they were hopelessly enmeshed in the Devil’s world, beyond salvation. He walled them off, seeing them only when absolutely necessary; he had not made the mistake of talking to them about God and the need to live according to the fullness of the Koran for more than three years. Returning now, he felt like a ghost, visiting not his parents but his old self; he half expected not his father to loom from the shadows but the boy he had been, the wannabe baseball player and nerdy geek who’d taken top honors in math at high school graduation. A thousand memories flooded back, the stale taste of beer mingling with the smell of warm cookies his mother baked every Saturday morning, her own form of religion. Kenan dodged them as surely as he dodged the rack of freshly laundered white shirts in the hallway, passing stealthily through the den as if he were five again, playing hide-and-seek on a rainy afternoon with his mother and sister.
The house was silent. His parents’ room was directly above him, but he heard nothing, not a snore or the creak of the bed-springs.
Kenan slinked up the stairs to the kitchen. The car keys were sitting on the counter in the kitchen; the cars had changed over the years, but the keys were always there, along with his father’s wallet.
The wallet tempted him. Kenan had plenty of cash, but he didn’t have a credit card, and a credit card could be very useful.
He wasn’t sure how long it would take for his father to realize the card was stolen. A great deal of time, he thought — his father noticed very little, either about himself or the world around him. But surely, sooner or later, he would find that it was gone, and then it would be a liability, telling the enemy where he was. Kenan left the wallet and took the key ring, patiently removing the key for the Malibu and leaving the rest.
At the hallway he listened to the sounds of the house at rest: a clock ticking, someone’s soft wheeze — his mother, he thought.
It was a shame that he couldn’t save her. But Allah had a plan, and he must trust it.
Outside in the driveway, the radio blared on as soon as he started the car. Kenan fumbled before finding the switch to kill the sound. Then he backed out of the driveway and drove off as quickly as he could without screeching the tires.
CHAPTER 96
When the men he had sent to assassinate Asad failed to meet him near the grocery store as planned, Marid Dabir took a bus to the downtown bus station they had set as a backup. But as he neared it, the al-Qaeda organizer began to consider the possibility that Asad had somehow managed to turn the men against him. If that were the case, it was very likely that the police would be waiting to arrest him. He got off as soon as he could, walking down several blocks until he found a coffee shop where he could consider the situation.
Dabir had personally recruited the brother who had met him in Ontario some years before; the man was a mechanic working for the city police, a valuable source of information who had also been able to supply an old police car for the project. The other two men had left the mosque a year ago in a dispute with the imam; while the mechanic vouched for them, Dabir did not know them personally. They said the right things, however, proclaiming allegiance to the cause and hatred for puerile traitors like Asad.
Unable to locate Asad, he’d had to resort to having the brothers watch the mosque. They’d seen him enter but not leave and had almost given up when Allah struck him down on the pavement a few blocks away. When Dabir heard the news, he thought that God truly had marked Asad bin Taysr as the traitor and had chosen Dabir as his executioner.
Now he was not so sure. It was possible that the incident on the sidewalk was merely a ruse to get Asad safely away. Perhaps his men had been ambushed at the hotel. Or perhaps they were involved in a plot to trap him.
The latter, it seemed, was much more likely. Asad knew he was the only one dangerous enough to expose him and bring him to justice.
It came down to a matter of trust. Did Dabir trust the men he had sent well enough to believe that they would not betray him? When he found he couldn’t easily answer the question, he realized that he must not, and therefore had to assume the worst.
Dabir placed the cup of tepid tea gently on the table, trying to remain outwardly calm, though his insides raged. Asad was not merely a traitor, he was a cancer, spreading throughout the movement.
The first thing to do was to find a new place to stay.
Pulling three dollars from his wallet to cover the bill and a modest tip, Dabir quickly counted the rest of his money. He had six twenties in the wallet and a pair of hundred-dollar bills in each sock, more than enough to find a room for the night. The thing he could not do was pay with a credit card, which would limit his choices.
When he asked if there was an inexpensive hotel nearby, the cashier stuck a finger into her hair and twirled it around, as if she were winding up her brain for the answer.
“Not reeeallly,” she said, drawing out her words in a way that made it hard for Dabir to decipher. “You could go down to Stephenson Street that way and see.”
Outside, Dabir walked in the direction she’d indicated. But there didn’t appear to be a Stephenson Street nearby. One-story houses the size of cottages sat among wide open lots, with an occasional two- or three-story brown brick building in between. After several blocks, Dabir turned around; two black youths who’d been behind him gave him a caustic glance as he passed. He quickened his pace, suspecting that they would follow him.
Two blocks later, he turned to the fight. Now completely lost, he found a small greengrocer on the comer and went inside to ask for directions.
The store had been a house not too long ago, and it still had family quarters up the steps that sat behind a partially open curtain at the right. A familiar smell wafted down the stairs — Middle Eastern-style lamb.
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the cash register. Short and thin, he had a narrow, Egyptian face and a heavy accent.
“The lamb smells good,” said Dabir, using his Yemen-flavored Arabic.
“We are in America now,” said the man.
“You’re Egyptian?” Dabir guessed.
The man frowned. “I’m American. What can I get you?”
“I’m visiting a friend and I want to stay somewhere for the night,” Dabir said. “I was wondering if there was an inexpensive motel somewhere. So I’m not a burden for him.”
The man studied him for a moment. Then he yelled, “Robert! Robert, come here.”
A twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy bounded down the steps, parted the curtain, and ran into the middle of the store.
“Take this man over to Michigan Avenue,” the shopkeeper told the boy. “He’s looking for a place to stay.”
“Yes, Papa.”
The man frowned at him, then nodded and went back to his business.
CHAPTER 97
Charlie Dean spent most of the night listening to the police interview the imam and several of his followers. Immigration had found that two of the mosque’s members had overstayed their visas, but this failed to supply much leverage, either with the men or the imam. The mosque’s spiritual leader was a naturalized citizen, with no police record and an unshakably placid demeanor. He listened politely to the questions about Asad, gave a few meaningless answers and insisted, in a logical and very calm voice, that he had never seen the man before afternoon prayers. The imam volunteered that he had spoken on the need for a believer to help others in his community, an imperative which all people of the Book, Jews and Christians as well as Muslims, surely shared. He wasn’t lying; a transcript of the talk had been forwarded to Dean by the Art Room.
