“Keep the telephone intercepts in place,” Mavis said. “Keep our informants fresh. Good idea.” Mavis puffed her breath out. “It’s getting better. Especially, the suburban Somalis. They’re a little more integrated into the community … but that’s not saying much. The clans don’t agree on many things, they look down on each other, won’t cooperate much, fight amongst themselves and distrust almost everyone except their own people.”
“Local police helpful?”
“Yeah, but they get the same response we do.”
Conway’s eyes surveyed the agents around the table. “There’s a Somali elder; can’t remember his name or even pronounce it for that matter. He says that a combination of our investigation, national attention, and more vigilant parents has caused the recruiting to drop. ‘It’s over,’ he says.” Conway paused to wait for comments or support. “Well, I guess we agree to keep on truckin’.”
Paul spoke, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Bill.”
“What else do you think we can do?”
“As you know, I’ve got myself ‘embedded’ in the murder case going on now. The defense lawyer’s a friend of mine. Although she can never reveal confidential things, of course I’ll get information from their investigation. It’ll be like working with an informant.”
“To what end, Paul?” Mavis asked.
“I’m not sure. But remember, I got the first call five years ago. Something was going on way back then.”
“The Shabaab militia?” Mavis said.
“Didn’t really pick up traction until 2006. So, what were they doing here in the high schools long before that?”
“Laying the ground work, obviously.”
“I think there’s more … Didn’t you hear the news this morning? On Minnesota Public Radio? There’s a new wave of protests breaking out in the Somali community. Nothing like we’ve seen before. What’s it mean?”
“Paul, you’re a great agent, but you’ve just come off probation,” Bill interrupted. “In my experience the simple explanation is usually the right one. We’ve got the explanation now. I used to tell that to Reagan all the time when I was in the Attorney General’s office. He liked it simple.” Conway looked back at the group. “The activity’s down, so I think we’ve succeeded.”
“But why did the Ahmed boy come back? None of the other missing men has returned. Why this one? And why was he killed here?”
“Let the local prosecutor figure that one out. It’s not our jurisdiction anyway.” He turned away.
“But Bill …”
“Back off.” Conway spun to face Paul. “Let me tell you something. You didn’t get all the goddamn pressure from the press, the public, congressmen, the Director, or the agencies before we finally broke this case. It was hell. Right now, we’ve got the case solved, the organizers are in jail, and things are quiet. If you poke some hornet’s nest, all the shit starts over again. And for what? You ‘think there’s more,’” Conway imitated Paul’s voice. “But until you know you’ve got something solid, I don’t want you stirring things up again. Am I perfectly clear?” He poked Paul in the chest with a pointed finger.
Bill was so close to Paul’s face, he could smell stale cigarette smoke on Conway. Paul knew him well enough to understand the order and dismissal. He looked from one agent to another as he scanned the room. Good people, good agents, but like most groups, once a decision was made, it was difficult to alter the course. People became attached to their agendas and ideas.
He took a deep breath trying to accept what his unconscious mind told him-he’d continue the investigation on his own. If he screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself pushed him forward.
Eight
Zehra dreaded going home to her beloved parents. She drove her ancient Audi. This old one was all she could afford on her government salary. Her mind swirled with plots to get out of the meeting she knew
her parents had set up-with some nice, boring Muslim guy. What could she do?
Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Indians from long ago. At least, they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra’d come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country.
Thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra discovered the people surprisingly diverse. Along with a significant Native American population, the state also held the country’s second largest group of Hmong people from Laos and the largest Somali population. The Minneapolis and St. Paul schools reported over one hundred languages spoken in their classrooms.
After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters. She wished for a large, middle-class Muslim community, born in America like her. Americanized, but still faithful to the teachings of Islam, she spent much of her time educating others about the similarities between Christianity and Islam. Zerha didn’t mind the effort because it was part of her larger desire to help the progress of American Muslim women.
Zerha curved into her parent’s drive. They owned a rambler on the edge of a small pond. She shut off the engine and looked over her shoulder at the gold Dodge parked in the street. Must be the dreaded guest.
Before entering, Zehra stopped to savor the best part of coming home-her mother’s gardens.
Zehra inherited this garden obsession, but since she lived in a condo, her garden consisted of potted plants. Considering the short growing season in Minnesota, she indulged in every opportunity to enjoy the colors, textures, and scents of her gardens.
Water splashed across the roses from a sprinkler, and Zehra could smell fragrant, damp black earth and freshly mowed grass.
Zehra loved the orderliness of her mother’s plans, even though it appeared as natural as Nature. It was as complicated as law school had been. When her pots weren’t challenging enough, Zehra came home to help her mother.
Unlike her work as a defense lawyer, where it was often difficult to find the truth or to reach a final, successful result, gardening offered both.
And the truth surfaced in that beauty of Nature’s work … along with Zehra’s help.
She walked up the stone path that led to the front. Wafting out through the screen door, spices met Zehra’s nose. She stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden.
In the back stood the alliums-tall stalks with flower bursts that looked like fuzzy, purple tennis balls. In front of those were the bleeding hearts. Nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits, leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.
Zehra smiled at the peaceful feeling, and then forced herself to open the door to walk into the house. The narcotic perfume smell of a hyacinth drew her inside in spite of the fate that awaited her.
Her mother, Martha Hassan, came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. “So nice to see you,” Martha said.
“Killer gardens, Mom.”
“Just trying to keep things alive. If I could get your father to help more …”
Her mother avoided the living room to pull Zehra into the kitchen. She set the pita bread on the counter, dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine next to the bread. Like a lot of older Iranian women, her mother gladly took on all the trappings of an American, including her name. So did her father, Joseph.
“How’s work? I don’t know how you can defend those guilty criminals,” Martha asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?” She avoided the living room.
“No … just a pain in the butt.”
