Fatal Convictions Read Online Free PDF Page B

adjuster. He explained to Khalid that such events might be compensable under the uninsured motorist provisions of his automobile policy.
    Khalid quietly searched Ghaniyah’s room for Mr. Madison’s card. When he couldn’t find it, he pulled up the firm’s Web site and wrote down the office number. He would call Mr. Madison as soon as Ghaniyah was released from the hospital and things settled down a bit. What could it hurt?
    A Muslim imam and a Christian pastor. This could make for some interesting dynamics.

10
    twenty-five years earlier
    beirut, lebanon
    Hassan Ibn Talib, like every assassin, was once a child.
    At five years old, he and his siblings had gathered on the living room rug each night for lessons in Islam taught by his mother. She began by placing the Qur’an on the coffee table with great reverence. The book was frail, its pages yellow and worn. When his mother opened it, a mustiness filled the air, transporting the children in time and place to the mighty battles between Muslim warriors and Jewish infidels. To be sure, there were pages of long and confusing teachings and sayings that a young boy did not understand. But there was also lots of action, and nobody could bring the old stories to life better than Hassan’s mother.
    She was ordinarily a quiet woman, stern with her children, respectful of her husband in public. But when it came time for the lessons, her demeanor changed, and the almond eyes intensified with the spark of a true believer. Hassan had learned the hard way that horseplay, whispering, and poking at his siblings would earn him the switch.
    On some nights, like tonight, his mother would read a few verses from the Qur’an and then launch into a story that Hassan had never heard before. Like all the best stories, this one was about a true hero.
    “Our third imam, Imam Hussein, was a man of faith and action. He worshiped Allah and would carry sacks of food to the houses of the poor at night, cheering them up. He would always tell his followers, ‘Be in touch with the needy, for Allah does not love the arrogant.’”
    Hassan didn’t understand the word arrogant , but he already liked Imam Hussein. Hassan’s simple view of the world, fostered by his mother’s stories, was black and white. Good guys and bad guys. Muslims and Jews. Imam Hussein would be a good guy. Strong in battle. A slayer of Jews.
    “But during the time of Imam Hussein, an evil ruler named Yazid Ibn Muawiya rose to power and made everybody accept his leadership. Everybody except Imam Hussein and a few brave followers, that is. Imam Hussein was the true successor to the Holy Prophet Mohammed, and he would not bow to the leadership of somebody as evil as Yazid.”
    Hassan’s little hand shot up in the air. His brother gave him a look of disdain.
    “Yes, my son.”
    “What does successor mean?”
    His mother smiled. “Imam Hussein was the grandson of the Great Prophet Mohammed. He was supposed to take over for Mohammed when Mohammed died.”
    “Oh.”
    “That’s a stupid question,” Hassan’s brother whispered, drawing an evil eye from their mom.
    “So the people of Kufa, who were followers of Imam Hussein, invited him to come to their city and lead them in revolt against Yazid and his army. But on the way to Kufa, Imam Hussein and his family were met by a large army of men. The men surrounded the camp of Imam Hussein and would not allow his people to get food or drinking water. For days, Imam Hussein, his family, and his followers were not allowed to leave their encampment while the army gathered reinforcements and grew. Eventually, there were 30,000 warriors.” Hassan’s mother emphasized the number and then, as the expert storyteller, paused for effect.
    “How many did Imam Hussein have?” Hassan asked. This time, he forgot to raise his hand.
    “Seventy-two.”
    Huh? Even for a young boy, the odds seemed overwhelming.
    “For eight days, the blistering hot sun scorched the desert sands as Imam Hussein