Chapter 10

THE ORGANIZATION COMPLEX

18th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(October 1, 1996)

After morning prayers, Tariq made plans to visit the Organization complex. He wanted to browse through membership files for potential adoptive parents for the new Imam. Before he left, he checked Khozem’s room and found him sleeping. He did not wake his son as sleep would give him a rest from thinking too hard. The mind needed recuperation. Better for Khozem to sleep long hours in Mecca than in Cairo where alertness and endurance would determine his success. Tariq closed the door and went downstairs. His wife had been waiting for him.

“In the name of Allah, and upon the blessings of the Lord,” said Tariq before breakfast. Tariq ate quickly.

“Praise and thanksgiving to Allah who gave us to eat and to drink and who made us Muslims,” he said.

Both put a pinch of salt on their tongues. The servant removed the remnants of breakfast collected beneath the thal.

Tariq met the pistachio chewing bodyguards in the driveway. Minutes later he arrived at the Organization’s complex. A medley of and short story buildings were linked by glass walkways. Narrow footpaths stretched across beige quadrangles. Vast, empty parking lots surrounded the buildings.

Three military men stood at the front door as Tariq entered a small antechamber. The building was named after his father. The soldiers scrutinized Tariq’s features, including the mole on his cheek. After a brief interrogation and salutations, they allowed Tariq to enter.

A long, bright hallway with white tiles ran ahead of him. The walls were interrupted by heavy oak doors. These doors were numbered but not named. As he progressed, the hallway grew narrow. The lights faded. The hallway split into three passageways.

He journeyed through the middle path. The sensors caught foreign movement and electrified the tube lights, which were caked with dust and dead insects.

The walls grew thicker, and similar doors appeared. Lost and confused, he found one of the doors unlocked. He ventured in and discovered a room without windows, a hard metal desk with papers scattered all about, and an antiquated air conditioner fixed into the wall. The compressor rattled and shook. By the desk he found a flashlight. He sorted through a pile of folders on the desk. They contained records of former employees of the Organization. Black and white passport photographs of rough men were affixed to the top corners. Their names were typed onto a thin application paper. He could not find the typewriter.

The lights in the hallway turned themselves off. He read the files by flashlight. The men were unshaven. One of them wore a black leather jacket. A stiff collar choked his neck. ‘Saheed Khan’ read the name followed by an address in Jordan. A brief family history was also included. This man was born and bred in the territories between the Jewish colony and Syria. He then immigrated to Jordan. The history did not mention any family moving with him.

He delved deeper into the files and found they were all clones. Different names, different photographs, but the same addresses, the same family histories.

The air grew thin. He adjusted the rattling grate in the wall. He tried the file cabinet. The first drawer kissed open. A black typewriter rested on a block of paper. A small box sat next to the typewriter filled with dozens of passport photographs. Towards the back of the drawer, a shotgun, heavy and cold. In surprise, he dropped the flashlight which broke upon hitting the floor. The bottom drawer had been locked as he tried to pull it free.

He found his way to the door and entered the pitch-black hallway. The yellowing florescent lights flickered. He refused to venture back through the main corridor, into the arms of the guards. His footsteps echoed.

He trudged into the belly of the complex. The lights guided him a few steps at a time. The spaces he had passed and the spaces ahead faded into blackness. Surrounded by these black poles, he stood frustrated in the dim light. He had come too far to turn around. The hallway narrowed just wide enough for Tariq to fit. As the lights from behind went off, he expected the lights ahead to turn on. But he was caught in darkness, feeling the walls as he went. He wiped the sweat from his face. He called aloud. The echoes bounced.

After crawling for a few good hours, he heard voices. The sounds became stronger. He hoped these voices came not from his own mind. He heard telephones ringing, the manhandling of papers, the snapping of typewriters. He had two options for the person responsible: exile or death. Exhilaration and anger pushed him. The voices became definite: men and women colliding into work. He sat on a cold, damp floor. His legs touched the other wall.

He yelled out. The voices paused. He yelled louder. The voices resumed. Out of the darkness ascended a slit of light. Tariq caught the silhouette of a man in the elevator car.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the silhouette. “We are not escorts here. If you can’t find your way, you shouldn’t be down here at all.”

Tariq moved into the light. The young man moved closer. He then collapsed to his knees, and held Tariq’s legs.

“Oh, my holiness, the pure, and the just, the righteous and the sublime, I beg your forgiveness. I couldn’t see you in the dark. I beg for mercy. I beg...”

“Get up!” yelled Tariq. “You are young and foolish to be speaking in such a tone, and even if you were not speaking to me in such rudeness, you would still be young and foolish. And Allah has made the young foolish, so foolish that they engage in nothing but foolishness all their lives. You are nothing but a fool, and instead of hanging fools in public squares in front of other fools, the fools remain alive, because Allah, being all-knowing and merciful, forgives absolute fools for their foolishness. Even fools know when to follow instructions.

“I will say this only once. Summon Mr. Abbas, the supervisor of the complex, and Mr. Nadjir, Director of Membership. Have them meet me at this office. You will do this instantly, and if they think you are practicing your foolishness, you best tell them they are relieved of their duties, effective immediately!”

The young man broke at his feet. He apologized, wept, and took Tariq below to the din of the office.

The room was larger than Tariq expected. Plush sofas lined the walls. Cubicles stood in the middle of the room. Large, fake date trees were thrown into corners. Once guiding him to a supervisor’s vacant office, the young man lowered the blinds. Although Tariq soon realized he had come before working hours, he was enraged by their negligence.

He was filthy and wanted to perform an ablution. Tariq poked between the blinds of the office. It met Western standards quite well. His picture hung on the wall. He thought of replacing the old photographs in the mosques, government facilities, and other offices with color photographs. He quickly abandoned this idea as the black and white pictures lent austerity and venerability.

Tariq reclined on a comfortable love seat and drifted in and out of sleep. He was startled when he heard a knock at the door. Mr. Abbas and Mr. Nadjir entered. Tariq gave them his hand for salaams. He remembered he was not supposed to be pleasant with them.

“Gentlemen, would you be proud of your bavasaab looking like this?”

“We are always proud of our bavasaab no matter how he looks,” replied Nadjir: a tall, thin, middle aged man with square glasses. His coal suit and silk tie impressed Tariq but also irritated him. Nadjir tried to settle Tariq with a salesperson’s smile.

“In other words, Mr. Nadjir, you would have the bavasaab looking like this?” asked Tariq.

“No, your holiness. We accept our bavasaab no matter how he looks, no matter how he acts. If his clothes happen to be soiled, it is of no consequence.”

“So if the bavasaab were clean, that is of no consequence?”

“It is, but if the bavasaab happens to be wearing dirty clothes, there is no consequence, for we know that our bavasaab is the most pristine no matter how dirty he is.”

“Are you mocking me, Mr. Nadjir?” roared Tariq.

Nadjir hung his head in silence.

“Mr. Abbas, when I walk into my complex searching for important information, I should be able to find it without a problem. Granted this is my fourth time here in ten years, but don’t you think you should have seen this coming? It’s very easy to get lost in this devil’s pit. Wandering through the bowels of this complex for what seemed like hours, without lights, without air? Is this the condition of my complex? And it is my complex, is it not? I wonder what other pitfalls we have in here. For my toil, I blame you. I want this place lighted. I want signs posted everywhere, names on the doors, maps of the place. Do I make myself clear?”