Page 10 of Whisper

“Nam.”

“But there were women and children who died in that attack. Some of them were Muslims.”

“Bombings and martyrdom operations are the weapons we are given in this great war. You have your missiles. We have our bombs. And, in all wars, there are casualties. Sacrifices must be made. Allah will accept these deaths as holy martyrs for the faith. He will reward them in Paradise. Any innocent Muslims will receive the rewards of jihad, as if they were martyring themselves. Their lives are given for the greater cause of jihad.”

“I’m not sure they’d see it that way.”

“They will be delighted in Paradise. What is the problem?”

“How many innocent lives is too many? When does what you’re doing become murder?”

“Murder is not acceptable.” Tadmir frowned, as if Kris had insulted him. “I am not a murderer. Casualties happen in war. But murder, taking innocent lives? That is forbidden.”

Kris blinked. He flicked ash on the table. “Tell me about your friends. Your fellow al-Qaeda fighters. I want to know them. Understand them, like you’re explaining yourself to me.”

Tadmir smiled wide. “You see, I will show you the truth. You will believe.”

Kris smiled back. He pulled a binder out of his bag and opened it up. Pages of pictures, headshots taken from passports and driver’s licenses and ID cards around the world, appeared. “Your friends in al-Qaeda. These are their pictures.”

Tadmir looked over the first page. He frowned. “No, I do not know these people.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, maybe him.” Tadmir pointed to one of the senior commanders, a man he’d already admitted to knowing in the FBI’s files. “I recognize his face. But I do not know his name.”

“Are you certain?”

Tadmir looked up, over the pictures. His eyes glittered. “Of course I am certain.”

“Four months ago, you told my friend that this man is Abu Hafs, Bin Laden’s trusted military advisor. Now you lie to my face? How can I trust you?” Kris laid it on thick, shaking his head and leaning back. Image was important, deeply important, to Arabian cultures and to Muslims. Honor and one’s word were often all an individual had. Being called out as a liar was a stinging insult that left a deep cut of shame.

He’d use that. He’d use that all day long.

“Okay, I am sorry.” Tadmir ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. “You are right. I do know that man.”

“You are only admitting to things you think I already know. Abu Tadmir, I knoweverything. You have no idea which of your friends I have spoken to, who I have already arrested. Do you think I came to talk to you, all the way from America, because I know nothing? I want to trust you, but you make it difficult. How can I respect you when you lie to my face?”

“Okay, okay. Let me see the book again.” Tadmir pulled the book close, studying picture after picture, shaking his head.

Kris waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly as Tadmir lit another cigarette. Ash filled his nose, his mouth. Echoes of shrieks hung in the silence, clashing like cymbals in his brain.

Tadmir was about to turn the page, move on to the next, when Kris slapped his palm down on the tabletop. “You lie to me again!”

“What?”

“You claim you do not knowthisman!” Kris pointed to one of the pictures, a small passport photo of a half-smiling Arab near the bottom third of the sheet. The man had glasses and a goatee and looked like a computer programmer. “You truly expect me to believe you do not know Abu Mahraj? The man you spent Ramadan with in 1999? You broke your fast with him every day, sharing your dates and yogurt. And yet you lie to me?”

Tadmir flushed deeper. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I do know him.”

“He is your friend?”

“Nam.”

“You are both in al-Qaeda together?”

Kris stared into Tadmir’s eyes. Abu Mahraj, whose real name was Marwan al-Shehhi, was the lead hijacker of United Airlines Flight 175. The names of the hijackers hadn’t been released to the public yet. Tadmir had no idea.

“This man is also your friend.” Kris pointed to another photo. An unsmiling, square-jawed Egyptian with cold, dark eyes.