Authors: Randy Singer
92
There were ways for Hassan to abduct Nara Mobassar from her hotel room, but that would have required a little luck and could have gotten messy. His orders on this one were very specific. It would be the hardest assignment of Hassan Ibn Talib’s violence-ridden life.
He prayed to Allah for courage, favor, and faithfulness. Those prayers were rewarded on Sunday night, when Nara paid a visit to her father at the Virginia Beach City Jail. Hassan used a slim jim to unlock her car and then waited in the backseat, shivering in the cold. He blocked out thoughts of his childhood as he prayed to Allah and recited the portions of the Qur’an that he had committed to memory. He murmured the hadiths.
He waited two hours for Nara to return. When she did, she climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door. She started the car but hesitated before buckling her seat belt. She stared straight ahead and began to sob quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Hassan steeled himself to act before he lost his nerve.
He leaned over the seat and pulled a cloth tight across her face, stifling her screams and causing her to inhale the chloroform. She resisted and pushed the horn with a free hand, but Hassan quickly chopped across her forearm and pinned her arms to her sides with his left arm while he pulled the cloth tight with his right. She was stronger than he anticipated. Fortunately, there was nobody around them in the parking lot. After a few seconds, she lost the will to fight. Within a minute, she went limp.
Hassan climbed out of the back and opened the front passenger-side door. He dragged Nara into the passenger seat, buckled her in, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He drove the car to a deserted parking lot, where he pulled over and cuffed her ankles and wrists, duct-taped her mouth, and gave her a shot of Rohypnol. The “date rape” drug would keep her unconscious for at least four hours and would cause partial amnesia about tonight’s events.
By tomorrow, it would no longer matter. Nara Mobassar would be dead.
On the trip to the Outer Banks, he kept his eyes focused on the road in front of him. He glanced over at her once, and guilt flooded him like a tsunami. He started reciting his chants with renewed fervency. Doing the will of Allah was never easy. But Hassan had died to his own comfort and his own desires a long time ago.
The only path now was one of total submission.
* * *
fourteen years earlier
beirut, lebanon
The funeral of Ahmed Obu Mobassar was nothing like the service for his brother Omar.
Eighteen months before, Omar’s body had been returned from the Palestinian camp and cleansed the same day in accordance with the Islamic rituals for ceremonial washing. His corpse had been covered with a plain white shroud and displayed in the courtyard outside the mosque. The young man’s father, Khalid Mobassar, had led friends and relatives in the salat al-Janazah—a funeral prayer that was part supplication for Omar and part praise to Allah. Mourners had been allowed to cry but not wail or sob uncontrollably. Allah was good. His will was perfect. Fifteen-year-old Ahmed had been reminded that a good Muslim must accept the way of Allah even when he did not understand it.
Omar’s burial had taken place in a common grave site, his body placed into an open grave without a casket. They had laid him on his right side, facing Mecca. Three small spheres of hand-packed soil had been placed under him—one under the head, one under the chin, and one under the shoulder.
Ahmed and his father had sprinkled three handfuls of soil on top of the body and recited the traditional words: “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.” The men had prayed and professed their faith. The women had not been allowed to attend the graveside service.
Ahmed had wanted to linger. He could not bear the thought of saying good-bye to his older brother. But he had clenched his jaw and fought back the tears and left with the other men.
Omar had been killed by an Israeli rocket while doing humanitarian work. But a year and a half later, when word came to the same mosque that Khalid Mobassar’s younger son had died, the circumstances were very different.
Omar had been a victim; Ahmed had died a martyr.
The mosque buzzed with a mixture of sadness and pride as the word spread. Ahmed had been conducting a raid with other Hezbollah warriors. He had detonated an explosive device strapped to his body, taking more than a dozen Israeli soldiers with him. His remains had been identified only through DNA.
The courtyard was packed for the victorious salat al-Janazeh offered on behalf of Ahmed Obu Mobassar. Curiously, the boy’s own father had elected not to lead the prayer ceremony. While many who attended seemed to walk a little straighter and pray a little more fervently knowing that Ahmed had died the glorious death of a martyr, Khalid Mobassar was not among them. Rumors swirled that he saw nothing but tragedy and a senseless waste of life in the loss of his second son.
Ghaniyah Mobassar, on the other hand, held her chin high throughout the ceremony, reciting the Shahadah more fervently than ever. “I testify that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I testify that Mohammed is the messenger of Allah.” The look on her face said it all. Her son was, at that very moment, enjoying the fruits of paradise. And he had redeemed his family members as well.
Ahmed’s sister did not seem to share that conviction. She stayed in the courtyard long after the other mourners had finished their prayers and departed. She refused to leave with her mother. She knelt on the baked dirt, tears rolling down her face, murmuring her brother’s name.
After a time, she rose to her feet and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I love you, Ahmed Mobassar,” she said. “I’m sorry I never told you.”
The video camera that captured every second of the service celebrating the glorious martyrdom of Ahmed Obu Mobassar was not close enough to record the sound of the words spoken by his sister, but reading her lips was not difficult.
The next day, as Ahmed watched his own funeral in the privacy of a Hezbollah hideout, the video unleashed a flood of emotions. He held them mostly in check until he saw the look of sadness and regret on his teenage sister’s face. They had always fought. He had never known how much she cared about him. She had always acted as if she didn’t care at all.
Truthfully, she was probably just putting on a show. Nara Mobassar always had to be the center of attention. The two siblings had become polar opposites. He had dedicated his life to serving Allah, to becoming a warrior like Mohammed. His sister, on the other hand, preferred to sit in the luxury of her Beirut home and criticize those who sold out for the glory of Allah.
When the video was over, Ahmed promised himself that he would never watch it again. He was a new man. The boy named Ahmed Obu Mobassar was dead.
He had excelled in his training as a Hezbollah warrior. He had professed his total submission to Allah and his death to his own fleshly desires. His actual martyrdom was coming; it was only a matter of time. By staging his death now, Hezbollah leaders could help Ahmed forge a new identity that would allow him to go places he could never have gone as the son of a high-profile leader in a prominent Beirut mosque. Ahmed felt heartsick about deceiving his family, but the leaders who had orchestrated the deception reminded Ahmed that it was all for the glory of Allah.
Al toqiah.
Watching the video had fortified Ahmed’s sense of destiny as a shahid—a martyr for the faith. He had already experienced the praise and celebration of a shahid funeral. How could he back out now?
His new identity was rich with significance. Hassan Nasrallah had been the leader of Hezbollah since 1992. Ali Ibn Abu Talib was a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed and a respected imam who had become the successor to the Great Prophet. Ahmed’s new name was a combination of the two legendary leaders:
Hassan Ibn Talib.
That name filled him with pride, devotion, and a sense of destiny. The imams expected great things of him. He would demand no less of himself.
93
the present
the outer banks of north carolina
Hassan pulled into the driveway of the beach house a few minutes after midnight. He had taken his usual precautions and lined the basement floor and walls with plastic. He had used plastic gloves and walked around in shoes that were a size and a half too big for his feet.
The Outer Banks area was largely deserted during the second week in December, especially this late on a Sunday night. After he prepared the room, he carried Nara in from the car and placed a hood over her head. It may be Allah’s will that his sister die, but nothing said he had to look into her eyes as he killed her.
The plan had been laid out in excruciating detail. Tomorrow, after court started, Hassan would send an e-mail from Nara’s iPhone to Taj Deegan at work. Afterward, he would toss the phone into the North Landing River.
By the time he sent the message from the Chesapeake area, Nara would already be dead in the Outer Banks. But he would make sure they didn’t discover the body until he was ready. By then, it would be impossible to pinpoint the time of her death.
In Hassan’s opinion, the e-mail struck just the right balance between caution and desperation. It would be the final nail in Khalid Mobassar’s coffin:
Ms. Deegan:
Last night, I told my father that I was not willing to take the stand and lie on his behalf. Now, I’m afraid to go home or anyplace where the men who work for my father might find me. I heard one of them say that if I was killed like the others, the jury would never believe that my father was the one behind all the beheadings.
I’m scared and I have nowhere to turn. Can we meet? I would be willing to testify about some things you need to know if you would put me and my mother in the witness protection program. I can be reached at this e-mail address.
Nara Mobassar
Hassan returned to Nara’s car and opened the trunk. He pulled out a second syringe and needle along with his sword and sharpening stone. Leaving the items in the room with Nara, Hassan went into the bedroom to retrieve a pillow and blanket. He placed the pillow under Nara’s head and covered her body with the blanket, then set the needle onto the end of the syringe and gave Nara a second shot designed to keep her unconscious until four or five in the morning.
Hassan went into a different bedroom and retrieved another pillow and blanket, making a mental note to take everything with him when he left. Tonight he would lie next to Nara on the hard tile floor. In the morning, one hour before dawn, he would awaken, perform a ceremonial cleansing, say his morning prayers, and end Nara’s life.
It would be a dramatic blow for Allah. Khalid Mobassar’s reforms would be fully discredited. His daughter would not be around to pick up the mantra. Instead, two days later, her headless body would be found on the altar in Alex Madison’s former church.
* * *
The nightmares haunted Hassan throughout the night, more vivid and real than ever. They started not with Hassan fighting in triumph against the infidels, but with a glimpse into hell. Flames leaped and engulfed shrieking men and women whose faces contorted with pain as the fire melted their skin. Hassan tried to look away but could not.
Most horrifying of all were the faces he recognized. Not just friends who had been weak in the faith, but members of his own family. The man who had raised him was there, looking grim and determined, not crying out like the others. Khalid Mobassar refused to admit he was wrong even in the depths of hell. Nara was there as well, reaching out to him, but a large gulf separated them. Her eyes were dark and pleading.
And then her face transformed. The melting skin hanging from her skull was restored to the classic beauty that had stirred the hearts of so many men. The flames disappeared, and she was dressed in white, sitting on a black stallion. Like Hassan, she held a sarif in her right hand, her horse stamping and snorting beneath her.
“Allahu akbar!”
she shouted.
She turned to Hassan, and he nodded as they spurred their horses and charged ahead together. Just before they plunged into the horde of infidels before them, Hassan stole a final glance at his sister. She had the same look of fierce determination he remembered from their days growing up together. But this time, it was not the rebellious fire that he had seen so often in her eyes. It was the fire of complete devotion.
They rode side by side, swords swinging in every direction, infidels dropping around them in a futile attempt to dislodge the warriors from their horses. Hassan wielded his sword with all his might, his muscles glistening with sweat and growing weary as he struck blow after blow. As always, the infidels kept coming, mostly Americans and Jews with possessed eyes and heinous laughs. There were Sunni Muslims opposing him as well, including some faces he recognized from his childhood. An arrow dropped him from his horse, and he was swarmed by hundreds of infidels. But Nara had circled back, creating a swath through the enemy as she tried to rescue her brother. Just as he reached out for her, an infidel’s sword swung through the air, slicing toward his neck. . . .
Then came the calm. He was standing on the golden carpet, before the magnificent throne of Allah. This time, he was not alone.
He stood next to Nara, her chin held high, and Allah smiled at them both. He placed a crown of virtue on each of their heads. The crowd began to chant—
“Allahu akbar!”
—but the noise could not drown out the words of Allah himself.
“Welcome to your reward!”