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Episode 090 |
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“It is an old habit with theologians to beat the living
with the bones of the dead.” Robert G. Ingersoll “After that, he was quite amicable,” Alex explained in
the meeting room. With Sarah and
Assif, the three stood at one corner.
“It did bug me that he never expressed any guilt for what he did; just
that he had been misled.” “Some people are only willing to apologize for the
initial mistake, and not any of the resulting mistakes that take place after
it or even because of it,” Assif said distantly. “Maybe,” Alex said.
“But the box is downstairs.
Emma’s pouring over it.
Everybody else is back on their assignments.” “Good,” Assif nodded, turning away slightly. Alex and Sarah looked to each other and
both stepped away from the table, heading out. Assif was left alone in the room. Near the main screen on the back wall, he
stared down in thought, his hands in his pockets. A quiet sigh escaped from him. “I was wondering how you were doing.” Assif turned to the door to see Isaiah. The sniper came inside with deliberate
steps. He extended his hand on the
closest chair as if relying on it for stability. “I thought I’d let you know, when I told
Emma I had a clear shot, it was of his shoulder.” He looked at Assif dead-on. “I wasn’t going to kill him.” “I should hope not,” Assif said, his face devoid of
emotion. “We would have needed him for
his information had things gone differently.
Just because you’re a sniper does not mean you…” “Assif,” Isaiah interrupted quietly, animosity building
behind his eyes as he struggled to keep it down. “I wasn’t going to kill him.” Leaving it at that, he turned and headed
out. Situated in front of a small park in the middle of the
city, the white building shone in the sunny afternoon. The dome over the majority of the building
was dimpled with the subtlest of textures as people walked in and out. Women in headscarves and burqas with
children and men in suits moved in and out in a constant flow of life. The window at the top of the mosque was beautiful. Assif stood in the doorway, just inches from
entering. He stared at the colored
glass in geometric shapes as if trying to unravel the mysteries of the
universe. His hands in his suit
pockets, he was still. As he stared, a
portly man with dark skin came up behind him.
He joined Assif at the doorway to the main prayer room, but didn’t
enter. “<We’ve missed you,>” the
man said cordially in French. “<I find that hard to believe, doctor,>” Assif
said, his eyes never leaving the window.
“<I’ve come to salah all of a handful of times in the years I’ve
been in Paris.>” The man nodded,
saying nothing. Assif swallowed and
let out a deep-seated sigh. “<I
have questioned my faith every day since I left “<Allah does not need you to believe in him for him
to be real,>” the imam said. “<I believe in evil,>” Assif answered. “<I suppose, by default, I must believe
in good. And if there is good, then it
must be Allah.>” The imam put his hand supportively on Assif’s
shoulders. “<Put your burdens aside
for the moment,>” he suggested.
“<Let go of your social thoughts, of your fears of the everlasting
existence beyond this world. Let go of
your philosophical quandaries and your inability to reconcile what you have
seen with what you believe. You came
here to talk to Allah.>” He looked
up at the ceiling, a happy, contented smile coming over him. “<And Allah is listening.>” Assif
looked to the imam, then turned to face into the mosque. He swallowed deeply, a ragged breath of
tension escaping him. Uncertain and
fearful, Assif took the first step inside. |
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