The Lovers of 9/11

A gust of wind shook the trees. Leaves whirled. He was passing the pond now, its gray wavy water already carrying a sprinkling of dead leaves. Suddenly, Daniel blacked out. He braked, stepped down, took a deep breath, unsure what was happening. He didn’t see her, but he felt her presence, as undeniable as when she had been sitting on his bed in the hotel and her knees were touching his.

He had a clear sense that she was being menaced by suffocating clouds, that she was sinking into some poisonous swamp. He plainly heard her screaming for his help. He heard her call his name:

‘Daniel!’ – once only but very loud.

MARTYR

Six Books Series

BOOK ONE

THE LOVERS OF 9/11

FRANK EMMANUEL

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Frank Emmanuel 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design by C-Borg.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Quotations from the Qur’an are based on MidEastWeb for Coexistence, The Qur'an in English Translation, Complete in electronic format with Historical Background (Revised version, May, 2011): http://www.mideastweb.org/

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only, remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Shahid, f. shahida, pl. shuhada: Witness or martyr: one killed for his/her religious beliefs or in battle with the infidels.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue: 1996 - Leila’s Scar

Chapter One: A Journey Is Planned

Chapter Two: A Jealous God

Chapter Three: Beirut: Love And Terror - Part 1: Love

Chapter Four: Beirut: Love And Terror - Part 2: Terror

Chapter Five: A House Divided

Chapter Six: Flight Forward

Chapter Seven: The Drowning

Cast Of Characters

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Other Books In This Series

Sample A Scene From Book Two

Connect With Me

PROLOGUE

1996 - Leila’s Scar

Solitary journeys through the dark are pregnant with risk. The night hems you in, and years seem to pass before you emerge from the shadows. It was late evening as Leila Bouazza biked along a gravel path in the deserted dunes of South Holland. It was warm for that time of the year, but she had put on a light sweater to ward off the nightly breeze. Save for the bright moonlight and her headlight, the path was dark. Though she’d been warned against nocturnal trips like this, Leila Bouazza was unafraid: she was adventurous and a bit reckless by nature, very fit, and had just started training in martial arts. After all, she knew the road – she had traveled this run more than once, though never alone. Normally, there were always other bikers here, even in dark.

 Tonight, however, was different. The road, climbing and descending through sandy hills and dips lined by firs and thickets of blackberry bushes, was deserted. She wondered why and remembered. Leila was a political science freshman, yet this had somehow escaped her. Fourth of May. Today, the Netherlands commemorated the horrors of the Second World War. The streets were empty as most people were watching the somber commemoration rites on TV.

By the time she realized this, she was already far along the path. She noticed that her breath was too fast, and a faint worry arose in her. There were still several kilometers of open dunes ahead, and then a short stretch through the woods. Once she got past that, she’d be able to see the gas station where the bicycle path crossed the thoroughfare. People would be there. She pedaled as fast as she could.

 As she entered the last five hundred meters of dense forest, the moon hid behind the treetops. Glancing left and right, she pressed down harder on the pedals. Once she got past the bend in the road, it would be less than a minute before she reached civilization again. She turned the curve.

 Out of nowhere, a figure sprang up in front of her. She tried to dodge, but as she raced past him, the fellow gave her bike a hard kick. Leila’s hands slipped from the handlebars, and she fell, with the bicycle halfway beneath her. The pebbles scratched her knee. The metal frame pressed against her knee through her torn-open trousers, pinning her to the ground. She screamed. A strong hand covered her mouth.

 ‘Is that her?’ a coarse voice inquired. It all went very quickly, too fast for her novice martial arts responses to be of any use. She froze.

‘Damn Moroccan. Positive,’ answered the man who held her from behind.

What did he want from her? She wanted to scream, but with that smelly hand glued tight to her mouth, she could only utter muffled sounds.

‘She the one you talked to, Johnny?’ said the one who had made her fall.

‘Not one gram of doubt.’

Leila strained to recognize the voice. Was he— Could it be—

She had no time to finish her thought. A third shadow approached, grabbed the bicycle, and tore it from her. He threw it to the side of the path. The one addressed as ‘Johnny’ kept her mouth in a vice-like grip while the guy who had made her swerve came closer. He was hooded. All three of them were hooded. With a violent jerk, another hand pulled away her headscarf, releasing her long and wavy hair.

 ‘You’ve got nothing to do in our country, dirty slut!’ the man in front of her yelled. He stood straight above her. ‘Hold’er tight, John. We’ll teach this Moroccan whore a lesson she won’t forget.’

 Johnny let go of Leila’s mouth, but now squeezed her right arm. Twisting her neck, she noticed Johnny was shorter than she, and very stocky. His ski mask hid his face; but it was so dark she wouldn’t have seen it anyhow. By his voice, she could tell he must be young.

 She was in shock, pain, and revolted, but her brain kicked in again and she thought fast: yes, this was definitely the same guy who had approached her in the clubhouse at that meeting. No doubt, the same who had asked her if the meeting was only open to real Dutch.  Meanwhile, the third fellow gripped her left arm. She lay on the ground. The first man made ready to leap on top of her. She trembled.

 ‘Go back to where you come from, Arab slut,’ this assaulter hissed. His voice sounded Flemish, and he spoke with a lisp. He was tall and muscular.

‘But– I was born here,’ she muttered.

 In a flash, their brief conversation came back to her. That afternoon, she had attended a discussion on neo-Fascism at a clubhouse nearby. The coffee hall had been crowded and noisy. At least a hundred students from various universities were milling around pell-mell, holding cardboard cups with cappuccino, munching sweets, and chatting. Actually, what she had heard Johnny say was Real Diets, not real Dutch – an unfamiliar, archaic term.

 ‘Of course not. Anybody’s welcome. We’re discussing the relevance of war memories for combating racism. Feel free to join.’  

Only Dutch? she thought. Aren’t we all cosmopolitan?

At least a quarter of her own year were of foreign background – Turks, one Bosnian, some Caribbean boys, two Brits, a Kurdish refugee from Iraq, a few Moroccans like herself. Not to speak of the exchange students – the Japanese boy, and that Indonesian girl who had criticized the lecturer in public.

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Professor de Vries. He’s come back from his research on Islamic groups in the West Bank. Our tutor. He’ll sure point out some similarities—’

‘You Islamic?’ the boy interrupted.

‘As you see.’ She pointed to her headscarf. ‘Why’s that important?’

‘Oh, nothing, just to know, you know…’

‘So, yes, my parents are Muslims. We’re all in the same boat here, aren’t we? What about you?’ He was standing close to her, she could study his thick black hair, his eyes light blue, almost magnetic… she sensed something vaguely disturbing about the guy, at once charismatic and sinister. Were it not for his bizarre behavior, he might be an Arab himself.

‘Antwerp,’ he said. Belgian accent: same tongue, different pronunciation. ‘I’m Aryan. Just a tourist here.’

Aryan? Leila raised her eyebrows. Who but some neo-Nazi weirdo would call himself that today?

Yet Mister Blue-Eyes made neither a dumb nor a boorish impression.

‘Tetkalam arabi?’ she tried.

His pupils retracted a millimeter. He forced a smile. ‘You’re babbling in Turkish, aren’t you?’

‘Hey, why you playing stupid, dude? I’m sure you understand me. What are you denying?’

‘You live here? Got a place to sleep?’ He was unshaven and had wild eyebrows yet she thought his face looked charming.

‘No, I’m from Amsterdam. But tonight I sleep over at a friend’s in Haarlem.’ That was not true, at least not completely. Her father had, after a long argument, finally ceded this once: after the meeting, Leila was allowed to bike together with Marion straight to Marion’s parents’ house. Her friend’s was a trusted address.

‘Is that far?’

‘Three quarters of an hour by bike. I’m used to it. Hey, I’m Leila. What’s your name?’

‘Just a moment, Leila.’

He turned around and was lost in the crowd. She looked around but didn’t see him anymore, shrugged her shoulders, then went back inside to listen to the lecture. She didn’t see Marion.

 When the gathering drew to a close, she received a message: Marion had all of a sudden felt ill and left.

‘Better not to go out alone tonight, Leila,’ Professor de Vries had warned. ‘If you need to get back in direction of Amsterdam, I can give you a lift, together with Joyce and Erik. Still one place free in my car…’

But the thought of giving up on her hard-earned evening of freedom was too disappointing to accept.

‘Thanks, but don’t worry, I know the way.’

 Her eyes were wide open, but it was too dark to distinguish much. Leila heard the furious beats of her heart against her eardrums. She tensed her arms to free herself. In response, an iron force twisted her right hand like a screw. She yelled and relented. Johnny held her immobilized, together with the other Fleming. The first boy already had his knee between her legs.

Again she yelled. The thick leaves of the trees absorbed her voice. The woods around the dunes were deserted.

 ‘What you want of me?’ she screamed. ‘Let me go!’

‘Go? Go back where you belong,’ said the man who had called her a filthy harlot. This one spoke a vulgar dialect she recognized as from the north. His weight pressed against her thighs. The sweaty odor of his shirt entered her nostrils. She wanted to vomit.

‘I belong here,’ she managed to say. ‘I was born here.’

‘More’s the pity. This place is not for your type. It’s for the Diets nation.’

Again, that word. ‘What’s Diets?’

‘If you were of our people, you’d know. The Greater Dutch Nation. Slegs vir blankes. You don’t understand that either, do you?’

Only for Whites. The ubiquitous shields in apartheid South Africa flashed through her mind. The symbols of racism you saw on TV.

They were crazies. Ultra-rightist gangsters.

‘Let me go, bastard.’

Something hit her face. His fist. She felt a sharp pain. Something liquid dripped down her cheeks. She tasted blood on her lips. His ring must have cut her.

‘Nobody calls me that, you whore. You half-bloods, you’re the worst of all. Hold her, comrades. Let’s make her enjoy something better than…’

Her eyes had grown used to the dark by now, and she saw him swiftly unbuckle his belt and lower his pants. A pair of brutal hands wrenched the shoes from her feet, then tore down her trousers. Leila tried to resist but her arms, gripped behind her back, couldn’t move. She tried to kick at the body that was forcing itself between her knees. She wanted to bite but only swallowed a mouthful of empty night air, mossy and fetid.

Then she saw it approach. A wave of panic gushed over her. All her muscles tightened up. Something hot and rough penetrated her. She screamed from pain, rage, and humiliation. With his full weight on her, her martial arts were to no avail. He moved mechanically back and forth in her. His masked face was so near that she could smell his breath: the stench of liquor made her retch. The rapist stepped up his rhythm, panted, and soon ejaculated inside of her. Her whole body went rigid. She clenched her teeth.

Then he withdrew and calmly brushed the sand and twigs off his legs.

 ‘Okay. Next. You, Lou?’ He addressed the tall Flemish fellow who held her left arm. ‘Sure,’ Lou said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Don’t let her escape, Johnny,’ he added.

‘Wait, Lou, hold her!’ the first rapist yelled. Drunk or not, he appeared to be in full control. ‘That bitch’s a strong terrorist, you hear. Johnny alone won’t be able… I’ll come over.’

‘‘Course, I’m able to keep’er under control,’ Johnny bragged. But the Dutch fellow had already jumped over Leila and grabbed her left shoulder.

‘Your turn,’ he signaled to the tall Fleming.

 Walking up to her, Lou unbuttoned his fly with both hands. For a split second, Leila had her legs free. She coiled up. Then, the moment he wanted to descend on her, she bent her knees, and with all the force she could muster kicked him in the crotch. The tall Belgian gave a wail and sank down in pain.

‘Dammit, you dirty Arab devil,’ Lou yelled, ‘I’ll make you pay for that.’ 

She felt a second fist land against her shoulder, and sharp pain. She tried to move but couldn’t. Her tongue was parched. Terrified, she noticed how hard her breathing had become. She tried not to faint. The Dutchman had released his grip and stood again, towering above her. His boot was now crushing her other shoulder with his whole weight. Johnny, the short one, was still gripping her arm.

‘You want to come out of here alive, black she-monkey? Better keep your dirty instincts under control.’ Without shifting his foot, he turned to the tall Fleming. ‘She hurt you bad, didn't she? You okay?’ In an instinctive gesture, Lou crouched next to her, protected his testicles with his hands, and started to cough.

‘Take that off, bozo, before you choke.’

With effort, the man tore away his ski mask, but he kept coughing. In the dark, Leila caught a glimpse of coarse features, a tip-tilted nose, and a goatee that seemed outlandish against his hairless skull: a skinhead. He was seething. She felt a sharp pain in her face: Lou’s belt whipped her cheeks, and then once more.

If I pass out, she thought, they’ll kill me.

‘Enough, Lou,’ the northern Dutchman commanded, and then, ‘You must learn how to discipline that vermin. Hold her tight, Johnny.’

‘Got her, Woody.’

‘You better now, Lou?’ Woody inquired, his tone almost compassionate.

Lou’s coughing continued.

‘Never mind,’ Woody said. ‘The Muslim hooker didn’t behave, so we’ll leave a little memento.’

 She saw something glitter in the dark. Woody landed his knee on her belly then, with a few experienced slashes of his knife, slit open her sweater and her bra. Johnny’s right hand now covered her nose and mouth. In panic, she struggled to keep breathing. She tried to free herself, but his other hand held her by the hair. She heaved as if to vomit, frozen in fear again. Woody’s knee was still on her belly, making breathing even harder. Meters away, Lou’s coughing subsided, then resumed.

 A sharp pain tore through her breast. It scratched and cut and turned in her flesh. She tried to control herself but couldn’t. The agony was unbearable. Tears rolled down her cheeks, burning in the cuts. Again she screamed and nearly passed out.

Then on instinct – she would never understand how – she struggled free and grasped the hand that was smothering her and sank her teeth into it. Again she tasted blood – but not her own. John’s fingers cramped, she got hold of his little finger. In agony, as the rapist was writing something on her chest with his knife, she plunged her teeth deeper into the finger. Johnny screamed. The hand that had held her hair groped toward her throat. He tried to throttle her.

 His whole finger was now in her mouth and she continued biting as if his hand were a tough and rubbery steak. Then she felt as if her teeth were clutching a bone. His scream grew louder, and the grip on her throat loosened. Meanwhile, the pain in her chest continued. She was bleeding. The rapist had concluded his work. She hadn’t even noticed that he had stood up.

 ‘What about you, Johnny? What’s that – your hand bleeding?’ A roaring laugh. ‘Did she bite you?’ Woody, the leader, taunted. ‘Want to show her you’re a man, too? Go ahead, I’ll keep her under control.’

 Staggering, Johnny stood up. She lay there on the gravel, trousers rolled down to below her knees, naked where she was most vulnerable. No hands held her anymore. Was she free? But she felt too weak to move. Suddenly she saw his knife. The leader of the three calmly sat next to her, the blade pointed at her neck vein. She imagined where the eye openings were in his hood. No idea how he looked but his whole demeanor betrayed a cold hatred that filled her with terror.

‘You keep still, babe. You don’t move or…’

Johnny lay on top of her. She dared not stir. Whether the pain in his hand inhibited him or a sudden shame, he hardly succeeded in entering her. Or perhaps it was the gaping, bleeding wound on her chest that was too near. Johnny lay panting on her belly but stayed half-limp.

‘Can’t come in the slut? You don’t have to spare the rod. Come on, Johnny, quick, we don’t have all the time in the world. You no Speedy Gonzalez, huh?’

Woody’s last sneer made Johnny withdraw at once. Humiliated, he stood up and pulled up his trousers.  

‘Such a slut,’ she heard Woody say. The Dutchman with the knife. ‘But this’ll make her think twice about staying in our country.’ Then addressing the other two: ‘Stand there, next to her. That’s good. Your foot, John, put it on the bitch’s face. Easy does it… Smile. That’s good.’

 She felt a heavy and dirty boot pressing on her hair, the other one resting inches from her neck, but was too defeated to react. Through tears, everything blurred. Three flashes burst from a camera.

‘Also the rune,’ Woody commanded. Lou tore her blouse open further. More pictures were taken. Then the gang leader rose. ‘Let’s hope they come out well. I’ll develop the negatives at once. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

The shoe lifted from her neck. They were going at last.

‘You better, Lou, old chap? Ho-ho, you Flemings. Still got a lot to learn on how you treat women before you’re ripe to join our new commonwealth. Don’t you?’

‘What do we do with this bitch?’

That was Lou, who had received the vicious heel of her sneaker in his groin. He had recovered, it seemed, and wanted revenge. Or perhaps he felt diminished by Woody’s arrogance. Leila’s head was spinning. She started to shudder again.

They had raped and maimed her – were they now going to kill her?

She was in no position to defend herself, and there was nowhere to run. Tears welled in her eyes and the flash blinded her. She couldn’t see a thing. It was as if she had lost her sight, but her hearing was clear. Their talk was taking a sudden new turn, away from her.

 ‘Hey, how come you knew her?’ she heard Lou ask, in Johnny’s direction now.

There was no immediate answer.

‘Yeah, Johnny, how come you know her? How did you know she’d come over the dunes,’ the gang leader chimed in.

After a few seconds’ pause, Johnny said, ‘Well, sure looks enough like an Arab, don’t she?’

‘And so do you. Ha-ha. Ain’t from your own clan, by coincidence?’

‘‘Course not. I just picked up a few words of street Arabic at school.’ His words came out haltingly, as if in apology. ‘So… what do we do with… her?’

 ‘Na, she got her lesson, comrades,’ Woody decreed. ‘Let’s not soil the banner of our movement with Arab blood.’ He was clearly the leader. ‘Leave her. She’ll recover and tell the others to go packing. Let’s go.’

 Their voices – growls, groans, coughs, and belly laughs in response to their jokes – were growing fainter, and finally their steps faded into the distance. Almost unconscious, Leila lay half-naked on gravel and grass. She sensed a sticky fluid flowing out of her. She was bleeding from her chest, grains of sand stuck in her chafed arms, legs and back. Her bruised skin and crushed flesh ached – cheeks, throat, arms, legs, and her torn hymen. Worst of all, though, was the pain in her breast.

If only she could die. Then and there.

 Gradually her eyesight returned. She was shivering but could barely move. A few meters from her, she recognized the scraps of her bike with her bag still swung around the handlebars. She sat up and retched. She tried to look at the hurt between her legs. It was all dark, but she knew there was blood there too. She had been violated for belonging to a hated race. She was no virgin anymore. How could she ever tell her parents? How could she ever return to her community?

 Then, bleeding and all, abandoned under dark trees, knocked half-unconscious by pain and humiliation, she heard a voice inside herself, as if from a distance:

I am strong. I could have avoided this had I chosen to accept the lift offered by my teacher. Did Professor de Vries expect that this might happen? Such a nice guy. If only he had insisted… But of course I had to be stubborn again. I felt like I could confront whatever came. But with three against one, I never had a chance.

She inhaled deeply.

I hurt, but I am breathing and the leaves are full of oxygen. I must live. And whatever will come, I swear – I swear that, however long it takes and whatever it costs – I’ll find the coward fascists who raped me. I shall have justice!

 Then she fainted.

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Chapter One

A Journey is Planned

1.1.

Amsterdam, Friday, 12 January 2001

If you must criticize religion, Mister de Vries, why don’t you criticize your own instead of Islam?

 The harsh words, spoken in public, still rang in Daniel’s ears. The nerve. How dare she? Wet snow swirled around him, obscuring his vision, and the cold penetrated his thick winter coat, yet he felt hot. His heart pounded, and he hardly allowed himself the time to lock his bike to the rack. Then he walked the twenty-odd steps to