Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

David buckled himself into seat 16A, leaned back, stared out the window at the gorgeously sunny morning that was unusual for a city so often “blessed” with overcast skies, and finally relaxed. They’d made the flight. He had no homework. He had no school until the following Wednesday. And he was finally “one of the guys.” He’d been dreaming about this trip for years, it was finally here, and nothing could ruin it.

Philadelphia International Airport

David’s father lit up the moment he saw them.

David, on the other hand, instantly went dark. What in the world are they doing here? he privately groaned.

“Hey, over here,” Charlie Harper yelled from across the lounge area, waving them through the crowd that was waiting for the next flight.

Dr. Shirazi raced right over and gave his old friend a bear hug. “You really made it!”

“Are you kidding?” Charlie laughed, slapping his old friend on the back. “Marseille and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”

“Yes, thanks for inviting us, Dr. Shirazi,” added the young woman standing beside Charlie.

“Well, you’re very welcome, young lady,” Dr. Shirazi replied. “But I’m sorry-you can’t possibly be Charlie Harper’s little girl.”

She smiled.

“Look at you-you’re lovely. How could you be related to this guy?” Dr. Shirazi joshed, slapping Charlie on the back.

“Obviously I take after my mother,” she quipped.

Dr. Shirazi laughed from his belly as David winced with embarrassment.

“Well, that would explain it,” the doctor chuckled, giving her a hug. “How old are you now?”

“I just turned fifteen in June.”

Azad elbowed David in the ribs and raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t nearly discreet enough for David.

Then Saeed leaned over to his brothers and whispered, “Don’t get ideas, Bro. I saw her first.”

David felt the blood rush to his ears, his neck, and his face. The young woman before them was certainly attractive in her faded blue jeans, cream fisherman knit sweater, and worn tennis shoes, her brown hair pulled back in a black scrunchie. But she was an interloper on a guys-only fishing weekend, and now these two morons were angling for something other than walleye and northern pike.

Dr. Shirazi shook his head. “How long has it been since I’ve seen you all? Five or six years?”

“As a whole family, that’s probably true,” Charlie replied. “I think this one was still in grammar school when you last came for Thanksgiving.”

Dr. Shirazi sighed. “Please, please forgive me for letting so much time go by.”

“Oh, my friend, there’s no need,” Charlie insisted. “Life has been busy for all of us. Besides, you and I got to see each other-what?-a year ago maybe, at that conference in New York, right?”

“That’s right, that’s right; but you’re too kind, Charlie, really. I should be coming to visit you and thank you every year, and bringing my family along too. You and Claire saved us, Charlie. Nasreen and I will never forget it.”

David’s father, lost in another time, suddenly became aware of the group of men and boys observing this whole interaction with confusion.

“Oh, forgive me, guys,” he said. “I need to make some introductions. I’m getting old, my friends. But being the founder and organizer of our illustrious group, I’ve taken the liberty of this surprise. It is a great honor to introduce you to one of my dearest friends in all of the world, Charlie Harper-the man who rescued Nasreen and me out of Iran-and his daughter, Marseille.”

As everyone said hello, shook hands with the two of them, and introduced themselves, David shrank to the back of the huddle. Mortified, he watched Azad and Saeed and the other boys chatting up Marseille-trying to look harmless and friendly but skating dangerously close to shameless flirting. David, meanwhile, found himself battling varying degrees of embarrassment, anger, annoyance, and betrayal, to name just a few of the emotions colliding within him. He’d just been blindsided. This was supposed to be a guys’ trip. It always had been. That’s the way it had always been billed to him. That’s what he had been so looking forward to. And now his father had gone and blown the whole thing.

Baghdad, Iraq

Najjar Malik heard the screeching tires and turned to look.

He was about to cross Al Rasheed Street in downtown Baghdad and fully expected to see a major car wreck. Instead, less than fifty yards away to his right, he saw a white Mercedes swerve and narrowly miss a delivery truck whose driver had just slammed on his brakes in the middle of rush-hour traffic for no apparent reason. Blocked from going forward, the driver of the Mercedes now tried to back up but suddenly found himself cut off by a green Citroën. Just then, a minivan screeched to a halt beside the Mercedes. The side door flew open. Three masked men armed with AK-47s jumped out and surrounded the car.

“Get out! Get out!” one of the gunmen screamed at the terrified man in the driver’s seat.

Najjar knew he should run for cover, but for some reason he just stood there and stared. He could see a veiled woman in the passenger seat, presumably the driver’s wife. He could also see a small child in the backseat, shrieking with fear.

Two of the gunmen started pounding on their windows, still demanding they get out. Terrified, the family complied, their hands held high in the air, the young child-a little girl not more than four or five years old-crying all the louder. The gunmen forced the woman and the child to lie facedown on the pavement while their husband and father was smashed over the back of the head, bound quickly around his hands and feet, and thrown in the back of the minivan.

Then one of the masked men aimed his machine gun at the child and fired. The girl’s cries immediately ceased, but now the mother began screaming for her dead child. At that, the gunman shot her in the back of the head as well.

The street suddenly grew quiet.

As the gunmen turned to get back in the vehicles and make their escape with their new hostage, one of them glanced toward Najjar, and Najjar found himself staring into the kidnapper’s eyes. The two of them just stood there for a moment, seemingly frozen in time and space. Najjar wanted to bolt but couldn’t move a muscle.

The masked man raised his weapon and pointed it at Najjar’s chest. Najjar tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. The man pulled the trigger. Najjar shut his eyes. But he heard nothing. He felt nothing.

He opened his eyes and realized the gun hadn’t gone off. The man cleared the chamber and pulled the trigger again. Again, Najjar involuntarily shut his eyes. But again he heard nothing, felt nothing.

When he opened his eyes the second time, he found the man desperately fiddling with the magazine, then raising the weapon over his head and pulling the trigger. This time the weapon fired perfectly. Now, he lowered the machine gun, aimed it at Najjar’s face, and pulled the trigger for the third time. Najjar instantly shut his eyes and held his breath.

Nothing happened.

His eyes still shut and still holding his breath, his lungs about to explode, Najjar heard the gunman cursing. He also heard the other terrorists shouting at him to get in the car and get moving. A moment later, he heard screeching tires, and when he finally opened his eyes, the gunmen were gone.

Najjar collapsed into some bushes and began to vomit uncontrollably. He had never been so scared in all his life.

He lay on the pavement, holding his head in his hands and losing all track of time. He didn’t hear the ambulance sirens approaching, didn’t see the flashing lights of the police cars. He didn’t remember being taken to the hospital and treated for shock. He barely remembered being interrogated at length, not just by the local police but by agents of the Mukhabarat , one of Saddam’s thirteen intelligence agencies, and certainly the most feared. “Who were the gunmen?” they demanded. “Have you seen them before? Could you identify them? What kind of vehicles were they driving? What were the license plate numbers?” The questions went on and on, but Najjar was of little help. He truly didn’t recall much, and later that afternoon, the police and doctors released him.