Final Winter

And the Sudanese had laughed with delight. ‘Not to worry, my son. You see, there is an infidel trick we have learned. Like a game or a puzzle. Even in a photo of a flower, an innocent-looking flower, there can be an important message hidden.’

In a picture? he had asked. How?

The Sudanese had shaken his head. ‘Not for you to worry. It is enough that you know that these pictures are much more than pictures. They are messages to our brethren, important messages that must be sent.’

Now Amil went to work again, setting up e-mail messages, with an address that meant nothing to him — a string of numbers and letters — and he laboriously went through the instructions, somehow setting up a way where a message sent across the computer lines or wires or whatever they were would also carry the pictures that were represented by the little cartoons. The Sudanese had earlier led him through this process, over and over again, and it reminded him of the long days at the madrassa, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chanting the verses from the Koran. Amil was not sure of how the Prophet, God bless His Name, would think of these complicated machines, but Amil hoped that his work today would find favor.

There. One message sent out. One of twenty.

Nineteen more to go.

He flexed his fingers, surprised at how tired they seemed, for the work was not physical yet was hard enough. Strange how that would be.

Time for another message.

He went back to work.

~ * ~

And later Amil looked up at the timer. Eight minutes to go, and only three messages left. It had gone smoothly and there was plenty of time left to do the last messages, and as he bent over the keyboard — his fingers now quite stiff — he heard some raised voices and the opening of the door. He looked up at the cafe’s entrance.

Two uniformed policemen were there.

He stopped, hands frozen over the keyboard.

And he could not believe it, but they were the two same policemen he had seen earlier, with the fierce mustaches and the wooden staves. He felt something gurgling at the back of his throat. Caught! But how? Did the policemen follow him here, did they know what he had been doing, how he had been contacted by the Sudanese?

And was his work here a failure? Before he could even finish it?

The policemen were now looking in his direction, talking to the cafe manager who was frowning. Amil tried to swallow, found his tongue was as dry as the dust outside his home. He forced himself to look away, to get back to what he was doing.

He looked up at the clock.

Just six minutes left.

Back to the keyboard, don’t look up at the clock. Send out the e-mail message.

Two left.

The voices of the policemen seemed louder. They seemed to be walking towards him.

Time. Four minutes left.

God is great, he said over and over again to himself, God is great, God is great, God is great.

The policemen’s voices were louder, there was no doubt.

They were coming closer to him.

Another e-mail successfully sent.

One left.

A glance up at the clock.

One minute.

His fingers typed out the e-mail address, and he cursed himself.

A mistake.

Erase and try again.

There. Complete.

Put the blinking little arrow over the send button and—

Click.

He looked up at the clock.

All four numerals read zero.

He looked up and saw the two policemen. Saw that they were standing only a meter or so away, and they were ignoring Amil.

Yes, they were ignoring Amil. They were talking and smiling to the two young blonde European women, the whores whose nipples were showing stiffly through their thin shirts. Hand shaking, Amil pushed the button on the side of the computer that released the disk, and he placed it back into his robe. He got up, swaying just a bit, for his legs seemed weak, and his clubfoot even more sore.

He limped his way past the policemen, smelling either their cologne or the scent of the European whores, and he went to the manager, who just nodded.

‘I am done.’

The man shrugged. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No,’ Amil said.

‘Then that’s it.’ And the man turned away, and for a moment Amil was tempted to grab the man’s shoulder and wheel him around and speak to his face, saying, don’t treat me like that, you scum. Don’t you know what has just happened here, in your little place, a place that is obscene and should be burnt to the ground? A holy warrior came here, on jihad, and all you do is turn around and—

No, he thought. Remember what the wise Sudanese said. Do not bring attention to yourself. Leave as quickly as possible.

Which is what he did, and he gasped again, going out into the hot day, back to the noise and dust and people out in the street, just a few more things to do, and then he would be done.