Authors: Randy Singer
10
twenty-five years earlier
beirut, lebanon
Hassan Ibn Talib, like every assassin, was once a child.
At five years old, he and his siblings had gathered on the living room rug each night for lessons in Islam taught by his mother. She began by placing the Qur’an on the coffee table with great reverence. The book was frail, its pages yellow and worn. When his mother opened it, a mustiness filled the air, transporting the children in time and place to the mighty battles between Muslim warriors and Jewish infidels. To be sure, there were pages of long and confusing teachings and sayings that a young boy did not understand. But there was also lots of action, and nobody could bring the old stories to life better than Hassan’s mother.
She was ordinarily a quiet woman, stern with her children, respectful of her husband in public. But when it came time for the lessons, her demeanor changed, and the almond eyes intensified with the spark of a true believer. Hassan had learned the hard way that horseplay, whispering, and poking at his siblings would earn him the switch.
On some nights, like tonight, his mother would read a few verses from the Qur’an and then launch into a story that Hassan had never heard before. Like all the best stories, this one was about a true hero.
“Our third imam, Imam Hussein, was a man of faith and action. He worshiped Allah and would carry sacks of food to the houses of the poor at night, cheering them up. He would always tell his followers, ‘Be in touch with the needy, for Allah does not love the arrogant.’”
Hassan didn’t understand the word
arrogant
, but he already liked Imam Hussein. Hassan’s simple view of the world, fostered by his mother’s stories, was black and white. Good guys and bad guys. Muslims and Jews. Imam Hussein would be a good guy. Strong in battle. A slayer of Jews.
“But during the time of Imam Hussein, an evil ruler named Yazid Ibn Muawiya rose to power and made everybody accept his leadership. Everybody except Imam Hussein and a few brave followers, that is. Imam Hussein was the true successor to the Holy Prophet Mohammed, and he would not bow to the leadership of somebody as evil as Yazid.”
Hassan’s little hand shot up in the air. His brother gave him a look of disdain.
“Yes, my son.”
“What does
successor
mean?”
His mother smiled. “Imam Hussein was the grandson of the Great Prophet Mohammed. He was supposed to take over for Mohammed when Mohammed died.”
“Oh.”
“That’s a stupid question,” Hassan’s brother whispered, drawing an evil eye from their mom.
“So the people of Kufa, who were followers of Imam Hussein, invited him to come to their city and lead them in revolt against Yazid and his army. But on the way to Kufa, Imam Hussein and his family were met by a large army of men. The men surrounded the camp of Imam Hussein and would not allow his people to get food or drinking water. For days, Imam Hussein, his family, and his followers were not allowed to leave their encampment while the army gathered reinforcements and grew. Eventually, there were
30,000
warriors.” Hassan’s mother emphasized the number and then, as the expert storyteller, paused for effect.
“How many did Imam Hussein have?” Hassan asked. This time, he forgot to raise his hand.
“Seventy-two.”
Huh?
Even for a young boy, the odds seemed overwhelming.
“For eight days, the blistering hot sun scorched the desert sands as Imam Hussein waited for the people of Karbala, a nearby city, to rally to his support.”
Hassan’s mother lowered her voice. “To their great shame, the people of Karbala never came. And so, after more than a week of no food or water, many of Imam Hussein’s followers became so dry that they could not swallow, their tongues sticking to the roofs of their mouths. That’s when the imam took his six-month-old son in his arms and walked toward Yazid’s army, holding his baby up so the leaders could see that the boy was dying. He asked them to take the baby and give the child water even if they intended to kill Hussein.”
Hassan’s mom held her arms out with the imaginary baby resting in her hands. Hassan scooted forward, holding his breath, his eyes wide.
“One of Yazid’s men shot a poisoned arrow through the neck of the baby, killing the child and pinning his neck to his father’s arm.”
Hassan gasped. A baby killed! And not by Jews or infidels! By other Muslim warriors!
“They demanded that Imam Hussein surrender, but he would not. ‘Death is superior to disgrace, and I am ready to die defending Islam and the Muslims,’ he said. And then the battle began.”
Hassan listened breathlessly as his mother described the conflict—the imam mounting a black stallion and wielding a sarif, cutting down dozens of Yazid’s soldiers. But eventually, the brave man was overwhelmed by his enemies. “The evildoers cut off his head and left his body to rot for three days without burial,” Hassan’s mother reported with great sadness.
Hassan was crestfallen. The good guys seldom lost in his mother’s stories. And when they did, it was never like
this
. Killed. Left to rot. His baby dead in his arms.
Hassan looked toward his older brother, checking for a reaction. As usual, his brother was stone-faced. Just as he had been the day that Hassan’s mother taught Sura 99, the lesson about the earthquake and the Day of Judgment. Hassan had shivered in fear as she described the tormenting flames of hell. “If your bad works outweigh your good works, you will go to hell,” Hassan’s mother had explained. And Hassan had known immediately that hell would be his lot. His conscience had tormented him for days, and nightmares had haunted his sleep.
But his brother had seemed unfazed. What did he know that Hassan did not?
His mother’s voice brought him back to the story. “But it didn’t matter what Yazid’s men did to Imam Hussein’s body because he was no longer there,” Hassan’s mother explained, her tone reflecting the excitement of a big secret she was about to share. “He was sitting on the shore of a crystal river, surrounded by many women who were feeding him and taking care of him.”
Hassan recognized the description immediately. It was
Jannah
! Paradise!
His mother closed the Qur’an and looked solemnly from Hassan to his brother. “We call Imam Hussein ‘Sayyid al-Shuhada,’—the Lord of the Martyrs. When you die a martyr—a shahid—you do not feel death. It is more like the minor pain of a mosquito sting. You wake up in Jannah, and Allah smiles at you, placing a crown of virtue on your head.”
Hassan’s mother held two of her fingers and her thumb together now, opening them slightly, as if letting go of a tiny precious thing. “No matter what you have done wrong in this life, you will be forgiven with the first drop of your blood that is spilt. With the second drop, you may redeem seventy family members who would have gone to hell.
“To die a martyr is to never die at all.”
* * *
the present
washington, d.c.
Hassan received the text message on Wednesday night. The young wife of a prominent leader in a Norfolk mosque had left the faith. She had been seen in the company of a married American man, a devout Christian. She was making a mockery of her marriage and, more importantly, of Allah.
The Norfolk mosque to which she belonged had been started as part of the Islamic Brotherhood’s Strategic City Initiative, a plan to plant prominent mosques in all of America’s most important cities. Norfolk had made the list because of its strategic military bases as well as its proximity to Washington, D.C. The mosque was one of the few Islamic success stories in the South, exceeding all projections for growth. Its imam, Khalid Mobassar, was a highly respected, charismatic leader, though he pushed reformist ideas that were sometimes detrimental to the faith. Others in the mosque, outspoken defenders of the orthodox faith, served as a counterbalance. Fatih Mahdi was one such man.
But now, Mahdi’s young wife had become an infidel.
The first text message Hassan received was terse and unequivocal:
Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi has converted to the Christian faith. She has defiled herself by consorting with an American man, disgraced her family, and dishonored Allah. She must be given only one opportunity to repent and return to the faith. If she refuses, the honor of her family must be restored.
The second text message had a picture attached—a photo of a young Lebanese woman and a middle-aged American man. The second message was shorter than the first:
If you attend Beach Bible Church on Saturday night, you will find her there. May Allah guide you.
11
In Hassan’s view, Beach Bible Church epitomized everything wrong with American Christianity. It seemed like a godless blend of amusement park, social club, and rock concert. The parking lot spanned acres, the “sanctuary” would have dwarfed most concert halls, and the music was so loud that Hassan had a headache before the third song ended. The women dressed in provocative clothes while the men pretended not to notice. There was no community prayer, no reverential silence, no dignified reading from a holy book. It was all flash and glitter and noise.
A worship service,
Hassan thought,
without worship.
He sat on one of the padded folding chairs three rows from the back, trying to remain inconspicuous in a church that was surprisingly full for a Saturday night service. The people were friendly, though he tried hard to ignore them.
There were no cameras in the church. No security guards. There didn’t appear to be anyone surveying the crowd, looking for suspicious strangers with Middle Eastern complexions and hard eyes. This was America, not Beirut. The members of Beach Bible Church were blissfully ignorant.
The pastor talked about sacrifice, about taking up a cross daily and following Christ. But the examples he used were trivial. What if somebody insults you? What if you lose your job? What if your classmates start rumors about you because you’re too radical in your faith?
What did Americans really know about sacrifice?
What if Allah asks you to lay down your life?
Hassan wanted to ask.
What if he asks you to strap a bomb to your body and blow up as many infidels and Jews as possible?
To the American Christians, sacrifice was a theoretical concept. For Hassan, it was a way of life.
Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi was indeed in the service. Hassan had followed her from her home in downtown Norfolk to this church in the Kempsville area of Virginia Beach. She had made one stop along the way, pulling into a deserted parking lot, where she sat in the car as it idled for several minutes. Hassan had parked too far away to see what she was doing. But when she pulled out of the parking lot, he drove close enough to get a better look and realized that Ja’dah Mahdi had changed her clothes.
When Ja’dah had left her home, she’d been dressed conservatively, wearing a hijab to cover her head, though she did not veil her face. When she arrived at church, she was wearing too-tight jeans and a white blouse with a neckline much lower than would ever be allowed in any mosque, and her hair was pulled into a tight braid. She was a beautiful woman, maybe fifteen years younger than her husband, but she was no longer modest. Hassan believed that beauty was like a jewel—if something was precious, you kept it hidden until the treasure was meant to be uncovered. Only Western women advertised their wares for the entire world to see, leaving little to the imagination. For Hassan, a place of worship—even godless worship like this—seemed a strange venue to promote lust.
During the service, he positioned himself on the opposite side of the sanctuary from Ja’dah. Occasionally, he would steal a glance at her. During the singing, he noticed that Ja’dah sometimes closed her eyes and raised her hands. At one point, he thought he saw a hint of moisture in her eyes.
After the service, Ja’dah went to an out-of-the-way restaurant with a group of church members. They were all relaxed and smiling. Hassan recognized one of them as the man from the text message. An hour and a half later, Ja’dah came out of the restaurant with the middle-aged man. The man climbed into the front seat of Ja’dah’s car, and the two of them talked for another thirty minutes. The man had his Bible open, and before he left, they bowed their heads and prayed.
As the man walked across the parking lot, Hassan started his car and drove past the line of parked cars that had separated them. When the man looked up, Hassan slowed and allowed him to walk right in front of the car. He was midforties and getting a little soft around the middle. Blond hair, soft blue eyes, pudgy nose, and smooth skin. The man gave a quick wave of thanks to Hassan for allowing him to cross.
Earlier, when the group was eating dinner, Hassan had found the man’s name in the church directory Hassan had grabbed earlier that evening. Martin Burns. He had two older children with him in the directory picture—a daughter who appeared to be in high school and a son who looked to be in middle school. There was no mother in the picture. Most likely Burns was separated from her. And now Burns was putting the moves on another man’s wife. Men like Martin Burns didn’t deserve to live another day. Hassan would be doing everyone a favor.
Sacrifice. Martin Burns had undoubtedly nodded along when the preacher told him how much he should be willing to sacrifice for the cause of Christ.
Hassan would help him understand what sacrifice really meant.
12
“According to C. S. Lewis, there is danger in the belief that ‘all will be well’ when in fact all is
not
well.” As Alex looked out on the faces of his congregants at the start of his sermon on Sunday morning, it was clear the words were falling on deaf ears. Literally as well as figuratively.
The average age at South Norfolk Community Church was somewhere north of mandatory retirement. Attendance was holding steady at about seventy on most Sundays, and the women outnumbered the men by about two to one. Pastors weren’t supposed to play favorites, but Alex was especially fond of a group of six or seven silver-haired widows who sat toward the front on his right side, snuggled firmly into the padded mauve pews, who couldn’t resist an
amen
or two even during Alex’s weakest sermons. When it came time in the service to greet one another, Alex went straight to the little pack of senior saints, gave each a hug, and came away smelling strongly of old perfume.
“We have an amazing ability to deceive ourselves,” Alex said. “Christ knew this. He told his followers that many would think they were going to heaven, saying ‘Lord, Lord, didn’t we do many wonderful works in your name?’ But he would tell them that he never really knew them.”
Deacon Harry Dent stifled a yawn. Somebody’s cell phone rang. A visiting single mom, sitting two-thirds of the way back on the left, turned red when everybody stared.
Alex didn’t let it bother him but kept preaching as if he had a stadium full of rapt listeners. Just before the closing prayer, he walked out from behind the podium, down the front steps of the platform, and into the aisle. Like most churches, there was some unwritten rule that nobody could sit in the first two pews, so Alex positioned himself at the beginning of row three and made sure he had their attention.
He looked around and realized that he really did care about these folks. Working class. Old school. Salt of the earth.
“We come to church all dressed up in our best outfits,” Alex said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. A few of the younger members of South Norfolk Community Church subscribed to the Sunday casual dress code, sporting polo shirts or shorts or even jeans. Alex left his own board shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts in Virginia Beach. On Sunday mornings, he donned a white shirt with cuff links, a bold-print tie, a freshly pressed suit, and—before his recent buzz cut—an extra dab of hair gel. The women in the senior saints club always told him how handsome he looked.
Alex brushed both arms of his suit coat. “Nice suit, huh, Fred?”
Fred’s head jerked up from his bulletin. “Hm. Not bad for a lawyer.”
There was a smattering of chuckles. Alex smiled along. “On the outside, we look like we’ve got our act together. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m great, thanks.’ But inside, we’re dying.”
As he talked, Alex removed his suit coat and elicited a few gasps from the congregation. Some of the younger families snickered. He had mutilated his white shirt—ripping it, spattering red paint on it to look like blood, rubbing it in the dirt. The only part that wasn’t messed up was the part everyone could see when he had his suit coat on—the cuffs, the center buttons, and the collar.
He tossed the suit coat on a pew. “God wants us to get honest with him,” Alex said. “He knows what’s under that spiffed-up exterior. The only way to get things right is to admit that you’re hurting underneath that nice new suit. To admit your failures and fears and addictions.”
And inadequacies,
he wanted to say. But he left that out. It felt too personal. Who was he to be preaching to these good folks?
“The greatest danger is the belief that all is well when all may not be well.”
Alex paused and looked from one member to the next. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of spiritual giant that pastors were supposed to be, but he did have a gift for public speaking, for motivating people by talking to their hearts. It’s why he always wanted to be a lawyer, though he found that the practice of law was more about grinding it out in the office than wooing a jury.
But today, even a few of the deacons were slowly nodding their heads. This message, thought Alex, would at least be hard to forget.
“Let’s pray.”