A Deep Mystery For Deep People

THE CAREER DIPLOMAT studied the two newspaper headlines with an intensity usually found only in safecrackers. Where average people have laugh lines, his 57-year-old patrician face had lines of earnestness--no, over-earnestness--crop circles that are mowed into human skin by a lifetime of nodding sagely across tables at others and saying, "I feel your pain." He sighed deeply and tossed the papers onto the long, mahogany table so that his subordinates could see for themselves, and the brilliant young men looked at both in perfect stillness.

First, there was the New York Times: "Officials Puzzled About Motive Of Airport Gunman Who Killed Two." And, slightly askew, the Los Angeles Times: "FBI Looks For Motive In LAX Attack." Just under that was a smaller headline: "With Few Leads, Officials Seek Public's Help." They absorbed the words and sighed, too, and it seemed they had one shared, sad voice. And they did.

"Gentlemen," said the older man, "As usual, the Times got it right, and we're the officials, and, yes, we are puzzled. The situation is grave. If anyone in government can solve this mystery, we here at the State Department will be the ones to do it, because we're people people, and we know that all men and all countries are the same. First, let me give you the facts so far. The gunman--I'm sorry, the gunperson. Forgive me again, I mean the alleged gunperson."

One of the others cleared his throat apologetically--a longstanding specialty at State--and held up a printed sheet. "Excuse me, Mr. Undersecretary, but our new guidelines have a list of preferred terms other than gunperson." The undersecretary brightened and even smiled. "Good, let's hear some." Now they were getting somewhere! "Yes, sir. 'Life-taker, death-enabler, activist, student, co-victim--'"

"That's the one! 'Co-victim.' Splendid. Thank you, Alger. Your grandfather would be proud. All right, let's continue. We know the alleged co-victim was a forty-one-year-old Egyptian, Hesham Mohamed Ali Hadayet." He pronounced it with the flourish of a Cairo cabby, and the others noted that with pleasure. "He'd been in the United States since 1992, and, in 1996 would have been sent back, yes deported"--the room shuddered at the thought--"had it not been for his wife's successful application to our Diversity Lottery Program. That's a State Department innovation, by the way." His blue eyes twinkled at the memory. "He overcame countless obstacles placed in his way by this bigoted country and got lucky enough to open a limousine business, which, through more astonishing luck, made him a very good living. He had a fine home, a Jaguar and a Mercedes, and two sons, and was apparently very religious. What religion was it, again?" Dozens of papers shuffled, and someone said, "Islam, sir." "Oh. Really? Hmm. Well, nothing there. Marvelous religion. One of the top twenty, I'm told. Anyway, after that, uh, incident in New York in the fall, one of his reactionary neighbors hung an American flag and a marine flag, and Mr. Hadayet took it as a personal insult. Quite right, too, if you ask me."

"Didn't Hadayet have a bumpersticker on his front door that said, 'Read The Koran?'" Everyone turned to the young voice down the table.

The undersecretary took a breath and calmed himself--another specialty at State--and smiled kindly. "Whether he did or not, it's not the same. His was an expression of freedom of religion. Hanging that flag was inflammatory.

"Now, let's jump to the present puzzle. Out of the clear blue sky, he goes to the airport and, uh, shoots someone. Let me check my notes. Two, right? Now, that's a big airport. And the international building has many airlines in it. Logic tells us he just picked the first one he saw. Correct?"

"Excuse me, sir." It was the same young voice. "It was El Al. That's the Israeli Airline. And the victims--Jacob Aminov, father of five, with one on the way, and Victoria Hen, single, were Jews. Isn't it funny, by the way? We always seem to know the names of killers, but never the names of the ones they slaughter." The room was silent. Some of the young men pretended to be reading something; others studied their nails.

"What's your point?" The voice had menace in it.

"Well, sir . . ." he looked around and giggled nervously. "I mean, come on, everyone, the guy's an Arab, he hates America, and he'd rather kill Jews than watch his kids grow up. What other news flashes are we looking for? The sun coming up in the East?"

The undersecretary smiled again, but this time the smile didn't reach his eyes. "What's your name, son?"

"Kirkpatrick, sir."