Andrew Britton - The American

The gate guards were well acquainted with the secretary’s strolls into the city center. He never came out of the embassy at the same time, owing to the ambassador’s unpredictable schedule. Sometimes he would walk across the broad expanse of cement in late afternoon, when the heat swelled and the air-conditioning was going full blast in the gatehouse. Other times he would make an appearance in the evening, when the sun had dipped behind the pale stone of the city’s skyline and the air was cool and inviting.

On only one morning each week did the secretary leave the building at precisely 8:30 AM. The young marine stationed outside the embassy watched as Jansen ambled across the circular driveway, the polished shoes shining in the hazy morning sun. The corporal, young and impressionable, snapped to attention as Jansen approached.

“Good morning, sir.”

Aaron Jansen smiled easily and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Corporal, I’m only about two years older than you are. I keep telling you to cut that out. How are you doing?”

“Just fine, sir, thank you.”

Another rueful smile. “Well, I guess there’s no convincing you. I’m just going to get some air… Give me about twenty minutes.”

“Sounds good, sir. Do you have your identification with you?”

“Always.”

“Okay, I’ll call it in, then.” The corporal was attentive to detail, which was how he’d earned his position in the first place. He called in the departure time to the operations center and made a note in his log before opening the electronic gate reserved for pedestrian traffic. “See you in a few, Mr. Jansen.”

“Catch you later, Corporal.” The secretary passed out into the busy street. He turned left from the embassy and walked down Pretorius, trying his best to avoid the crowded mass of humanity that lined the main artery running through the heart of the city.

The interior of the cave was tall and wide, but not deep. The only lighting was dim, emanating from oil lanterns that hung from the wet stone of the walls. It was also surprisingly warm, perhaps owing to the large number of young Taliban soldiers who were gathered in the dark space. They cradled small arms in their laps and listened intently, apparently oblivious to the discomfort of the rough dirt floor on which they sat. Each weapon had been cleared before they were allowed into the cave. Their collective attention was focused on the man who stood before them, his voice shaking with emotion as the words echoed in their ears:

“Praise be to Allah, that he has delivered you, the sons of Mohammad, into my welcoming arms. We ask that Allah forgive our wrongdoings, for He in His Greatness knows that the jihad cannot be fought by one man alone, and that we challenge an immoral enemy whose sins are far greater than ours. We bear witness to the atrocities that have been wrought at the hands of the Zionists and those who seek their alliance…”

“Omin!” The thundering voices were as one, rippling back over the man who beseeched them in a calm, measured cadence.

“Have our brothers and sisters not suffered? The children of Palestine, persecuted by the murderous Jews, have they not suffered? And where is the outcry, why is there no fatwa issued? The time of Western imperialism is at an end, my friends-”

“Yaum al akhir! Omin!”

March pushed his blond hair up under his raised balaclava and sneaked a glance at the men who flanked him. Al-Adel’s lips were slightly parted, the eyes blazing. He was staring wondrously at the man who held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Turning to his right, March saw that al-Zawahiri was wearing a similar expression.

It was just beginning to dawn on him that he was in an exceptionally dangerous place.

“They seek to spread their poison, and their arm grows longer with each passing day. We have been chosen by Allah to crush that arm… We have seen the slaughter in Burma, Fatani, Chechnya, and Bosnia Herzegovina. We have seen our homeland run red with the blood of innocents. They have turned their backs on our holy crusade, my brothers-”

“Aiwa!”

“They spit their laughter as though we are nothing-”

“Aiwa!”

“We ask Allah to guide us in this time of peril, in this time of hardship. He alone knows what we have endured, and He calls out for vengeance, He seeks to incur His Wrath-”

“Aiwa! Al Baseer, wa tayyibato!”

“We place our fate in His hands, for He is the Most Capable, and the Light that we seek. My brothers, Allah wept tears of joy when the Americans lost their twin pillars of debauchery in New York, their monuments to greed and the suffering of His chosen people-”

“AIWA, SHAYKH!”

March felt a surge of adrenaline at the man’s words, and the quiet assurance with which they were delivered.

“My word is the truth, and you will hear it now. We will not rest until our Palestinian brothers have driven the Jews into the sea, and the infidel armies have been routed from the land of Mohammad, peace be unto him-”

“As salamo alaina.”

“And this is the only path, for it is said, ‘If you meet those who reject, then strike the necks.’ It is Allah’s will, and He stands behind you in all His glory. There will be much rejoicing by our people when the heathens in the West feel the full measure of His Fury, and so it will be until all Muslims live together as one in His Kingdom. Praise be to Allah.”

“Subhana Rabbi yal A’la.”

“Go in peace, my brothers.”

The gathered fighters jumped to their feet, their shining eyes locked onto every movement of the man as they burst into wild applause. They watched in pure adoration as he climbed down painfully from the elevated stone outcropping at the back of the cave, waving to them like a visiting dignitary, and was immediately surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards, trustworthy veterans whose service dated back to the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.

The applause continued to grow even after the speaker had turned a corner and was swept from view. Soon it was an incredible wave, the clamorous noise reverberating from the jagged granite walls like thunder.

Saif al-Adel wiped tears from his eyes and turned to the American. It was a new look, a side of the Arab that he had not yet seen… In this place, March wore the face of the enemy. He braced himself, waiting for the pain of a knife or a bullet from behind, but there was nothing. A surge of relief coursed through his body as he decided that he was safe for the moment. Belatedly, he pulled the balaclava down to hide his face from the crowd.

“Remember what I said, American. He has no love for you or your kind. Is that not obvious now? Maybe you begin to understand the risk you have taken in coming here.”

“You brought me, Saif,” March whispered gleefully. “It’s your neck, too.” He did not stop to watch the color drain from the Egyptian’s face, turning instead to follow al-Zawahiri into the hidden depths of the cave. March had waited for this audience for three years, and now he was within minutes of meeting, in his eyes, the greatest man on the face of the earth.

Aaron Jansen was not in a hurry, and it was a beautiful day. He walked slowly east through the clamorous streets, enjoying the vibrant sounds of a busy city. He stopped at a coffee shop painted a brilliant white; the sun was so bright off the shining surface that it hurt his eyes just to look at it. He sipped at the warm coffee as he continued past the Caledonian Sports Ground, stopping once more to briefly watch the last few minutes of a vigorous soccer game played out between two groups of young men.

The jovial shouts of the players followed Jansen as he passed under the canopy of jacaranda trees that had sprung up alongside the playing fields. The cool shade felt good on his back as he waded through the riotous color of the purple blossoms that had fallen from the trees above. With his customary consideration for his host country, Jansen tossed his empty cup into a trash receptacle and stopped at a cluster of pay phones facing away from the fields.