- An African Proverb
Ylanne Sorrows
Out of Character
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Dramatis Personae
Last updated 24 April 2011
Tahira Ali, a Hataf terrorist, played by Ylanne
Valiant Terret, a French assassin/mercenary, played by Raijn
Kaori Marie Furukawa, an FBI computer technician, played by LightningStrikes
Azzan Kam, an Israeli Mossad operative, played by Tempest
Gou Furukawa, a Hataf terrorist, played by LightningStrikes
Zackery Bishop, a CIA agent, played by Aufeis
Natalie Elisabeth Schultz, an FBI agent, played by Ylanne
Cassandra 'Casie' Schwartz, an FBI agent, played by Ylanne
Miles LaFleur, a private contractor, played by Thrydwulf
Tatiana Ivanova, a Russian mercenary associated with Hataf, played by Kai
Malik Jafari, a covert Hataf operative, played by Aliath
Joseph Lauzon, a Captain in the Royal 22d Regiment of the Canadian Forces, played by Aliath
Dawn Keating, a fiery and quick-tempered journalist, working on getting as much out of the Tahira Ali story as is feasibly possible, played by Parabola
Sasha Vladov, a homegrown terrorist freelancer, working for anyone with the highest pay, in Southwest Nevada, played by Imm3diate
William Conrad Jackson, an ex-mercenary now working for FedEx in the United States, played by True Grave
Alexander James Moratelli, a 42 year old CIA agent assigned to the Counterterrorism Center, played by Yesterday's Repeat
Rakhim Bethakha, a Syrian agent, sent to aid the Americans in the fight against Hataf, played by Aniihya
Nadine Elaina Zaria, a private practitioner (lawyer) with a secret vendetta to reap justice by her own hand, played by Cer
Joslyn Romanov, an FBI agent skilled at hacking and surveillance, played by Lego's Apex Predator
Alderson Morris, an FBI agent with anxiety disorder, playedby Ivanol
William Rapp, an interrogation specialist with the CIA, played by Tempest
Jessica Clark, the Director of Central Intelligence, played by Tempest
Mario Cabaltera, an operator with the CIA's Special Activities Division, Maritime Branch, played by Skallagrim
John Rose, a psychotic serial killer played by Makokam
Vladimir Mamatov, a Russian arms dealer played by Ottoman
When the lion wakes, all the earth will tremble, and it will be shaken at its core. The sky shall split in two, the light divided so that all that was once hidden in darkness will be made naked, and all that was clear made hidden and obfuscated from the eyes of man. The beast shall rise from the rubble of the middle earth, the fissure its home. It will be a beast with seven horns and seven eyes, and it shall ravage the cities of man, obliterating his monuments. The city without people shall stand in silent testament to the wicked sins of man, and all the peoples of the world shall be scattered to the ends of the earth.
Even so, the hand of the Lord will be upon them, offering grace wholly undeserved, and those who turn from their evil ways shall sleep with the lion and not be harmed. But woe to those whose every thought is evil and who boldly mock the Lord with their wicked passions; woe to those who harm the widow and the fatherless, and treat the orphan and the traveler unjustly; woe to those who are prideful and deceitful; woe to those whose hands are stained red with the lifeblood of the children of God; woe to those whose hands are clean but who filthy their hearts with their innermost thoughts; for these shall suffer the wrath of the lion of God.
They shall be torn asunder, their flesh mangled so that their faces will be unrecognizable to any but the Lord, and their names forgotten from all the earth. But for those who turn from their evil ways, who understand that the Lord is God, theirs shall be all the glories and riches of all the earth, and theirs shall be the river of life. Yea, though the earth be divided, these shall live in the presence of God, and theirs shall be the inheritance of the Lord.
When a man should look into his own reflection, then let him face his brother and say to him āLook, there is a stain upon your cloakā. When a man should say āLord, I know what I amā, then let him face his brother and say to him āThou art not worthy of the dust on my feetā. May the man who does not these things never utter a word to his brother again!
Thus wrote Muhammad Almontaser, the father of my fatherās father. He was not like other men. Muhammad was gifted with a flat affect and gentle manner, and lived as a recluse. In his lifetime, he never once left the village where he was born, yet my family praises him with accolades of his insight into the human condition and its state under God.
I do not have that same gift. I have the knowledge of what will hurt you more than any other thing, if I know you well enough, but I do not understand your innermost desires or deepest fears. These things are clouded to me. If I do not know my own, how can I know those of others? If there is a god, then humanity must be damned for its uncountable sins. If there is a god, then I understand nothing of anything.
It was hot, like most summer days in Kabul, the sunās heat burning down on the steppe, but most Afghans were unaffected by the heat, except a few mountain men unaccustomed to temperatures warmer than what they were in the mountains dotting Afghanistanās landscape.
The Embassy of the United States was a stone building with a glass entrance, the seal of the United States in metal alloy relief over the tripartite door. Inside were the American diplomats, and the American ambassador, but, most importantly, the representatives of the American Central Intelligence Agency, who kept their offices in the embassy as well. Outside, the Marines stood guard at the door, their brows knotted in concentration, sweat seeping from hairline to collar, standing rigidly at attention, eyes sweeping the area constantly, ever vigilant.
The woman standing across the street from the Embassy could have been any Afghan citizen, an older woman with a few strands of grey hair fluttering in the breeze, the rest of it covered by a linen hijab scarf, dressed in the standard shalwar kameez with a long overcoat, her clothes worn, the edges frayed, her gaze very much vacant, as though she had seen things some hoped never to see and wanted nothing more than to forget them.
Thus, it seemed wholly ordinary for this woman to approach the Embassy, crossing the street carefully, though she seemed almost intimidated by the vehicles that passed by at inordinately high speeds. Anyone watching would have thought nothing of the incident, would have noted the womanās movements only in the secondary consciousness and given no more than a brief, casual thought to them, and then forgotten she had ever existed only moments later.
Then, something happened to change the situation. The Marines at the door gave a start at the womanās approach, and then, after a brief, inaudible exchange, they surrounded the woman, weapons leveled at her, and began barking short commands in a mixture of English, Arabic, and Pashtu, all at once. When the woman reached toward an opening in her clothes, one of the Marines smashed the butt of his rifle against the side of her head, dropping her to the ground, where another Marine quickly secured her hands behind her back, forcing her quickly into the Embassy and out of sight.
By this time, a small crowd had gathered, speculating as to the womanās identity, but more importantly, as to why her harmless, calm approach to the embassy had led to what seemed to be unnecessary brutality on the part of the American soldiers. The few Afghan nationals and American nationals inside the embassyās lobby, unlike the passerby outside, immediately understood the answers to both questions.
They had the opportunity to get a good look at the woman as she was led through the embassyās lobby, and taken through a door marked RESTRICTED. Her face was identical to one on the wall of the lobby, where posters of the FBIās Ten Most Wanted Fugitives and Most Wanted Terrorists were displayed prominently. The name on the poster, one visa-seeker saw, was Tahira Ali. Most others didnāt need to reference either the poster or the name. They already knew both.
She was in a small room with concrete walls and floor, a single bulb in the ceiling protected by a wire cage, sitting in a metal chair, with her ankles shackled to a bolt in the floor, her hands manacled in front of her. Her hijab was missing. She did not know where she was. She did not know how long it had been since walking to the Embassy. She blinked twice. She did not recognize the man standing in front of her.
āTahira.ā She flinched at the sound of her name, spoken by a stranger. Eyes rolled up slowly, gaze sliding across a tall, middle-aged man, receding hairline, salt and pepper hair, mostly pepper, round, black wireframe glasses, standard navy blue suit and silver tie, blue eyes staring coldly down at her. āWe have a few things to talk about.ā
āMy name ā ā she began. Even with two words, her accent immediately betrayed the fact of her foreignness, the two words clipped with cautious over-enunciation of the consonants.
āDonāt lie. We know who you are. Someone like you, you canāt hide forever.ā His words seemed casual, though almost biting, as the man glared downward at her. He towered over her in height, the difference between him standing and her sitting only magnifying the contrast. āWe have a few things to talk about, Tahira.ā
āYou know my name,ā she said, and this time, he didnāt interrupt her, allowing her to finish the sentenced, though with imperfect cadence and intonation.
The man laughed. It was neither sensual nor bitter, neither hearty nor harsh, his laugh, but a natural, pure sound, rising from the depths of his throat to echo in the room. āOf course we know your name, Tahira.ā He tapped the thick file folder in his hands, bound by a thick cord. āYour full name is Tahira Ali Almontaser, but youāve never used the Almontaser part. You were born on May 12, 1950, in Mutalistan, raised by a single mother, Sumitra Almontaser, in the city of HarÄ«. You attended St. Maryās Mother of Hope Preparatory Academy and graduated in 1968. In 1965, you joined ā ā
āPlease.ā The enjoinder of a single word was enough to stop the man from continuing.
He looked at Ali. This man, this nameless man, an agent of the American government, though she did not know which branch or agency specifically, was silent, gaze piercing. And he just looked at her, wordlessly, for several long moments. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, unlike the commanding, authoritative voice he had used but minutes ago. āWhy?ā he asked. āWhy did you come here? Donāt you know an American embassy is American soil?ā
Ali did not make eye contact when she spoke, her gaze resting on the manās neck, well below his eyes. āYes, I know,ā she said, her voice soft. āI have come because I do not want this to happen. Rahah Almarfud. They want the death of all good, by light and fire. I have come because I might be able to stop this.ā
At the mention of those two words, Rahah Almarfud, the man immediately stiffened, his eyes narrowing, lips closing into a thin, hard line. āTell me what you know,ā he said.
āI can tell you everything. But not here. Here, they will know I have told you, and then the knowledge will be worth nothing. Take me to America. I will tell you everything I know.ā Ali continued to stare at the manās neck, her gaze as vacant as it had been when she had approached the embassy.
The man nodded thoughtfully, and then, without a word, turned and left, closing the door behind him. Once gone, the nameless CIA agent was the source of several outgoing urgent messages, marked to the Station Chief, the Counterterrorism Division Director, the Director of the CIA, and the rest of the national security and intelligence community. Within ten minutes, the President of the United States had an emergency notification of the situation. Within an hour, everyone significant in the governmentās alphabet soup would know:
Sub Tahira Ali apprehended Kabul, wants to talk.
And within ten hours, Ali was on a heavily guarded military flight to the United States, and the intelligence community was buzzing to life, as the news leaked throughout the federal government, that Ali was in custody. All the while, the press had yet to learn of the stunning new development, and Ali herself remained ignorant of the governmentās scrambling to address her situation. It would be a long flight.