Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

52

OUTSKIRTS OF WASHINGTON, DC

Saturday, 15 July 2006. 1:03 a.m.

Nazim was very scared.

He had imagined the scene of his martyrdom many times. Abstract nightmares in which he’d die in a great ball of fire, something huge that would be televised all over the world. Kharouf’s death turned out to be an absurd anticlimax, leaving Nazim confused and frightened.

He had run off into the garden, afraid that the police would show up at any minute. For a moment he was tempted by the main gate, which was still half open. The sound of crickets and cicadas filled the night with promises and life, and for a moment Nazim hesitated.

No. I’ve dedicated my life to the glory of Allah and the salvation of my loved ones. What will happen to my family if I run away now, if I grow soft?

So Nazim didn’t go out of the gate. He remained in the shadows, behind a row of badly neglected snapdragons that still displayed some yellowish blooms. Attempting to ease the tension in his body, he switched the pistol from hand to hand.

I’m in good shape. I jumped over the kitchen counter. The bullet that was coming for me missed me by a mile. One is a priest and the other is wounded. I’m more than a match for them. All I have to do is watch the path to the gate. If I hear police cars, I’ll go over the wall. It’s high but I can do it. There’s a place on the right that looks a little lower. It’s a shame that Kharouf isn’t here. He was a genius at opening doors. The gate to the estate only took him fifteen seconds. I wonder if he’s already with Allah. I’m going to miss him. He’d want me to stay and finish Watson off. He’d already be dead if Kharouf hadn’t waited so long, but nothing made him angrier than someone who betrayed his own brothers. I don’t know how it would help the jihad if I died tonight without taking the koondeh down first. No. I can’t think like that. I have to concentrate on what matters. The empire in which I was born is destined to fall. And I will help it to do so with my blood. Even though I wish it were not today.

There was a noise from the path. Nazim listened more attentively. They were coming. He had to be quick. He had to-

‘OK. Throw down the gun. Go on.’

Nazim didn’t even think. He didn’t say a final prayer. He just turned around, pistol in hand.

Albert, who had gone out of the back of the house and had stayed close to the wall so he could reach the gate safely, had found the fluorescent strips on Nazim’s Nikes in the dark. It wasn’t the same as when he’d fired at Kharouf instinctively, to save Orville’s life, and hit him through pure luck. This time he had caught the guy unawares only a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the centre of Nazim’s chest, and squeezed the trigger halfway, calling out for him to drop the gun. When Nazim turned, Albert pressed the trigger the whole way, blowing open the young man’s chest.

Nazim was only vaguely conscious of the shot. He didn’t feel any pain, although he was aware of being knocked to the ground. He tried to move his arms and legs but it was pointless and he couldn’t speak. He saw the one who had fired bending over him, checking the pulse on his neck then shaking his head. A moment later, Watson arrived. Nazim saw a drop of Watson’s blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if that drop mixed with his own blood flowing from the wound in his chest. His vision was clouding over by the second, but still he was able to hear the voice of Watson, praying.

‘Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and an opportunity to praise him with righteousness and honesty. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the sacred Quran, which says that even though someone may raise his hand against us to kill us, we shall not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are those of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the tortures of Hell, and bring him close to you, oh Lord of the Throne.’

After that, Nazim felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had given everything for Allah. He allowed himself to be transported to such a state of peace that when he heard the police sirens in the distance he confused them with the sound of the crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear and it was the last thing he heard.

Minutes later, two uniformed policemen leaned over a young man dressed in a Washington Redskins jersey. His eyes were open, looking at the heavens.

‘Central, this is Unit Twenty-three. We have a ten fifty-four. Send an ambulance-’

‘Forget it. He didn’t make it.’

‘Central, cancel that ambulance for now. We’ll go ahead and rope off the crime scene.’

One of the officers looked at the young man’s face, thinking that it was a shame he’d died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son. But the man wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. He’d seen enough dead kids on Washington’s streets to carpet the Oval Office. Yet none of them wore the expression on this one’s face.

For a moment he thought of calling his partner to ask him why the hell this kid had such a peaceful smile. He didn’t do it, of course.

He was afraid of looking like a fool.