He was busy enough not to care.
Whatever it was, the clock was ticking. I left the room and hurried down the hall to finally face Detective McManus.
A minute later…
“Salma Dihya Bakkioui.”
My head jerked up at the familiar voice.
Detective Tim stood outside Titi’s room, smug in his rumpled suit. I wondered if he’d changed since I’d last seen him.
“And I was just beginning to believe that you weren’t here,” he said. “That was one long trip to the cafeteria.”
Think quickly, Salma Gitmo. Speak.
“Yeah, no. I was there. It’s just that the vending machine for the drink I wanted was broken.”
He reached forward and touched my shoulder. The injured one. I winced. He lifted his hand up.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to take you down to the station to talk.”
I nodded, forcing myself to approach and peer inside the door. Mom, Dad, my sisters: all stood in the back of Titi’s room, frozen. Titi was sound asleep. At Mom’s feet was a suitcase. Not exactly small enough to quietly slip my way, or Dad’s way or whatever. My eyes darted back to Detective Tim. The circles under his eyes seemed to betray that he wanted this over as much as I did. When I glanced back into the room, I saw Mom slip Dad a small ziplock bag. He tucked it into his shirt and walked out into the hall.
“Detective McManus,” he said deferentially.
Detective Tim turned. “Yes?”
“Thank you again for waiting. I’m ready now to join you and Salma down at the station.”
Detective Tim sighed. “Well, all right. Shall we?”
Inside the room, Mom was fighting back tears. So was I. Either Dad would successfully create a diversion and hand me the ziplock bag, presumably stuffed with a passport and other GTFO basics, or he wouldn’t and we were off to the station. No matter what the outcome was, this was goodbye. I lifted my hand subtly and waved. It was all I could do…without bringing attention to myself. My sisters stared back, eyes wide. I didn’t know what they knew or had been told. I could only pray they’d been spared the very worst.
Detective Tim used his phone to wave us down the hall. “Let’s move it. I’d like to get to the station before ten.”
We entered an already full elevator. Detective Tim squeezed in last, turning his back on us for just a second to check to press the elevator button. That’s when Dad slipped me the bag. Thankfully, he was standing on my good side. I shoved the baggie into my back pocket seconds before the elevator doors dinged and opened. We all stepped out.
Dad slipped his right pinkie around my own, squeezed, then pulled away. He stepped out in front of Detective McManus. The move was abrupt, noticeable. Threatening, in fact.
“This liar claims to be a police officer!” Dad shouted, stopping in his tracks.
I gaped at him. What the hell—?
He looked crazed, hysterical. Out of character. He never yelled or screamed.
And almost instantaneously I realized: This is it.
Dad thrust a trembling finger toward Detective Tim. “This man produced no identification! He is armed! He is forcing me to leave these premises against my will! False arrest! False arrest!”
All at once he and Detective Tim were standing nose to nose. Detective Tim reached for his handcuffs. Patients scattered, a nurse dropped her clipboard, a doctor called for security over the intercom. My view was blocked, but the next thing I knew, my dad was in a headlock, getting slammed to the ground. Detective Tim was zip-tying him. For a brief second, Dad turned and craned his neck so I could see his face. His eyes pierced mine. Go, Salma, go! he mouthed.
I turned around and sprinted out the door.
Everything in my peripheral vision faded into the shadows. Even my nafs abandoned me. I was of my body but not in it. There were curious stares as I ran out into the parking lot—where an ambulance was meeting an ER team. In the midst of serendipitous chaos, I ducked in and around cars and people and darted away from both the hospital and the parking lot. I couldn’t take the minivan: the cops would be looking for it. I flagged the nearest taxi instead.
“You all right, miss?” asked the taxi driver as I toppled into the back seat.
“Yeah, thanks, just a second. Um…I’m going to the Falls Church Metro.”
That seemed to satisfy him. I avoided his gaze in the rearview and reviewed the few supplies I had with me: my burner, my true cellphone, my laptop, and a toothbrush. Um, right, so brush up and flash my pearly whites at all the bad people? Smile my way out of jail?
I moved on to the ziplock baggie, evaluating the supplies that Mom had packed. There were four items: a wad of cash, my American passport, my Moroccan passport, and a note, scribbled quickly.
Writing in the bathroom. McManus escorted us here. I told him you went to see Titi. If you are reading this, then you are on your way to the airport. Use the Moroccan passport. For once it’s advantageous. Love you more than words can say. Get rid of this note. We will get thru this. Somehow. Some way.—Mom
Below her name she scribbled in Arabic the very words that the Prophet Ibrahim uttered when his own people threw him into a burning pit: Hasbunallahu wa ni’ma’l wakil.
Whoa. Heavy analogy. I rubbed my temples and took out the Moroccan passport. Advantageous? What did she mean. I opened it and scanned the first page.
Right. I’d conveniently forgotten that Mom had recently renewed our Moroccan passports. Why would I remember? I didn’t care; I’d never intended to use mine. But now it all came flooding back: how pissed she was at the Moroccan embassy for butchering the English transliteration of my name. Instead of Salma Dihya Bakkioui, I was Selmeh Daha Bakewei. She’d calmed down quickly, of course—it was just a hassle to go through the passport renewal process again due to a clerical error by a non-native English speaker…an innocent error. Not deliberate. Not like with certain native English speakers at home…
No, here it was suddenly serendipitous. Or could be, Inshallah.
I OVERPAID THE cabdriver with a fat twenty. Slamming the car door, I walked-ran to the Metro station, then down the escalator and straight to the public restroom, where I flushed Mom’s note down the toilet, splashed water on my face without looking in the mirror, and whispered, “I can do this.”
While standing near the ticket machines, I scanned the commuters for a friendly face, an unsuspecting helper. And a victim. A young man in a business suit smiled at me. Pretending to be a tourist, I smiled back, asking that he explain the Metro lines to me.
As he pointed to the map and the differences between the Orange and Blue lines, I slipped my personal cell into the outer pocket of his computer case. Poor, poor soul. A real shit storm was headed his way, but if he was a good guy to begin with, he could talk his way out of it. I thanked him profusely.
After he left, I flagged another taxi and headed for the airport.
* * *
—
Several hours later, I was in a foreign land: the international wing at Dulles. It really was the best place to lie low, teeming with people. As I glanced at the masses, especially at the men in sunglasses, the girls and women in bright hijabs, I wondered if any of them were also running. Truth be told, you can’t tell anything from how a person looks.
And I probably looked fairly normal, especially now that I had passed the first test. I had made my way past security and the probing eyes of TSA and into the main terminal. I’m not sure if the cops or feds or whoever had cast their net this wide, but even if they had, they were probably searching for an American citizen, not a Moroccan. At least that’s what I told myself to keep my feral nerves somewhat in check. My heart was pounding and a permanent lump had lodged in my throat. Still, for now I could catch my breath.
Time check: 4:22. Flight EK232 was several hours away, a double-edged sword. I
t wouldn’t be boarding until the butt crack of dawn.
I had ample time to figure out not only whether Kate’s tattoo contained useful information, but how to scan and listen to it, or upload and listen to it, or however that worked. But more time for me meant more time for the authorities to find me.
The thought put all my senses on high alert. So I purchased a hat I’d never otherwise wear—super hokey and patriotic, with an American flag on the front—and sat down at Starbucks. In the cab on the way to the airport, I had emailed the photo of Mrs. Turner’s tattoo to one of my anonymous email accounts, the one I used in my early days of naïveté, when I thought I could stop Mariam from leaving and save the day. Back when I thought Nazis and Crusaders were a thing of the past.
Since my 7-Eleven burner was so pathetically basic (what the hell is a FIGO Orbit, anyway?), I had to figure out how to access Mrs. Turner’s tattoo using my laptop. After a quick search, I found a company called Skin Story. Bingo. Not only were there custom tats, but there was a technical description about sound wave technology: how any surface with the right sort of texture—as in human flesh coated with a certain kind of ink—could be used as a recording mechanism. I uploaded a photo of Mrs. Turner’s tattoo and pressed search. Seconds later, a clip popped up with her name right beside it.
I plugged in my earbuds.
The clip was two minutes long. As I brought the cursor over to Play, I thought about my interactions with Mrs. Turner. First she was the sweet mom, appreciative of our welcoming gesture of Ramadan sweets. She was also the obedient wife. Kyle Sr. had asked for his beer “five minutes ago.” I thought about the night she brought my sisters home and the cookies she sent over the following day. I thought about the bruises and her fragility, how bugged out she was the night we Skyped, and then how she looked just this morning—her body lifeless, her eyes empty. Her spirit shadowed by the presence of death. I clicked Play, then immediately paused it.
I glanced around me at my fellow travelers. Eating, smiling, chatting away without a care in the world. I wasn’t sure what felt more illusory—them or the thoughts inside my head. What if there was nothing useful to her Skin Story? What if this was one ugly-ass dead end? Stress on dead.
I swallowed.
Eyes forced open, I took a deep breath and clicked Play…
My maiden name is Katherine Rose Gordon. I’m forty-two years old and this is my story, the story of my life—a life I am only now beginning to understand and to live…on my terms. I was raised in the Seven Jewels movement. Listen and obey. That was our holy writ. A writ we were never to question, especially us girls, for questioning was the work of the Devil. And I didn’t. Not in the beginning. It was all I knew. We lived in a parallel world….And it wasn’t so bad…not as a kid, surrounded by all those big families, that endless love. I went to college in Portland, where I met Kyle Sr. He swept me off my feet. Seemed to have all the answers my soul craved, steady resolve in an ever-changing world. We married quickly, but that’s youth. As the years went by, as his career waxed and then waned, another side appeared. But I thought that if I loved him, fed him, had his child, things would change.
But they didn’t….And those late-night meetings at our house…I was never privy to them, but I heard bits and pieces. I guess you could say I should have known better. But it was all so dark then. I was lost and alone. Scared of Kyle Sr. and what Kyle Jr. was fast becoming. And then an unexpected sort of happenstance came my way. I had never known their kind, not personally, but that family…so happy and loving. Living in the Lord’s grace.
The sovereigns say it’s God’s will. That we’re securing our own future. “Let the dogs out,” they joke. “Let them turn on each other, then they’ll know their master.”
Well, I’ve seen that master. I’ve felt his terror, suffered his blows. I can’t let this go on. Find the ring and you’ll know their plans.
You don’t want what’s coming next.
The message ended. I lingered in the silence, absorbing her last words. You don’t want what’s coming next. Find the ring. You’ll know their plans.
Find the ring.
The ring! I had completely forgotten about its existence.
Feverishly I patted my pocket. Alhamdulillah. It was still there. I pulled it out and looked at it closely. There were a couple of things I hadn’t noticed before: like the little dots etched on the top. They weren’t dots. They were stars. Twelve of them. And then a line…a seam where the top of the ring joined the body. I placed the ring in my bad hand and with my good one gave it a hard twist.
A USB port disguised as jewelry. Of course. I had to admire the whole hiding-in-plain-sight approach. I jammed the stick into my laptop and clicked away. Bingo. No encryptions.
Not surprisingly, Kyle Sr. was organized. I started with the biggest files: maps of the entire DC grid. I didn’t know what it meant yet, so I kept digging, searching for anything related to Operation AQY. Taking a few digressions when files appeared intriguing, which was admittedly quite often. (Okay, fine, it was Human Behavior Porn—I was in the mind of crazy and it was utterly fascinating.) I double-clicked on “CO’s log.” Kyle Sr. kept files on all his “subordinates,” including his son. It was a “proficiency and conduct” report in which Kyle Sr. noted by date the pros and cons of Kyle Jr.’s behavior. A few entries stood out, all from last year:
September 17: Discuss K’s Adderall dosage with Dr. Z
November 11: Discipline K for backtalk
December 3: Report to the Generals and humbly submit that K idiotically used founding city of the KKK (Pulaski) with numerical code (88) for Heil Hitler. Apologize for the both of us.
I was tempted to laugh.
What had I first believed? What had I assumed Pulaski signified? A Podunk town in Virginia where someone had helped us? And 88: the year a kindly hacker was born, or a nod to his math skills? Kyle Sr. had been way off in thinking his kid had aroused suspicion. Yet the entry ended with three punishments: food denial, confinement, labor. Followed by a big question mark. For a second I almost pitied Kyle Jr. Growing up in this household, in this…cult.
The next entry was dated more recently, from late April: Proved wrong. Junior understands guerrilla tactics better than I realized. Excellent use of video simulation. Final draft almost ready. Use of immigrant boyfriend and RWM ploys will help expand operation theater, tactical efficiency.
I read the entry several times over trying to decipher it. Immigrant boyfriend? That had to be Amir. But what was an RWM, and where was this video?
I kept scanning files, but the more I searched, the more unfocused my mind became. A headache was lurking, and my eyes were parched. I glanced outside. The sun was a ball of fire, full of rage. I thought of my dad, how he exploded with bravery. How Detective McManus exploded with anger. What had become of him? And what will become of any of us?
I glanced around, checking my surroundings, half expecting to see a SWAT team closing in. Nearby sat a family. Three daughters. Doting parents. They seemed happy, excited to be leaving on their own terms. Together…
No. Wake up, Salma B. Wake up. I slapped my face for real this time, garnering the attention of the nearby family. They seemed to laugh it off. To them, I was just another traveler, perhaps jet-lagged. I smiled wearily and pulled my cheesy-ass hat over my face.
Click. Click. Scan. Scan.
I resumed my prowl, speed-reading Kyle Sr.’s files, fighting to stay focused. There were files that I desperately wanted to open, like this whacked-out doctrine called “Initiates One.”
It was an introductory letter to newcomers, explaining the history of the 43ers and the symbolism of their emblem. Eleven of the stars represented the eleven states of the Confederacy: the first attempt by the pure white Christians to break off from the Union, which they saw as perversion, to forge their Utopia. The twelfth represented their true and enlightened aspiratio
ns. But this wasn’t about the South. Not exclusively. This was bigger. The 1493ers had allies nationwide. The document said as much. The Twelfth Star would be born in a sea of glorious “ashes,” literally. That was clear from Kyle Sr.’s archive of news items about the aftereffects of major disasters—tsunamis and earthquakes and hurricanes—the looting, the crimes, the panic.
What happened to your focus, Salma B.? If you don’t find something big to stop these lunatics, then panic will definitely follow. And it won’t be illusory. Everything you love—your family, the South, your country—will erupt in bloody chaos.
Right…okay…so—
And there it was. An MP4 video file labeled “final draft.”
I clicked it open. Staring back at me was a thumbnail of my own face. In this video, I was sitting at my desk, in my own room, staring at my laptop. Almost like a Skype session frozen.
I pressed Play. The voice was mine. The words were mine. And yet I had never uttered them, at least not like that and not in that order. As I watched the video, two new discoveries became frightfully clear. RWM was an acronym: Radical White Muslim. The second discovery was just as deadly. I, Salma B., had been digitally cloned.
I HAD SEEN deep fakes before. But I’d never seen a video as professionally doctored as this. I didn’t think it was possible outside of Hollywood movie studios. Kyle Jr. had even encoded the subtle presence of blood flow—the color of my skin slightly changing from light red to barely present green—simulations of life flowing through my long digital face. Her face. My face swapped onto a digital version of me.
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