“Then why does it not wish to stick, Balil? Especially at the edges? Perhaps if you came up here and tried it yourself?”
“What is it doing?” Balil leaned against the rail and looked upward.
“It is not sticking. It acts like…like the material is waxed paper and the paint is water.”
Balil scratched at his head and stared at the roll of material along the wall, walked over, and pulled the heavy shears from the hook on the end. He trimmed a small piece from the end and flexed it in his hands. It felt exactly the same as it always had. A thin, easily burned cotton. He shook his head and grudgingly walked up the stairs. Probably something that idiot is doing wrong, he thought.
When he reached the top of the stairs he saw the flags pinned to the wall and the paint oozing down the sides of the material. Small puddles had formed on the floor where the paint had sluffed off and fallen.
“This is not good.”
“These are only the first. I have over a dozen more to paint.” Sameer pointed to the stack of fabric that had already been cut and was waiting on the table.
Balil scratched at his chin and shook his head. “What if we paint them on the table so that the paint cannot run?”
“But if it doesn’t stick, what good will that do?” Sameer waved toward the stack of paint cans. “All of this paint is no good, I tell you.”
Balil stepped closer and looked at the flag pinned to the wall. “Let me see your paint cup.”
Sameer handed it to him and Balil stirred the paint with a brush. “These are all water-based, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s thin this a bit and see if it helps.” Balil opened a water bottle and poured some into the cup, stirring as he did so. He thinned the paint considerably then applied thin coats to the material. He smiled as the paint soaked into the cloth. “And think how much we will save on paints.” He handed the cup back to Sameer. “We may have to make multiple coats, but it is sticking now.”
Sameer scowled at the thinner paint and shook his head as he quickly went back to work. “I do not like this. It is much too thin.”
“But it works, Sameer. We can figure out later if the paint is bad or just too thick.”
Tariq ran up the stairs, his face smiling. “We need to fire up the silkscreen machine. Mamoon has a very large order to fill!”
Sameer paused and stared at the boy. “How large?”
“Over a thousand flags together. American, mostly.” Tariq smiled as he rushed back down the stairs and began to prepare the machine.
Sameer groaned. “I hate that infernal machine.” He tossed his brush and cup into the deep sink and turned the water onto it, rinsing the tint down the drain.
Balil clapped the man on the shoulder. “Relax my friend. Once the material is cut and the screens are set, we will be able to create the flags you were going to hand paint today anyway.”
“I’d rather be painting than dragging that ink bar.” He spat indignantly. “It’s not the same.”
Balil laughed. “How you can take such pride in something that will be ashes in a few days, I’ll never understand.”
“It’s not what they do with them that I care about. It’s the fact that I paint them with these two hands.” He held his paint-stained hands up and shook them at the man. “Each one is a masterpiece unto itself. It’s not the same to use a machine for what a man can do better.”
Balil nodded. “Come. Let us tell Mamoon of your paint troubles.”
Sameer balked and shook his head. “No. Let’s not.”
“Why not? He should know. If the paint is bad, he’ll want to replace it.”
Sameer shook his head again. “We can thin the paint and make it work.” He looked down the stairs toward the silk screen machine. “Each time we have a big order, or when we have a problem, Mamoon speaks of creating large orders of flags to ‘keep on hand,’ creating inventory for small orders.”
Balil shook his head. “So?”
“So? So, if we tell him we are having issues with the paint when we are about to begin silk screening, what is to prevent him from telling us to stop painting altogether and simply screen print as many different flags as that bulk roll will allow? Keep them on hand to sell as they are needed? Order another roll of bulk material and continue to screen print?”
Balil shook his head, still confused.
“Don’t you see?” Sameer argued, his hands shaking in front of the smaller man. “That monkey Tariq could run the screen print. He wouldn’t need painters any longer. He wouldn’t need anyone to fill small orders of hand-painted flags as they come in.”
Suddenly Balil understood and the cigarette fell from his mouth as his jaw hung open.
FBI Field Office, Dallas, TX
ROGER WALLACE WALKED quickly down the hallway and knocked on his Section Chief’s office.
“Come in.”
Wallace stepped inside and closed the door. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Agent Wallace.”
Roger studied the man as he finished going over something, initialed the corner, signed the bottom then closed the file and slipped it into a stack of other files. Something about the man had never sat right with him. He was too methodical. Too emotionless. The closest the man came to relaxing was loosening his tie after lunch. To Roger, that was too stiff. The man was obviously a bureaucrat who had never spent time in the field. That made him dangerous.
When he turned and gave Wallace his full attention, Roger noticed the other thing that seemed off about him. His eyes lacked that luster and gleam that most people’s had. They were “dead eyes,” like a shark.
“Agent Wallace, word has come down that you’ve
