Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,95
me, both of you; there’s something I have to show you.”
Alejo and Wara wordlessly padded after Rupert Cole across the hardwood floor and through a darkened doorway. The older man flipped on a light, revealing an office with blond wood walls and multiple low bookcases painted a very ugly burnt orange. A tiny black computer desk sat under a picture window that really needed washing. Rupert plopped down on a chair in front of the extra-wide flat screen.
“Have a seat there,” he told them quietly, motioning to two comfortable-looking plaid swivel chairs a few paces behind him. They obeyed, and Wara watched as Rupert pressed his thumb against the blank computer screen and said a few numbers out loud. Immediately, the computer whirled and came to life, showing a background with a gray generic Windows drawing and two small rows of icons.
Sandal and Tabor were back, having changed out of the tattered clothes from the hospital. They waited in silence at the back of the office, arms crossed in front of their chests.
“I apologize in advance, in case this is upsetting.” Wara assumed Rupert was talking to her. “I know about this video from my brother who works at the American embassy, Robert. It was posted on YouTube, but of course has already been taken down. But the Embassy has a copy, I have a copy…who knows who else has this.”
Rupert scooted his chair to one side, glanced back at Alejo with very serious eyes, and then the pixels of color on the wide computer screen came together in the image of a young guy with a reddish goatee wearing black against a background of a large black, white, and green stripe with a red triangle.
The flag of Palestine, was the first thing Wara thought as she frowned at the large flag. Then her blood ran cold as it registered that the lanky, blond guy standing there was wearing a long-sleeve black shirt underneath a layer of explosives and wires encasing his chest.
A suicide bomber.
The young man stood in front of the flag in a black woolen sailor’s cap, wearing the explosive vest in a very matter-of-fact fashion. Instead of brandishing a long machine gun, as was the typical image Wara had seen of suicide bombers, he was gripping a violin over one shoulder, standing still for the camera.
Wara started when she heard Alejo fly out of his chair, biting back a loud curse. His face was contorted, and he kicked at the swivel chair with one violent motion, clenching his fist.
“Gabriel, you idiot! Don’t do this to me!”
Heart spiraling down to her toes, Wara turned back to the man on the screen and realized that it was the same pale Gabriel who had left her at the hospital. She gripped the armrests of her chair tighter.
Gabriel was repeating a prayer or verse from the Quran in Arabic. When he finished, he looked into the camera almost curiously and said, “First I would like to send a message to my parents. Dad, you were wonderful, and I thank you for your example. You were always a faithful believer. Mom, I pray that Allah will grant you the grace to continue to be a faithful believer despite all the trials. Please don’t be angry at me for this. You know that Allah will reward me with Paradise, and I will be there, waiting for both of you. Mom, I will especially be waiting for your good cooking.”
At this point, Gabriel’s lips twisted into a wry smile, and his green eyes searched the camera. “I do this as my jihad against the cause of injustice, against those who maim and kill God’s people in Palestine and around the world.” Gabriel looked at his violin a moment, reflectively, and then continued, “I am not a tough warrior or a soldier. But with this my weapon, my talent that Allah has given me, I fight for his cause in the world and thus win his favor for Paradise.”
Gabriel quoted a verse from the Quran, in Spanish: “Allah has bought from the believers their lives and their money in exchange for Paradise. Thus, they fight in the cause of Allah, willing to kill and get killed. Such is His truthful pledge in the Torah, the Gospel, and the Quran - and who fulfills His pledge better than Allah? You shall rejoice in making such an exchange. This is the greatest triumph.”
“No, no, no!” Alejo was back in his chair, leaning forward, pleading. He slammed one