No One to Trust

1

The Cell

A group of men met in the back room of an old store in east Bakersfield that had been converted into a mosque. The windows were painted over with green paint. The walls of the dingy room were battleship gray. The gray paint was peeling beneath the window sills where water had seeped through. There were several pairs of sandals and loafers scattered near the door. The dark floral patterned carpet didn’t quite reach to the surrounding walls and had a musty smell from dampness and the many bare feet that soiled its surface every day. Today the 102 degree weather was warming the carpet and the stench was annoying.

The attendees, a handful of shoeless men, were sitting on the carpet listening to an angry imam. His message espoused hate and revenge. He was fuming and his red face, accented by bulging neck veins, was the matrix from which his dark eyes blazed with anger. These American invaders continue to kill our brothers in Iraq, and their pawns, the Israeli Zionist, continue to build new settlements on Palestine land, the land of our heritage. Have Americans learned nothing from the destruction of their trade center in New York? The all male audience was stirred to anger and their faces reflected the passion of their imam. The continual newspaper reporting of terrorist deaths in Iraq was like iodine being poured into an open wound.

When it was time for morning prayers, they all stood in their customary line-up. The prayers recited in Arabic were always the same. Tradition required them to go through a series of movements during prayer; erect, bending at the waist, kneeling on the floor and then bowing with their head touching the floor. They all knew the prayer, and changing positions was like a well-rehearsed choreography. As devout Muslims they were expected to perform the same prayer five times each day. Before Allah they were all equal regardless of any apparent gap in wealth or disparity in social status. Human nature is what it is and even religious fanatics are not immune to envy.

Alcohol, drugs, and immodest dress for women is forbidden by Islamic teaching, but this radical sect would use any and all means; drugs, lying, corruption, stealing, prostitution, or murder if it would further their cause.

To the casual observer Mahmoud Hamadi would appear to be a successful forty-some year old businessman in the midst of shop owners, unskilled workers and foreign students. He had attended Cal State Long Beach and was getting his U.S. citizenship. He spoke with an interesting British accent, a carry-over from the teenage years spent growing up in London. His lean, athletic body was sharply dressed in a silk suit, white shirt and conservative tie, and he had a polished appearance considered attractive to women. Emotionally he was cold, detached and sadistic. It is said that eyes are the mirror of the soul, but even the experienced observer might miss the ominous evil that lurked behind his dark eyes. Mahmoud like most of the men attending the mosque that morning was unmarried. If he had one weakness, it was his attraction to women.

Financially Mahmoud was successful and exuded a calm that concealed his inner resentment. His bitterness stemmed from the tragic events of his childhood. He was only six years old when his father, uncle and older brother were captured, and killed by paramilitary zealots in occupied Palestine. Their bodies, when recovered, bore evidence of torture. Over time his experience with the good life had lessened his zeal for self-sacrifice, and that was the one thing that separated him from the others.

He was the mastermind behind the cell, but he had no intention of being the one to take the blame if anything went amiss. Mahmoud’s goal was to set up and finance a terrorist training camp in a remote area of Mexico. At present he had his eye on a large ranch east of the sleepy town of Guerrero Negro on the peninsula of Baja California, 450 kilometers south of the Mexican border. He might have to use coercive measures to get the owner off the land as it had been in the owner’s family for six generations, but Mahmoud was used to getting what he wanted and he didn’t care what he had to do to get it. He already had an office in Guerrero Negro and equipped it to turn out passports and other phony documents. His training camp, when completed, would train terrorist for the Brothers of Gaza, an international terrorist group. Three of Mahmoud trainees were already running service stations and convenience stores in Kern County and four more worked on his golf course, two of which were trained in the use of explosives and conventional weapons. His businesses were providing cover for many less savory ventures. Altogether they were clearing between $30K to $40K a week. Some of the money was used to pay the Mexican Mafia and a drug cartel to smuggle drugs and personnel across the border, but the bulk was being stashed away for the purchase of a training site.

The Anglo-Egyptian Steak House in north Philadelphia was the place to be on any night but especially on a Friday night. When Sara, an appealing twenty-four year old, walked in she was like a magnet among iron shavings. Everyone turned their head and followed her every movement, at least the men did. A couple of young men were distracted and received frowns from their dates. Sara was attractive in Levis and tennis shoes, but tonight, dressed up in heels, slacks and a cashmere sweater, she was stunning. As Sara walked, thick dark hair bounced around her striking face. Her brown eyes sparkled and glowed with excitement and served to enhance her bubbly personality.

The restaurant was owned and operated by Sara’s uncle, Samir Moussa. Since it was a Friday night, the place was bustling when Tim McKenzie and Sara entered. They were escorted to a back room where they were joined by other members of Sara’s family; Samir, his wife Nadia, their son Sadek, and his wife Aleya. They all tried to talk at once as they each in turn gave Tim and Sara the traditional kiss on each cheek. Before they could finish their greetings a refreshing hot drink made from the dried blossoms of the hibiscus flower was served.

Samir seemed a little sad when he asked, Sara, why do you have to go so far away? California is always having some disaster, if it isn’t a drought it’s a mud-slide or an earthquake. Why don’t you find some place closer to live?

Uncle Samir, I can’t thank you enough for all you have done for me and I will truly miss all of you, but I am married now and I know that Mom and Dad want to get to know Tim. My brother is a big tease, but underneath that careless exterior he cares about me and would never want to harm me in any way, and I do miss him.

Sadek chimed in, If you think that you have to go back to California, why choose Bakersfield? From what I understand Bakersfield gets very hot in the summer. Have you heard about all the killings and gang activity in the San Joaquin Valley? I was surprised to hear that you were planning to go to California. I never thought that you would ever go back.

I know what you are thinking but that past is over and forgotten. You can’t run away from disappointments forever, sooner or later you have to face and forget them and that’s what I have done, Sara replied.

When Tim met Sara he knew that she had broken up with a boyfriend before moving to Philadelphia, and even though it had been over four years he could sense that she was still dealing with some emotional pain. He was interested in her past but Sara did not want to talk about it so he respected her wishes and didn’t pry, she could tell him in her own time. Tim thought he understood as he too had experienced rejection. Once he had found someone that he thought he could spend the rest of his life with and when he proposed she readily accepted. Three months later after repeatedly changing plans because of his work schedule, she informed Tim that she was through. She could not live like that and ended their engagement. Tim had tried to change her mind and told her that things would change after he finished his residency, but she did not want that level of uncertainty and she didn’t have the patience to sit at home on weekends because of his commitment to his patients. Her foresight would prove to be very accurate as the responsibilities and the demands on a doctor only intensifies after his residency is completed.

Tim spoke up, I have had several job opportunities but the one that I am considering in Bakersfield guarantees a salary of over six figures a year and, he added, I can use all the money that I can get.

Sadek frowned, I thought that doctors were humanitarians who studied so they could heal the sick, not to become gold diggers. Now that you are going to be earning big money, I guess you will be getting a big house, a boat and all those adult toys that Californians seem to like.

Please don’t get me wrong. I still care about the needy, but I have struggled financially through four years of medical school and a residency program and now with over $200,000 worth of debt, I have to work and earn a good salary just to pay off my student loan, Tim responded.

It was true Tim had entered medical school with the dream of providing medical care to the sick and poor regardless of their ability to pay, but now after eight years of basement apartments, sitting and sleeping on used furniture and driving a worn-out, used vehicle, he was eager to earn some real money.

Nadia said, "Please forgive Sadek for being so outspoken. He is just disappointed to see his favorite cousin go so far away. We invited you here so that we could have a nice time together before you leave, not to make you feel guilty about leaving. Tim we would like you to try some of our Egyptian food. Our restaurant is a popular site for steak lovers and that includes 80% of our patrons, but as our name implies, our restaurant also features foods that are traditional in Egypt. This is aysh it is a flat bread common in Egypt, and that dish by your left hand is tahina it is a food paste made of ground sesame seeds. You tear off a piece of aysh and dip it into the tahina. Aysh in Arabic means ‘life.’ This salad is called taboula, it is made of bulgar (a wheat that has been parboiled and cracked), plus parsley, tomatoes, scallions, mint, olive oil, and lemon juice. These deep-fried, bean-cakes we call tamia, but they are also known as falafel in some countries."

Tim asked, What are they serving in that brass container on the table behind me? It really smells good.

Samir answered, "That is called Shish kabob, which you are probably familiar with. We serve it hot on the table in a brass charcoal burner." He then nodded to a waiter and immediately two elegant, brass containers with meat were brought to the table.

Sara and Aleya excused themselves and went to the ladies room. Sara counted Aleya as one of her closest friends and she could tell that Aleya wanted to talk to her in private.

Sara, do you really want to go back? I know how disappointed you were when you left Tulare.

Yes Aleya, I believe so. I want to see my family and Bakersfield is just about the right distance from Tulare. It took me a long time to get over Mike, and I finally feel that I have. Tim thinks the world of me and he is considerate and very passionate. I couldn’t ask for anyone nicer to be with.

That’s all well and good, but you can be honest with me. I noticed that you neglected to say that you are in love with Tim. Do you ever think of Mike? Sara hesitated and Aleya knew her answer even before Sara spoke.

I try not to, but there are times when I am alone that old memories keep coming back.

Aleya and Sara rejoined the dinner party as Nadia was asking Tim about California, Tim, tell us about your plans.

Tim considered himself just an average appearing 27 year old student. He was just shy of six feet tall with light brown hair and blue eyes. He enjoyed sports, was respected by fellow students and idolized by some of his patients for his caring bedside manner. Sara liked his clean-cut appearance and found him to be honest and fun loving.

I don’t have any plans other than paying off my educational debts. We will eventually get a house but we plan to rent until we decide where we want to live. To be honest one thing that draws me to California’s central valley is the opportunity to fly. I learned to fly a small plane while I was in high school and at one time I hoped to become a crop-duster. My cousin was a crop-duster, and he aroused my interest with exciting stories about his flying adventures. As a crop-duster he routinely flew his plane under power lines and over obstacles, often with his wheels just clearing border fences. I finally gave up the idea of becoming a crop-duster after he was killed in an accident. His airplane began to misfire during a crop-dusting job over a carrot field and instead of making a soft-field landing he mistakenly thought he would be able to return to the airport and avoid damaging his plane.

Oh! That is so sad, said Nadia. Please don’t tell me you still want to fly after that happened.

Yes, I still like planes but I am very careful and not the least bit adventurous when I fly. I hope that I will eventually be able to resume flying.

Sara frowned, And I am hoping that he will give up the idea of flying. I don’t want to fly in a small plane, but if Tim wants to fly I won’t object.

Tim added, My parents used to live in Imperial County of Southern California, but a couple of years ago they retired and moved to Prescott, Arizona. If I can convince Sara that flying is safe, they are still near enough that we could go and visit them on a long weekend.

The food and wine was a special treat for Tim. He ate until he couldn’t eat anymore and thoroughly enjoyed himself. The conversation was pleasant and the evening was concluded with Samir offering a toast and a blessing for Tim and Sara. The blessing was for a long life filled with happiness and blessed with many children.

Sara was deep in thought when they arrived back at their sparsely furnished apartment. When she had left California after her disappointing romance, she came to live with her Uncle Samir and Nadia. At the time, she had just finished her second year at Fresno State and her high school sweetheart, Mike Clark, who had just graduated from Davis Law School, had joined the law firm of Jones, Lyster, and Portman. Mike, a close friend of her brother, was two years older and a popular high school athlete. He had been her escort to both her junior and senior prom at Western Tulare High. When Mike gave her the news, let’s just be friends, she was brokenhearted and cried herself to sleep. Two months later she heard that Mike was engaged to Portman’s daughter from the law firm of Jones, Lyster, and Portman. Sara was through with men and told herself that she never wanted to see or speak to Mike again, and so far she had kept her vow even though he had called several times to talk to her. When Sara was invited to visit her uncle’s family in Philadelphia she accepted and decided to stay and continue her studies in foreign languages at Temple University where she eventually received her B.A. degree.

Languages came easy to Sara, and during summers she worked as a tour guide escorting foreign visitors around scenic Philadelphia. Sara’s family spoke Arabic