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Authors: Robert K. Tanenbaum
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"And all of Islam will know your name, " it said.
As Khalifa stood looking up at the synagogue, a young white couple walked toward him. She was laughing, but when she saw him she stopped and clung more tightly to her boyfriend's arm.
But Khalifa hardly noticed their wary looks, and they gave him a wide berth and passed. He was too busy wishing that he was with his wife and that they were the ones walking down a sidewalk arm in arm. But that could never be.
His hand dipped into the pocket of his coat and felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out—a food-stamp certificate good for twenty dollars. Might as well give it to someone, he thought. A young black woman approached, and he held it out. But she shook her head like he was one of the addict-hustlers in Times Square handing out leaflets advertising "Gentlemen's Clubs... All Nude Dancers," and hurried past without making eye contact. Thinks I'm some sort of junkyard dog. He crumpled up the certificate and tossed it to the ground.
His attention was drawn to an old couple at the bottom of the steps leading up to the synagogue door. They were both short, shorter even than Miriam, who had only come up to his chest. The man had a big nose and ears that jutted from the side of his head like a monkey's; everything about the woman was tiny, as if she'd never quite left childhood, and she wore her short red hair in small ringlets.
The woman kissed her husband on the cheek as he patted her affectionately on her arm. They reminded him of his grandparents, though they looked nothing like them; maybe it was just the way they seemed to belong together.
The woman did not speak but stepped back from her husband and signed something with her hands. The man responded with other signs. One of them is deaf, Khalifa thought.
As if she'd heard his mind, the woman glanced down the sidewalk, and her eyes met Khalifa's. She smiled, and unable to resist the simple act of friendliness, he smiled back. Then she turned and walked away, while her husband climbed the steps to the synagogue.
Khalifa hardened his heart. They're Jews, he told himself. Don't be fooled by appearances. They're the enemy. And he would be the sword of Allah.
He was committed now. He'd even videotaped his last will and testament, explaining the reasons for his actions this day and his last instructions for his son. He'd placed the tape in a large envelope, addressed it to the imam, and then dropped it in a mailbox before catching a taxi to the synagogue. He hoped that the imam would send it to Al Jazeera television and, as the imam had predicted, that he would be a martyr known throughout the Muslim world. The Sheik and Tatay would hear his name and use his death as an inspiration when the others went forward with their missions.
Khalifa strode up the stairs and entered the synagogue. He found himself in a wide, deserted lobby and quickly walked over to a bulletin board where he began reading the postings. Most of the notices on the board were for synagogue services and charitable events. But then his eyes fastened on a request for contributions to fund the purchase of "supplemental supplies for an elite paratrooper unit" in the Israeli army that had been "adopted" by the synagogue. It said that the "brave soldiers are fighting terrorists" and that the congregation was being asked to raise money to purchase "custom-fitted combat vests."
Murderers, Khalifa swore silently. Jew pigs. Well, I have a combat vest, too! His mind, which had been clouded by the trickery of the old couple, was as clear and filled with purpose as it had ever been. He walked along the wall, studying a series of photographs depicting Israeli presidents, prime ministers, and generals; chief Jewish rabbis; and Knesset members who had visited the synagogue.
Good, he thought, they'll hear of this soon in Israel. And all of these important Jews will be able to picture the blood on the walls when they read about what I have done.
Several old men
As Khalifa stood looking up at the synagogue, a young white couple walked toward him. She was laughing, but when she saw him she stopped and clung more tightly to her boyfriend's arm.
But Khalifa hardly noticed their wary looks, and they gave him a wide berth and passed. He was too busy wishing that he was with his wife and that they were the ones walking down a sidewalk arm in arm. But that could never be.
His hand dipped into the pocket of his coat and felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out—a food-stamp certificate good for twenty dollars. Might as well give it to someone, he thought. A young black woman approached, and he held it out. But she shook her head like he was one of the addict-hustlers in Times Square handing out leaflets advertising "Gentlemen's Clubs... All Nude Dancers," and hurried past without making eye contact. Thinks I'm some sort of junkyard dog. He crumpled up the certificate and tossed it to the ground.
His attention was drawn to an old couple at the bottom of the steps leading up to the synagogue door. They were both short, shorter even than Miriam, who had only come up to his chest. The man had a big nose and ears that jutted from the side of his head like a monkey's; everything about the woman was tiny, as if she'd never quite left childhood, and she wore her short red hair in small ringlets.
The woman kissed her husband on the cheek as he patted her affectionately on her arm. They reminded him of his grandparents, though they looked nothing like them; maybe it was just the way they seemed to belong together.
The woman did not speak but stepped back from her husband and signed something with her hands. The man responded with other signs. One of them is deaf, Khalifa thought.
As if she'd heard his mind, the woman glanced down the sidewalk, and her eyes met Khalifa's. She smiled, and unable to resist the simple act of friendliness, he smiled back. Then she turned and walked away, while her husband climbed the steps to the synagogue.
Khalifa hardened his heart. They're Jews, he told himself. Don't be fooled by appearances. They're the enemy. And he would be the sword of Allah.
He was committed now. He'd even videotaped his last will and testament, explaining the reasons for his actions this day and his last instructions for his son. He'd placed the tape in a large envelope, addressed it to the imam, and then dropped it in a mailbox before catching a taxi to the synagogue. He hoped that the imam would send it to Al Jazeera television and, as the imam had predicted, that he would be a martyr known throughout the Muslim world. The Sheik and Tatay would hear his name and use his death as an inspiration when the others went forward with their missions.
Khalifa strode up the stairs and entered the synagogue. He found himself in a wide, deserted lobby and quickly walked over to a bulletin board where he began reading the postings. Most of the notices on the board were for synagogue services and charitable events. But then his eyes fastened on a request for contributions to fund the purchase of "supplemental supplies for an elite paratrooper unit" in the Israeli army that had been "adopted" by the synagogue. It said that the "brave soldiers are fighting terrorists" and that the congregation was being asked to raise money to purchase "custom-fitted combat vests."
Murderers, Khalifa swore silently. Jew pigs. Well, I have a combat vest, too! His mind, which had been clouded by the trickery of the old couple, was as clear and filled with purpose as it had ever been. He walked along the wall, studying a series of photographs depicting Israeli presidents, prime ministers, and generals; chief Jewish rabbis; and Knesset members who had visited the synagogue.
Good, he thought, they'll hear of this soon in Israel. And all of these important Jews will be able to picture the blood on the walls when they read about what I have done.
Several old men
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