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Authors: Randy Singer
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asked, slipping into his Chacos.
“Credibility. I mean, the only evidence we have that there’s a John Doe vehicle is the testimony of Ghaniyah Mobassar. The defense will never say it, but they’re going to play the Muslim card, painting the Mobassars as radicals who can’t be trusted. I’m just saying—they’re not that way.”
“Good,” Alex said. “I’m glad you like these guys. Now, why don’t you go home and get a life.”
“This is my life. Somebody around here’s got to work for a living.”
* * *
Two hundred fifty miles to the north, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., Hassan Ibn Talib was also thinking about Khalid Mobassar. It had been nearly a week since Hassan had received the text message from Mobassar’s phone. This weekend, he would complete the assignment and send a one-word message in response: Finished .
Afterward, he would toss his phone into the river, get a new phone, and wait for further instructions. These honor killings, he knew, were just the beginning.
17
twenty-one years earlier
beirut, lebanon
Hassan was in the fourth grade when he first had the dream. It came the night after he betrayed his best friend, Mukhtar.
The two skinny Muslim boys had been walking home from school together, trying to pretend they weren’t nervous as they crossed through a neighborhood where a gang of Sunni Muslims hung out. Hassan had grown up hearing about the Lebanese civil war between the Christians and Muslims, but to a nine-year-old, those conflicts were ancient history. In real life, Hassan was less afraid of the Christians than of the Sunni Muslims, especially the gang of older boys who sometimes surrounded Hassan on his way home from school, demanding money and threatening him with his life if he ever told his parents.
Once, they had stopped Hassan when he had no money. They made him turn his pockets inside out and pushed him back and forth between them, shouting curses at him. They waived a knife in front of his face. “Don’t ever come here again empty-handed, lout !” One kid stepped forward and kicked Hassan between the legs, causing the most intense pain Hassan had ever experienced. He yelped and collapsed in a ball on the sidewalk.
The boys laughed. “Maybe he will talk like a girl now,” one of the boys teased. As they walked away, one of the boys spit on him.
Since then, Hassan had learned to save up portions of his lunch money, even though it meant going hungry a few days a week. It was the price of peace on the streets of Beirut.
On this day, wearing a white shirt and his hand-me-down black pants, he felt relatively safe. He was walking with Mukhtar, and he had a few Lebanese lirat in his pocket, enough to keep the bullies at bay. Hassan hated himself when he paid them, and he always dreamed the rest of the way home that one day he would stand up to them and fight. But he knew the next time they met, he would pay them again.
When Mukhtar saw the Sunni boys hanging out on a street corner several blocks away, he nudged Hassan, and they quickly crossed the street. They both fell silent and walked a little faster, eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of them.
One of the bullies called out to them, but Hassan and Mukhtar refused to acknowledge him. Walking faster, Hassan watched the boys out of the corner of his eye. They started strolling toward him and Mukhtar, a pack of four or five of them. There were no adults around—no help on the horizon.
When the Sunnis shouted again for Hassan and Mukhtar to stop, Hassan bolted. He had good speed for a fourth grader, and in a few steps, he had left Mukhtar behind. Adrenaline fueled his body, causing Hassan’s heart to pump wildly, his shoes barely touched the pavement as he sprinted for his life. He could hear the Sunnis chasing him, shouting curses as they ran. Apartments and shops flashed past, and Hassan glanced over his shoulder. The boys were gaining!
He cut across a side street, dodging between cars and forcing a taxi
“Credibility. I mean, the only evidence we have that there’s a John Doe vehicle is the testimony of Ghaniyah Mobassar. The defense will never say it, but they’re going to play the Muslim card, painting the Mobassars as radicals who can’t be trusted. I’m just saying—they’re not that way.”
“Good,” Alex said. “I’m glad you like these guys. Now, why don’t you go home and get a life.”
“This is my life. Somebody around here’s got to work for a living.”
* * *
Two hundred fifty miles to the north, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., Hassan Ibn Talib was also thinking about Khalid Mobassar. It had been nearly a week since Hassan had received the text message from Mobassar’s phone. This weekend, he would complete the assignment and send a one-word message in response: Finished .
Afterward, he would toss his phone into the river, get a new phone, and wait for further instructions. These honor killings, he knew, were just the beginning.
17
twenty-one years earlier
beirut, lebanon
Hassan was in the fourth grade when he first had the dream. It came the night after he betrayed his best friend, Mukhtar.
The two skinny Muslim boys had been walking home from school together, trying to pretend they weren’t nervous as they crossed through a neighborhood where a gang of Sunni Muslims hung out. Hassan had grown up hearing about the Lebanese civil war between the Christians and Muslims, but to a nine-year-old, those conflicts were ancient history. In real life, Hassan was less afraid of the Christians than of the Sunni Muslims, especially the gang of older boys who sometimes surrounded Hassan on his way home from school, demanding money and threatening him with his life if he ever told his parents.
Once, they had stopped Hassan when he had no money. They made him turn his pockets inside out and pushed him back and forth between them, shouting curses at him. They waived a knife in front of his face. “Don’t ever come here again empty-handed, lout !” One kid stepped forward and kicked Hassan between the legs, causing the most intense pain Hassan had ever experienced. He yelped and collapsed in a ball on the sidewalk.
The boys laughed. “Maybe he will talk like a girl now,” one of the boys teased. As they walked away, one of the boys spit on him.
Since then, Hassan had learned to save up portions of his lunch money, even though it meant going hungry a few days a week. It was the price of peace on the streets of Beirut.
On this day, wearing a white shirt and his hand-me-down black pants, he felt relatively safe. He was walking with Mukhtar, and he had a few Lebanese lirat in his pocket, enough to keep the bullies at bay. Hassan hated himself when he paid them, and he always dreamed the rest of the way home that one day he would stand up to them and fight. But he knew the next time they met, he would pay them again.
When Mukhtar saw the Sunni boys hanging out on a street corner several blocks away, he nudged Hassan, and they quickly crossed the street. They both fell silent and walked a little faster, eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of them.
One of the bullies called out to them, but Hassan and Mukhtar refused to acknowledge him. Walking faster, Hassan watched the boys out of the corner of his eye. They started strolling toward him and Mukhtar, a pack of four or five of them. There were no adults around—no help on the horizon.
When the Sunnis shouted again for Hassan and Mukhtar to stop, Hassan bolted. He had good speed for a fourth grader, and in a few steps, he had left Mukhtar behind. Adrenaline fueled his body, causing Hassan’s heart to pump wildly, his shoes barely touched the pavement as he sprinted for his life. He could hear the Sunnis chasing him, shouting curses as they ran. Apartments and shops flashed past, and Hassan glanced over his shoulder. The boys were gaining!
He cut across a side street, dodging between cars and forcing a taxi
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