Detained, page 4
PHILADELPHIA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Hasan sat alone on the concrete floor in a corner opposite the door. The calendar showed May 1, a season when the warmth of spring should have bloomed in the air outside.
But in this cinder-block windowless cell, hidden in the midst of a major American metropolitan airport, they had jacked the air-conditioning down so low that he was shivering.
His stomach ached with soreness from the punch he had taken. He could not even fathom the treatment he had received. Wasn’t this America? The land of the free? The home of the brave?
Thirty minutes had passed since they threw him in this place. He knew this because although they had taken his passport, his visa, his wallet, and his boarding pass for his connecting flight to Norfolk, and although they had not removed the steel handcuffs—for whatever reason—they had not taken his watch. He had set his watch’s alarm to go off at the top of the hour to help him remember the time for catching his next plane to Norfolk.
Above his head, in a panel in the ceiling, three fluorescent tubes buzzed, casting a white light in the room. It was the only sound.
Were they watching him?
He scanned the walls and the ceiling, searching for a small hidden camera. He saw nothing.
What a nightmare to start his visit to the land he had dreamed of. Hopefully they would clear this up and let him catch his flight to Norfolk in time for the Abraham Lincoln’s return from sea.
But what if they did not have it cleared up in time?
How would he get word to Najib?
The sound of shoes . . . boots . . . click-clicking against the floor outside. The clicking grew louder. Now more. The sound of multiple boots!
Perhaps they had the place bugged.
Perhaps they had heard the watch go off.
Jingling of keys.
The doorknob turned.
With a grating squeak from its hinges, the door opened.
He could see three or four in the hallway, milling about, talking. He could not hear what they said. They wore the same uniforms as the agents who confronted him when they threw him in this place—sky-blue shirts, dark pants. They all had guns.
A fat woman with short, cropped hair walked in carrying a metal folding chair.
She unfolded the chair and placed it in the middle of the room. “Stand up and sit in this chair.” Her voice was low, deep—a voice that sounded almost like a man’s. Her eyes were a pretty shade of green, set in a chubby, stoic face that showed no emotion.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He tried to get up, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he lost his balance and fell down hard on the concrete floor.
“All right,” the woman said, “I’ll uncuff you. But don’t try anything stupid. We’ve got a dozen armed agents outside. If you try anything, you’re a dead man. Do you understand?”
“I will cooperate. But I do not understand why you are holding me.”
“I don’t care what you understand. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Roll over and lay on your stomach.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hasan twisted himself around, belly down, his lips touching the cold concrete floor. Tears formed in his eyes.
“Martin,” the woman snapped. “Come help me.”
“Be right there.”
More footsteps.
A gun to his head.
“All right, Mohammed,” the woman said, “I’ll take your cuffs off long enough so you can get up. But Sergeant Johnson here is going to keep this gun on you, and he will pull the trigger if you try anything.”
Hasan wanted to plead and tell her that this was a mistake. But something told him to remain silent.
She grabbed his wrist and fiddled with his handcuffs. Then the handcuffs unclasped.
“Okay. Push yourself up and go sit in the chair.”
He got on his feet, then sat in the chair.
As Hasan sat, the guard with the gun stepped back, keeping his gun pointed at Hasan.
“All right, Mohammed,” the woman said, “put your hands behind the chair.”
“My name is Hasan. Not Mohammed.”
“You’re all Mohammed,” the woman sneered. “I don’t have time to debate with you about your name. Put your hands behind the chair or I’ll arrange to have your hands put anywhere I want them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Before he could comply, she grabbed his arms with a vise-like grip. Her hands seemed too powerful for a woman. She clamped the handcuffs back onto his wrists.
“We’re ready, gentlemen.”
Two men wearing TSA uniforms rolled a cart into the room from the hallway. A medium-screen television sat on the cart.
As the two men were setting up the television, a third walked in. He carried a clipboard, and his uniform pants were tucked into black combat-looking boots.
“Are you Hasan Makari?”
At least he had gotten the name right. “I am he.”
“Tell me, Mr. Makari,” the man said as he glared at him, “are you Shiite or Sunni?”
“I am neither,” Hasan said. “I am not Muslim.”
“What are you?” the man snarled. “Are you Hindu?”
“I am Christian.”
“Don’t lie to me, terrorist!” The TSA officer grabbed his pistol and whacked it across Hasan’s face.
“Aaaahhhhh!”
Hasan jerked his head back. His nose throbbed. Blood ran down his lips and into his mouth.
“Clean the blood off his face,” his interrogator ordered.
The fat woman came toward him with a white rag in a gloved hand. He jerked back as she started to wipe off his face.
“Be still, Mohammed.” She put a hand on the top of his head and held him while she wiped the cold, wet rag across his face. When she pulled it away, it was drenched in blood. “There. That’s got it.” She walked out of the room, holding the rag in her hand.
The agent who struck him with the pistol said, “Do we have an understanding that it’s not wise to lie in response to my questions, terrorist?”
“I did not lie. I am not a terrorist.”
Slap!
Hasan saw stars after the open-handed slap to the left side of his face. The room started spinning.
“Hit him with smelling salts!” The man’s sharp voice cut through the fog.
“Hey, Mohammed! Wake up!” It was the voice of the woman again, sounding wavy, as if passing through water.
The smell of ammonia drifted up his nose.
Hard, instinctive coughing popped his eyes open. He blinked hard, gasping for air.
The grogginess evaporated. The room stopped spinning. The man’s piercing eyes glared at him.
“Now that we’re awake,” the man said, “we should become acquainted with one another. I am Inspector Gordon. Federal agent. United States Transportation Security Administration, United States Department of Homeland Security. I must confess, this is the first time I have ever ordered smelling salts for a terrorist and a murderer. I’d rather shoot a terrorist than revive one. So I must admit my disappointment in ordering smelling salts to your nose rather than a bullet to your brain.”
“Please. This is a mistake. I am no terrorist. I love America.”
A prolonged belly laugh from the interrogator. “You love America? Now that is funny!” More laughter. “I tell you what. If you love America, then you love movies. Do you not?”
Hasan silently prayed for wisdom. The wrong answer could provoke another pistol-whipping. Perhaps worse.
“Well?” the TSA interrogator pressed. “Do you like movies?”
“Some I like. Some I do not care for.”
“Well, then,” Gordon said, “since you claim you have not had an opportunity to see many movies, I have some good news for you.” He paused, as if expecting Hasan to respond. “The United States government is going to help you make up some lost ground in the movie department. Sergeant?”
Another TSA officer aimed a remote control at the TV.
“I will be interested in hearing your comments about this movie,” Gordon said. The screen lit up.
A black limousine.
Motorcycles.
A parade route.
Lebanese and American flags.
Dear God, no! Hasan thought.
“Do I detect a look of recognition in your eyes, Hasan?”
“I remember this day.” His stomach knotted.
“I am certain that you do remember this day.” The interrogator sneered.
Hasan did not want to look. But he could not take his eyes off the screen.
The footage showed the ambassador’s limousine with the Lebanese and American flags flapping over the headlights as it moved along Al Istiklal Boulevard, approaching Mar Elias.
Cold sweat beads formed on his forehead.
On the screen, in slow motion, the ambassador’s motorcade approached the intersection of Al Istiklal Boulevard and Mar Elias.
Hasan’s heart pounded.
Why would God allow this to happen?
On the screen, the car turned from Al Istiklal to Mar Elias.
Hasan tried not to look. Yet he could not take his eyes off the screen.
The shot panned to the crowd. Then a closer shot.
“Freeze it!” Gordon ordered. He stepped to the screen with a pointer. “Closer.” The image enlarged. “Still closer!” The picture on the screen enlarged again.
The TSA officer stared at Hasan. “Tell me, Hasan Makari, do you recognize the individual right here standing beside this boy?” He tapped at the screen, pointing at the frozen shot of Hasan and Najib, both of whom were standing under the hot sun in the midst of the crowd, between two men carrying two signs proclaiming “Death to America.”
“Yes, I do,” Hasan said.
“So am I correct in assuming that this man, at the end of my pointer . . . that this man is you?”
“Yes, that is me.”
“And this boy”—tap, tap—“do you know this boy as well?”
“Yes. I know the boy.”
The TSA officer glared at him. “Who is he?”
“He is my boy, Najib.”
“And this is the same boy who now has infiltrated the United States Navy as a petty officer on board the USS Abraham Lincoln?”
“Najib is proud to serve in the US Navy. He enlisted legally with the help of a retired US Navy captain that he met at his church. I respectfully disagree with your characterization that he infiltrated the Navy.”
Gordon drew his hand back in a striking position, and Hasan instinctively jerked back.
“You aren’t here to argue with my word choice. You are here to answer questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So. It is true, therefore, is it not, that you and your son were there, and present, at the site, at the time and moment of our ambassador’s assassination?”
Hasan nodded.
“Don’t nod your head! Speak up! We are recording your statement. Our recorder cannot pick up a nod.”
“Yes!” Hasan said. “We stood there alongside the road. We came to greet the ambassador. To welcome him to Tripoli and El-Mina.”
“Hmm.” The interrogator crossed his arms and stared down at Hasan. “And I take it you came to ‘greet’ ”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“the ambassador along with your friends? Did you?”
“I am sorry,” Hasan said. “I do not understand.”
“Your friends!” Gordon snapped. “The ones here. The ones carrying the signs saying ‘Death to America.’ ”
“I do not know those people. I swear it.”
“You don’t know these people?” Gordon raised his voice. “They are standing beside you! One sign to your left and one to your right! For someone you do not know, you seem cozy with these two.”
Hasan did not respond.
“You know, this will go much easier for you if you come clean.” A pause. “Tell me, Hasan, the one on your left. What’s his name?”
“I do not know him.”
“You were standing right with him the whole time.”
“No. Not the whole time. He happened to be there.”
“Aw, come on. Who is the one on the right?” Gordon tapped at the other man, shown screaming and holding a “Death to America” sign. “Who is he?”
“I do not know.”
“Liar!” The veins on each side of his head bulged. “You expect me to believe that moments before our ambassador is killed, you just happened to be standing between two angry Muslims holding ‘Death to America’ signs, and you can’t remember either one of their names?”
“There were others in the crowd holding pro-American signs,” Hasan said.
“Ah.” This time the TSA investigator wagged his finger in the air. “But you were not holding a pro-American sign, were you? You instead chose to align yourself with someone calling for the death of our ambassador.”
“I could not hold any signs, sir. I had my son with me. I could not lose track of him, lest he become lost in the crowd.”
“Ha!” Gordon sneered. “So your testimony is that you needed your hands free to keep track of your son?”
“My testimony?” Hasan said. “Am I on trial, sir? Many in the crowd that day did not hold signs.”
The TSA investigator leered at him. “Tell me, Hasan. Were there many in the crowd that day giving hand signals to cue a rocket attack on the ambassador’s car?”
Hasan hesitated. He prayed silently for wisdom. “I do not understand your question.”
“Ah! The same old terrorist refrain. ‘I do not understand,’ ” Gordon said with a tone of mocking sarcasm. “Perhaps this will jar your memory. Roll the tape,” he commanded. “Slow motion. Close up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The image, frozen on the screen, moved again in slow motion.
The ambassador’s car turned left from Al Istiklal onto Mar Elias.
As the car turned, another close-up of Hasan flashed on the screen.
How he remembered the excitement of that moment. How proud he felt to be so close to the great American!
The slow-moving image showed Hasan throw his arm up, beginning a frantic wave at the American ambassador. What a happy moment that had been before . . .
“So, Hasan, how do you explain within seconds of your hand signals, the ambassador’s limousine exploded?”
“Hand signals?”
“Yes. Hand signals,” Gordon said.
“Those weren’t hand signals. I was waving at the ambassador.”
“Freeze the screen.”
The officer froze the screen.
“Close up!”
Another close-up frame showed Hasan pointing straight out.
“I see you are pointing at something. Perhaps signaling something?”
Hasan did not answer.
“Tell me, Hasan. Who are you signaling here? Or rather, what are you signaling?”
Hasan thought. “Wait a minute. This photograph is taken out of context. If you look at the film clip in its context, you will see that I am waving most of the time.”
“Oh, I can see that you are waving up to a point,” Gordon said. “But then you begin to point. Am I correct?”
Hasan did not respond.
“Well?” Gordon snapped. “Do you deny that you are pointing? Or are we imagining things as we look at the screen?”
“I do not deny what we see on the screen,” Hasan said. “But I deny that I remember pointing. I do remember waving at the ambassador just before he died. It has been years.”
Gordon nodded and toyed with his chin. “Just waving, and conveniently you do not remember pointing?”
“That is right, sir.”
“Then tell me, Hasan, how do you explain this?”
He hesitated, then said, “Explain what?”
“Pull back on that angle and roll the tape, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The screen flashed to a wide angle, still showing Hasan in the picture, his finger pointed out. The screen rolled again, in slow motion. Now in slower motion.
“Freeze it.”
As the screen froze again, the tips of three rocket-propelled grenades, airborne, could be seen streaking in from the right side of the screen followed by three trails of smoke.
“Wider angle!”
The image on the screen morphed into a wider view.
On the screen, three RPGs flew at the limousine from the right side of the screen, just as Hasan had pointed from the left side of the screen.
“Okay, roll it.”
A TSA guard pressed the remote control, and on the screen was the image as the ambassador’s car exploded.
Hasan turned his head, wincing. Watching the explosion again, even on a screen eleven years later and 5,700 miles away, still cut to his core like a knife.
For the moment, the excruciating sensation of reliving that moment proved every bit as painful as the thug tactics that the buffoonish TSA agents had thrown at him the last thirty minutes.
“Do not feign horror with your facial gestures, as if the event that you signaled is now somehow displeasing to you. No one will fall for your hypocritical theatrics.”
“I . . .” Hasan hesitated. He had read the words of Solomon, that even a fool appears wise when he remains silent.
“Well,” Gordon demanded, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
Hasan did not answer.
The punch across his jaw sent the room into a tailspin, generating a starburst across his eyes.
“Get him up!” someone said. They yanked him up by the arms, pulling him to his feet.
“Get him to the plane!” Gordon’s voice was like an echo through a fog.
“Where are you taking me?”
The TSA officers started to rush him back to the hallway.
“Hold him there,” Gordon said as he walked over to face Hasan. “You are going to a place where you will have far less incentive to stonewall when you are questioned by a federal agent.”
They shoved him along, back down the hall. They reentered the main terminal and were stopped by a wall of blinding lights and camera flashes.
“Stand back!” The TSA officers formed a human wedge and, pushing through the reporters, shielded Hasan in the midst of the wedge.
“Officer! Who is this man?” a reporter shouted.
“Officer, is this man a terrorist?”
