his liver turned into pâté.’

‘That could only happen in the United States. The country with the fattest people in the world. You know it uses up to 87 per cent of the world’s resources.’

Nazim didn’t say anything. He had been born an American, but a different kind of American. He hadn’t learned to hate his country, even though his lips said otherwise. To him, Kharouf’s hatred of the United States seemed too all-encompassing. He would prefer to imagine the President kneeling and facing Mecca in the Oval Office than see the White House destroyed by fire. One time he had said something of the sort to Kharouf and Kharouf had shown him a CD containing photos of a small girl. They were photos of a crime scene.

‘The Israeli soldiers raped and killed her in Nablus. There isn’t enough hatred in the world for such a thing.’

Remembering the images made Nazim’s blood boil too, but he tried to keep such thoughts out of his head. In contrast to Kharouf, hatred was not the source of his energy. His motivations were selfish and twisted; they were about getting something for himself. His prize.

Days before, when they had gone into the offices of Netcatch, Nazim had barely been conscious of anything. In a certain way he felt bad because the two minutes they had spent wiping out the kafirun [2] had almost been erased from his head. He had tried to remember what had happened, but it was as if they were somebody else’s memories, like the crazy dreams in the chic-flicks his sister liked, in which the main character sees herself from the outside. Nobody has dreams in which they see themselves from the outside.

‘Kharouf.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘Remember what happened last Tuesday?’

‘Are you talking about the operation?’

‘Right.’

Kharouf looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.

‘Every detail.’

Nazim looked away because he felt ashamed of what he was going to say.

‘I… I don’t remember too much, you know?’

‘You should thank Allah, blessed be his name. The first time I killed someone I couldn’t sleep for a week.’

‘You?’

Nazim opened his eyes wide.

Kharouf tousled the young man’s hair playfully.

‘That’s right, Nazim. You’re a jihadist now and we’re equals. Don’t be so surprised that I went through tough times too. It’s sometimes hard to act as God’s sword. But you have been blessed with being able to forget the ugly details. The only thing left for you is pride in what you’ve done.’

The young man felt much better than he had in the last few days. He was quiet for a while, saying a prayer of thanks. He felt the sweat trickling down his back but didn’t dare turn on the car’s engine so that he could put on the air-conditioning. The wait began to feel endless.

‘Are you sure he’s in there? I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Nazim, pointing to the wall that surrounded the estate. ‘Don’t you think we should look elsewhere?’

²Disbelievers, according to the Koran.

Kharouf thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to look. How long did we follow him? A month? He only came here once, and was loaded down with packages. He went out with nothing in his hands. That house is empty. For all we know, it could belong to a friend and he was doing him a favour. But it’s the only link we have, and we have you to thank for finding it.’

This was true. On one of the days that Nazim had to follow Watson on his own, the guy had started acting strangely, switching lanes on the highway, and taking a route back home that was completely different to the one he usually took. Nazim had turned up the volume on the radio and imagined he was a character in Grand Theft Auto, the popular video game in which the main character is a criminal who has to carry out missions such as kidnapping, killing, drug dealing and fleecing prostitutes. There was a part of the game in which you had to follow a car that was trying to get away. It was one of his favourite parts, and what he had learned helped him in following Watson.

‘Do you think he knows about us?’

‘I don’t think he even knows anything about Huqan, but I’m sure our leader has good reason to want him dead. Pass me the bottle. I have to piss.’

Nazim passed him a two-litre bottle. Kharouf unzipped his trousers and urinated inside. They had several empty bottles so that they could relieve themselves discreetly inside the car. It was better putting up with the hassle and throwing the bottles out later than having someone notice them pissing in the street or going into one of the local bars.

‘You know what? To hell with this,’ Kharouf said grimacing. ‘I’ll get rid of this bottle in the alley and then we’ll go look for him in California at his mother’s house. To hell with everything.’

‘Wait, Kharouf.’

Nazim was pointing at the gate of the estate. A delivery man on a motorcycle was ringing the bell. Seconds later someone appeared.

‘He’s there! You see, Nazim, I told you. Congratulations!’

Kharouf was excited. He slapped Nazim on the back. The boy felt happy and nervous at the same time, as if a hot wave and a cold wave were colliding deep inside him.

‘Excellent, kid. We’re finally going to finish what we started.’