By Christopher Johnson
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Barked Isa. “Your stuff will rejoin you on the other side! ” Things were going too fast: I was out of one car and into the other and a man sitting in the passenger seat turned to me to say “hello,” revealing double rows of gold-capped teeth in so doing. It was soon clear how he paid his dentist. ” he commanded, and Isa forked over a small wad of twenty-dollar bills. ” screeched the man after making a quick count. ” said Isa. ”1 “Each,” said the man in the passenger seat. ” growled Isa. “That is the border,” said the driver.
The Quresh arrived at the mouth of the cave, only to discover a spider’s web hanging over the entrance. “He cannot possibly be here, otherwise the spider’s web would have been shattered,” reasoned the Quresh, and moved on—thus leaving Muhammad alive. The Prophet, through whom the religion known as Islam was delivered to mankind, lived. And now I was Muhammad in that cave across two hundred miles of Daghestani police and KGB checkpoints, because a spider’s web of innocence descended over my backseat place every time we were pulled over.
Everyone, that is, except the people I expected to meet: the Chechens assigned to spirit me from the airport with minimal fuss, and smuggle me across the mountains and into war. I waited for an hour, glad-handing old friends whom I really did not want to see and then just fending off persistent taxi drivers. At first I hoped that one would whisper to me that he was the one, but none of those who approached me uttered anything like a password. When the last of the men holding signs designating MISTER SMITH and MASTER JONES disappeared I knew that something had gone very wrong.