held the grip in two fingers, as it was designed, and set it down. So light, it almost felt like a toy. Next to it, he put his larger Glock 21 that boasted a heavy.45-caliber shell. He marveled at the fact the Austrian Glock was made of high-strength nylon-polymer, much more resilient than carbon steel.
His cell phone rang.
Usually, his friends texted him, so it was unusual for a call. Paul wiped his hands on a paper towel and walked over to pick it up.
Didn’t recognize the number, clicked on receive, and said hello.
“Paul, sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got some questions,” Zehra Hassan said.
His breath caught in his throat involuntarily at the sound of her voice. He’d met her in law school, dated her for a short time, then they drifted apart. He still remembered how attractive she was, flawless skin and big, almond shaped eyes. “That’s okay. I’m not doing anything important. What’s up?”
He had initiated contact with her a few days ago. She’d been surprised, but Paul insisted he called as a friend to see if he could help her. She probably saw through that but agreed. He told her of the difficulty the police and FBI had in figuring out what happened to the missing young men.
It was a lucky break for the FBI when the witness came forward about the victim, Mohamoud Ahmed, and identified the suspect. The distrust of authorities in the Somali community made investigation difficult. Their loyalty to their clans trumped all other duties.
And Zehra didn’t trust the reason for his call. He’d told his boss about the possibility of using Zehra to gain information about the murder case in the hopes of getting an advantage for the FBI.
After Zehra agreed to talk, Paul suspected she’d use him for the same reason.
“I just met my client, Ibrahim El-Amin, this afternoon. Since you’ve worked on the case, I wondered if I could talk to you. I mean, you said to call.”
He sat down in the straight-backed chair at his bench. “Sure. What’s he like?”
“I hate the son of a bitch. And he hates me … well, all women.”
“Did he do something to you?”
“Other than to try to hit me, no,” she said. “He stands for everything I’ve worked against all my life. These traditional Muslim guys from over there are jerks. They treat women like they’re camels. Quoting me the Qur’an. Can you imagine?”
“Can’t help you there,” he chuckled, remembering how tough she was. “You know how badly we want to take this guy out.” She didn’t respond, and he knew why. Making contact with her hadn’t been an accident, and Paul knew she had her suspicions, but he couldn’t tell her everything right now. Primarily, the case was the most important aspect to him, not her. It involved connections much larger than she imagined. He’d have to be careful. “What else?” he asked her, fishing.
“Since I only watch the gardening shows, I don’t catch all the news. What’s the background?”
“The young Somali men disappeared from many families and locations, and it remained a local police case until a few developments this year.” Paul paused, careful how much he could reveal to her. “One of the boys, Shirwa Ahmed, blew himself up in Somalia last October to become the first American suicide bomber. Then, recently, Burhan Hassan was found shot dead in Mogadishu.”
“Odd.”
“Yeah. One of ’em was studying engineering and suddenly left.”
“What ages?”
“Anywhere from seventeen to their late twenties.”
Zehra sighed. “Why in the hell would they want to go back to Somalia? I thought most people couldn’t wait to get out.”
“Somalia hasn’t had a functioning government since 1991. It’s ruled by tribes, and that remains true today. It’s a pretty primitive place in many respects.”
“So why did these guys go back?”
“The Somali community here has many answers to that.”
“I know, Paul, but what do you think?”
“The FBI’s theory is they were recruited to fight in a group called the Shabaab militia. They’re ‘freedom fighters’ for the Somalia homeland.”
“So, what’s the problem with that?”
“Shabaab is a militant Islamic group aligned with Al Qaeda.” Paul paused. “You can imagine that rang a few bells in the FBI and in Washington.”
“Yeah, I guess. So, how does the victim in my case fit in?”
“He disappeared from a high school a year ago. His parents reported sporadic contact with him by cell, but they always felt the calls were monitored by someone else because Ahmed didn’t speak freely.”
“I saw that in the evidence material. He said he was on a jihad for Allah, and it was the purest he’d ever felt. A true believer.”
“Right. Without his parent’s knowledge, he showed up here and was murdered.”
“Had he been recruited by the Shabaab?” Zehra pried.
“That’s what the Bureau and the police think.”
“But … you hesitated. Is that what you think?”
He had to be careful what he said to Zehra. “It’s what I think, too,” he lied.
“I still don’t understand why he came back. Or why he was murdered.”
Paul chuckled. “You sound like a defense lawyer-what’s the motive? The simple answer is, he didn’t cooperate. Many of these guys come back to recruit their friends. Ahmed wouldn’t do it, so he was killed-by your client.”
Zehra didn’t respond.
“Come on, Zehra. You’re too savvy to believe this killer is innocent. You’re no bleeding-heart liberal.”
“I didn’t say he was innocent. I just don’t know.” She paused. “The ID isn’t great, especially since the killer wore a mask and glasses.”
Paul remembered the lush resonance in her voice when it dipped into lower registers. Their affair had been pretty hot. They’d come close to having sex, but at the last moment, she backed-off, saying the Muslim guilt would be too much for her. “You know I can’t say anything.” He cleared his throat. “What do you think happened?”
“The Shabaab theory sounds plausible. I wonder if the organization is strong enough here in the Twin Cities to have enforcers.”
“They sure as hell do and frankly, it’s asshole guys like your client who scare me. What if they start directing their kids to attack us here? On some jihad?”
“Scary thought.”
“Zehra, I know you have an ethical duty to keep your talks with him confidential and to zealously represent him in court but remember, if you learn of any possible criminal activity that’s going to happen …”
“Paul, how stupid do you think I am? Just ’cause I’m representing him doesn’t mean I like this jerk or believe him,” Zehra snapped. “I’m just as worried about terrorists as everyone else!”
Neither spoke for a while.
“Sorry. I just don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
“Trouble? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just be careful; that’s all I can say.”
Zehra said, “El-Amin’s demanding a speedy trial. So, we’ll set a trial date as soon as possible.”
“Can you be ready by then?”
Zehra said, “I don’t think he cares.”
“Okay.” His voice softened. “What are you going to do now?”
“Relax. I’ve got lots of watering to do in my garden. When I bought this place, I looked for the biggest balcony I could find. I’ve got about a dozen pots out there with lettuce, flowers, strawberries, and a few unidentified things. It’s so crowded I can hardly get around to water, but I’d die without my garden. It keeps me sane.”
Paul sensed they were done and said, “Zehra … I want you to be careful with this case.”
“What do you mean? The guy’s in custody, and the deputies all love me.”
After Paul clicked off the phone, he went back to work. He lifted his most expensive prize onto the table. The
