The Terrorist, page 8
Be free, tapped Mahmoud. Go home too.
Zaharia did not answer.
VIII
Fareed Terzani saton a stoop and watched some teenage boys burn cars. It was a chilly November night. There were maybe ten boys. They kicked the windows out of a car and splashed gasoline on the seats. When they threw a match, there was a loud whoosh, and the car was on fire. Flames leapt from the windows, and the windshield blew out. Flames exploded upward and met on the roof. They reached high into the air, giving off acrid, black smoke. One by one the tires melted. The car settled onto the asphalt, which melted into shiny, black pools.
In a few minutes six cars in a row were in various stages of burning. The night was lit up. The tall public housing buildings that lined the street glowed orange. This was the best they had ever looked. Sitting fifty meters away, Fareed could feel the heat from the fire on his face.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Fareed retreated inside. When the police arrived, the boys scattered. Some of the police gave chase on foot, but without success. The firemen sprayed the flames. A thousand empty windows looked out on the scene. No one was watching the spectacle. At least, no one the French police could see.
This was the third night of car burning. By now it was going on all over France. It had started right here in Clichy-sous-Bois, only twenty kilometers from downtown Paris. “Twenty kilometers and two centuries,” Fareed liked to say. “Still,” said Fareed, “burning cars is a waste of time. And a waste of cars.”
Clichy had no Métro and no RER. There was only the 601AB bus, which made the long trip into the city carrying those lucky enough to work as hotel maids and dishwashers and gardeners. They dozed as they rode, or they stared at the black carcasses of cars from the night before.
Fareed Terzani was one of the fortunate among the fortunate. He had finished high school and then two years of technical school. He had been a good student and gotten good grades, especially in science, despite the roadblocks thrown up by bigoted teachers. By the time he was twenty, he had found an excellent job as a medical research technician at MicroBio Laboratories in Paris. His pay was good, and his boss, Alain Dupré, was a good boss.
Alain saw in Fareed a gifted researcher and a valuable collaborator. When Fareed needed to rearrange his work schedule in order to take more science courses, Alain gladly accommodated him. He helped Fareed decide which course of study would best advance his career.
When, after three years at MicroBio, Fareed decided to go to Tunisia, the country his parents had come from, and seek his fortune there, Alain Dupré was crestfallen. “I understand that you have to go,” he said. “I would never try to hold you back. But I can’t tell you how sorry I am to lose you. And, if you ever decide to come back, your old job will be waiting.” A year later, when Fareed came back to Paris, Alain Dupré offered Fareed his old research job and raised his salary. Fareed had been at MicroBio ever since. It had been seven years.
Fareed had lived in Paris once, in the fourteenth arrondissement. He had a small, pleasant apartment off the boulevard Raspail not far from the MicroBio offices. But after a short time, he moved back to Clichy-sous-Bois, where he could go into shops without being treated rudely. He could walk the streets without being stared at or abused. And he could live near his parents, who were getting old.
Fareed’s year away was not exactly as Monsieur Dupré believed, or as Fareed’s parents believed, for that matter. “Maybe I can start my own research laboratory,” he had said by way of explanation. But on landing in Tunis, Fareed bought a ticket to continue on to Karachi, Pakistan. From the Karachi airport, he took a taxicab to an address he had been given. Fareed spoke no Urdu, or any of the other languages of Pakistan, but he had learned the address phonetically, and the driver understood him.
The taxi stopped in front of a plain brick building with a thick paneled door and small, barred windows high up the front wall. When Fareed knocked and the door opened, he spoke a name he had also memorized. He was led through a courtyard where teenagers sat rocking in place and reciting the Koran. He was shown into a small room, which served as the school’s office.
The drive from Karachi to Peshawar took three days, including stops to make repairs to the van and to visit the driver’s family. There were six men in the van, plus the driver. Fareed was the only Frenchman. After two days in a hostel in Peshawar, the six were picked up and driven away in two cars. At the end of the road, they got out and walked. Horses carried their baggage and supplies. Fareed was astonished by the landscape. He imagined that the moon was something like this. After two days on foot, the jagged mountains opened into a small, deep valley with a river rushing through it.
By night, Fareed and the others slept in shallow caves that had been cut into the hillside above the river. By day, they learned to shoot weapons and handle explosives. They ran over obstacle courses and learned to communicate with one another without giving themselves away. They studied what their teachers referred to as the necessary arts and sciences of Holy War. They listened to lectures on the evils of the Saudi princes, on the American pursuit of world hegemony, on the Zionist domination of the Holy Lands, and other great wrongs that needed righting.
When his training was finished, Fareed was asked to stay on as a trainer. Osama bin Laden and his lieutenants had been watching him, and wanted to watch him a little longer. As Alain Dupré had before him, Osama now saw in Fareed Terzani an extraordinary young man. Fareed was intelligent, and he was an independent thinker. He had the perfect combination of talents to be a sleeper. He knew how to bide his time, make preparations for the task at hand, and ignore distractions.
Best of all, Fareed Terzani flew below the radar. A model citizen, educated, successful in a profession, he was unknown to police in France or anywhere else. He was not connected to any political organization. He was a perfectly blank slate.
After Fareed had been at the training camp for nearly a year, Osama sent him home to France. He was given a duplicate passport that showed he had never left France. “Do you have instructions for me?” said Fareed as he was about to leave.
“No,” came the answer. “Except one.”
“What is that?” said Fareed.
“Always fight the Holy War.”
“The biopsies came back positive,” said François. Louis’s PSA had risen sufficiently in the latest test, so that even he had to admit that a biopsy was in order. “Eight of twelve cores are positive,” said François. “That’s a lot. It is well advanced. Cancer,” he added, just in case Louis pretended not to understand.
Louis smiled.
“You’re smiling,” said François.
“I recently told someone I had cancer,” said Louis. “I thought I was lying.”
François shrugged. “Sometimes things we make up turn out to be true.”
“I hope you’re not going to start lecturing me about velocity,” said Louis.
“What did Dr. Laférre-Benoit say?” said François.
“As if you didn’t know,” said Louis.
“So there’s a consensus. The urologist, the surgeon, the oncologist. And me.”
“A consensus.”
“The surgery should be as soon as possible.”
“How can I argue with a consensus?”
“You’re smart to do it now. And Laférre-Benoit is one of the best. He’s done it a thousand times.”
“That kind of statistical reassurance always makes me nervous.”
“Of course it does. You wouldn’t be you if it didn’t.”
Louis took the train to Paris, where he checked into the Hôpital de Paris. He awoke after the surgery to find Pauline sitting at his bedside. Seeing that his eyes were open, she smiled and took his hand. “How are you feeling?” she said.
“All right,” he said. He sounded surprised.
Dr. Laférre-Benoit came into the room. “It went perfectly. We’ll see what the tests show.”
“How old are you?” said Louis, frowning.
The doctor smiled, which made him look even younger. “Eleven,” he said. “We’ll keep you here a little while longer. We’ll send you home once all the tests come back.”
Two days later the doctor was back. “The cancer has not metastasized. There has been no invasion of your lymph nodes, bones, or any other part of your body. The bad news is that some cancer cells did escape the capsula of your prostate and were found in some of the surrounding tissue. Not a large area. But sufficient to warrant aggressive action.
“We’re starting you on two drugs. They’re designed to eliminate testosterone, which feeds cancer cells. These drugs will help suppress the cells. They may also slow you down.”
“Slow me down?”
“Make you sick.”
Louis frowned.
“It’s good news,” said Pauline.
“I still have cancer, and the treatment will make me sick,” said Louis. “That’s good news?”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” said Pauline. “You have some cancer cells. That’s different from having cancer. It can be treated. He’s doing it correctly.”
“You sound like a doctor,” said Louis.
“Old habits die hard. The chemo will be hard on you. It’s hard on everyone.”
“It comes at a bad moment,” said Louis. “I have things I have to do.”
Dr. Laférre-Benoit looked skeptical.
“He’ll stay with me,” said Pauline. “I’ll watch him.”
“Has anyone heard anything from Peter Sanchez?” said Louis. Before she could answer, he was asleep.
“He’ll be like this for a while,” said the doctor. Louis slept through most of the next two days. Eventually the grogginess left him. He started to eat. He got up and walked around Pauline’s apartment with a stick, as he was supposed to. “What are the things you have to do?” said Pauline.
“I can’t tell you,” said Louis. “You shouldn’t know.”
“Is it always going to be like this, Louis?”
“I hope not,” said Louis, and took her face between his hands.
Pauline frowned. When she went into her guest room the following morning, Louis was gone.
It had taken him a long time to make his way downstairs. The taxi he ordered was waiting. The driver stepped to the door and helped Louis into the cab. Louis gave the driver an address. The cab stopped in front of a bakery. “Wait here for five minutes, and then leave.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the driver.
The smell of fresh bread hung in the damp morning air. Louis went inside. “May I help you, monsieur?”
“May I have a pain au chocolat?” said Louis. He paid. “May I use your back door to leave?” He held up the stick by way of explanation.
“Of course, monsieur,” she said, and held the door for him. He walked down the alley and flagged down a taxi. He gave the driver an address in Clichy-sous-Bois.
Louis got out at Fareed Terzani’s building. The street was empty except for a drunk passed out on a piece of cardboard beside the curb. His shoes were gone, and his pockets were inside out. The street was littered with trash, newspapers, plastic bags. A hungry dog rummaged through a pile of garbage, pulling out food wrappers. The building fronts, the fire doors, even the windows, the padlocked metal jalousie over the small grocery, the telephone boxes—which had no telephones—were covered with graffiti.
Louis went inside Fareed’s building. He started up the stairs. I’ll be fine if I just take my time. He braced himself on his stick and climbed to the first landing. He stopped to catch his breath.
Something was wrong. He felt his head go cold. Sweat was cascading down his face. His shirt was soaked. His pants too. He was dizzy and unable to stand. He sat down heavily on the metal stairs. He propped himself against the wall with his stick, so he wouldn’t go tumbling down the stairs when he fainted.
“Monsieur, are you all right?”
“I just need a minute,” said Louis, opening his eyes as wide as he could and trying to focus. “I’m all right.” His head lolled back.
“You don’t look so good.” A young woman wearing a headscarf bent down and looked into his eyes.
“I’ll be all right,” said Louis.
“No, monsieur. Come with me. Stand up. That’s it. Okay. Lean on my shoulder.” In her apartment, Louis collapsed onto a sofa.
“Who’s that?” said a man.
“He fell on the stairs.”
“We better call someone,” the man said. “An ambulance.”
“Don’t call anyone,” said Louis.
“Drink this,” said the man.
“What is it?”
“Orange juice.”
Slowly Louis’s head cleared. “Are you feeling better?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Louis. “I just had an operation a few days ago. I think I overdid it.”
He telephoned Pauline, and she arrived in a taxi. There was a man with her. He was tall with cropped white hair and black skin. “I’m Anwar,” he said. “Pauline asked me to come along. Put your arm over my shoulder.”
“Did you switch taxis, like I said?” said Louis.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” said Pauline. She stood on Louis’s other side. Her chin was thrust out, and her green eyes flashed. “Ever!”
“Oh, yes,” said Anwar with a laugh. “She gets mad. First time you’ve seen it?”
“Thank you for all your help,” said Louis to the young couple.
Louis had to stay in bed. This time he did as he was told. When he was finally able, he returned to Clichy-sous-Bois. He knocked on the door of the woman’s apartment. She peered out with the chain still hooked. Then she recognized Louis and smiled broadly. “Oh, how are you, monsieur? Come inside.” She opened the door. “We’ve thought about you. We wondered how you were doing. Whether you were all right. I’m glad to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you again for all your help,” said Louis.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she said. “I’m Natalie.” She held out her hand.
“And I’m Louis.” He took her small hand in his. “No tea, thank you.”
“What brings you back here?” she said.
“I came to see one of your neighbors. That’s all. That’s why I was here in the first place.”
“So early in the morning? Are you from the police?” she said. “That’s what they do, you know. They come early in the morning. That way they catch people by surprise.”
“The police? No, no. I’m just looking for someone, and I was hoping your neighbor could help me find him.”
“Which neighbor?” said Natalie.
“I didn’t see his name on the mailboxes. Some of the names are missing. Do you know all the neighbors?”
“Which neighbor?” said Natalie again.
“I’m sorry,” said Louis. “His name is Fareed Terzani.”
“Fareed? But … but you know him. You met him the other day. He gave you orange juice. Remember? He’s my fiancé. We’re engaged.”
“Really?” said Louis, trying not to sound astonished. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful.”
“Well, who are you looking for? Maybe I know them.”
“When do you expect Fareed back?” said Louis. “I’ll just come back then.”
“He’ll be back this evening after work. He usually stops to see his parents on the way home. So make it after seven. Who is it, monsieur? Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Zaharia Lefort.”
Later Louis told Pauline about the encounter. “I couldn’t very well say Osama bin Laden, could I?” he said. “I needed a name, so I gave Zaharia’s. Of course the name meant nothing to Natalie, and I left. But, when I went back today, they were gone.”
“So try again tomorrow,” said Pauline.
“No,” said Louis. “They’re gone.”
When Louis had gone back to Fareed’s building, the stairway was filled with the sounds of televisions and babies and music. He smelled food cooking. Louis pressed his ear to Natalie’s door. Then he knocked. There was no answer. He waited and knocked again.
The lock looked tampered with. But then, they all were in this building. He pressed down on the handle and felt the bolt moving, but not far enough to release the door. He pushed it back and forth. He studied the space between the jam and the door as he pressed the handle. He could see the bolt sliding and then catching.
Louis heard the sound of the television across the hall grow louder. The door across the hall had opened a crack, and an old woman was watching him.
“Have you seen…?” he began.
“Gone,” she said. “Gone. Gone!” She waved her arms.
“When?” he said. “When gone?”
Someone pulled her away from the door and closed it. He heard a bolt being slid shut and a chain being hooked. Louis knocked, but they did not answer. There were four other apartments on the landing. No one in any of them answered his knocks.
Louis went back to Natalie’s door. He imagined eyes pressed against all the peepholes in the doors behind him. He moved the handle of Natalie’s door a few times, then pressed it and pushed his shoulder hard against the door. The door popped open.
Louis studied the lock and the latch and saw that he was not the first person to get in without a key. The lock plate, which was supposed to catch the bolt, was broken. A narrow shard of metal had offered the only resistance to Louis’s shoulder. He bent the shard back into place so it would hold the door closed.
The apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out and overturned. Wastebaskets had been dumped out onto the floor. A computer monitor and keyboard were on the kitchen table, but the computer was missing. The clothes closets had been emptied onto the floor.
“I don’t understand,” said Pauline.
“I tipped my hand, and they ran,” he said.
“Tipped your hand how?”
“I was too insistent about speaking just to Fareed.”
“But where would they run?” said Pauline.
“That’s the question,” said Louis.
