The Chosen One

Nothing happened.

A few months later they tried again. A different plan, a different location, and another defective bomb. Their ineptness frustrated them all. There was strong talk of disbanding the cell. Still this was holy war and they weren’t going to be denied their victory over the nonbelievers.

Near the end of Muhammad’s sophomore year, they tried once more. One of them placed a bomb on a bustling street. He walked around the corner. The cell leader pushed the detonator. Six people, including two small children, were killed in the blast.

Muhammad’s career as a fledgling terrorist had entered a new phase. The group began planning their next mission. It wouldn’t be long before the heretics would feel their wrath once more. The first taste of blood was fresh on Muhammad’s lips. He’d finally gained a small measure of retribution for the deaths of his parents. He wanted even more.

One evening, while he studied at a poorly lit table in the university’s nearly deserted library, a sweet voice spoke to him in perfect Arabic. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up with a start. Standing there was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen. She was dressed in an expensive Western-style outfit. Her face contained a light brush of makeup. Her lips were painted in the Western way. If not for her raven hair and enchanting dark eyes, she easily could’ve been mistaken for a woman of the infidels. Yet there could be no denying. This girl was Arab. A beautiful North African girl of nineteen.

The second miracle of Muhammad’s life was about to begin.

9

What?” Muhammad said.

“I said, is this seat taken?”

He scanned the empty tables throughout the cavernous room. The small Algerian looked up at her with a confused expression.

“Aw . . . aw . . . no,” he said. “No, it’s not.” He could feel his cheeks turning red.

“May I?” the stranger asked. She motioned to the chair across from him.

Without waiting for an answer, the enchanting girl sat down. Muhammad stared at her in complete astonishment. She raised her delicate hands and placed them beneath her chin. For fifteen long seconds the young woman searched the sun-weathered features of his gaunt face. He fidgeted in his chair, waiting for her rapt inquiry to end. By the time her examination was over, her dark eyes had filled with a thousand questions. Muhammad had no idea what to think. The painfully shy Saharan had never before been approached in such a manner. He’d no experience in dealing with women. And until this moment, no desire to learn how to do so.

She reached out her hand to shake his in the Western manner. Muhammad was taken aback by her continuing boldness. Not once had he known an Arab woman who’d make contact with a man in such a way. Unable to think of any other response, he reached out a quivering hand and shook hers in return.

“My name’s Sharif Bahrami,” she said.

“I’m Muhammad Mourad.”

“I know who you are. I’ve been watching you for many months.”

Once more the fetching woman’s brazenness sprang forth in her words. He was at a loss to explain why he was letting the unusual scene happen.

“We shouldn’t be talking in this manner,” he said. “I don’t know where you learned to act in such ways, but I was raised to honor Allah. Where I come from such contact between a man and a woman is highly improper.”

“I was born and raised in Cairo. And I too was taught to believe with all my heart in the one true God. But I don’t understand how our talking is in any way wrong. We’re fellow students at this great university. Why shouldn’t we sit together and exchange ideas?”

“I’m sorry, that’s just not my way.”

Sharif, however, wasn’t going to let the ancient protocols deter her. She was the epitome of the modern North African woman. And her curiosity over the whispered rumors she’d heard about the reserved little man had gotten the better of her. She ignored his protests.

“You’re the Mahdi, aren’t you?”

“Some have called me that,” he said.

“Then, I’m puzzled. If you’re the Chosen One, why are you letting them make such a fool of you?”

“Letting who make a fool of me?”

“The handlers of those with whom you’ve become involved,” Sharif answered.

“I’m certain I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a poor liar, Muhammad Mourad. Obviously you’ve little practice at

it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your involvement with the Martyrs’ Brigade. I’m talking about your actions in last month’s killing of six innocent people in Marseille’s central square.”

“Woman, you forget yourself. Jihad’s been called. If you love Allah as much as you claim, you understand the significance of such an order. With holy war, there are no longer any innocents. There are only those who follow the righteous path to obtaining paradise, and those who do not. The Quran’s teachings are clear. Those who fail to heed its sacred words, Arab and outsider alike, must be eliminated so Islam can claim its proper place as the world’s honored religion.”

“What you say is true. But I’ll wager you’re so unaware you think those so-called friends of yours are carrying out these attacks on their own. I’ll bet you don’t even realize who’s pulling the strings behind that sorry group of which you’ve become an integral part.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“So I guess you’ll die next week like the Syrian puppet you are. Because that’s where the orders are coming from.”

“Die? What makes you think I’m about to die?”

She looked into his eyes. “You’re such a fool. The plans for your death are under way as we speak. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why I’m bothering with you.” Sharif rose from the chair. “Go ahead and die for Syria.”

“Wait.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “I’m a devout warrior for Islam. If I should die fighting in our chaste cause, it won’t be to serve Syria, it’ll be in the service of Allah. And in my death I’ll find paradise. As a martyr of the jihad the Prophet’s promise will be fulfilled and I’ll instantly find my way to the wondrous place reserved for all who give their lives in our noble struggle.”

“I agree with you on one thing. Whether it’s for Allah, or for Syria, you will die. And quite soon. The orders have arrived from Damascus. Next week, you’ll enter a crowded city bus. There’ll be thirty pounds of high explosives beneath your jacket. At precisely the right moment a radio signal will be sent to the bomb’s timing mechanism. In an instant, many lives will end. Yours, of course, will be one of them.”