The Brotherhood
By Steve Jovanoski
For my parents Mitre and Lenka, and my uncle Mitko. You have shown selfless acts of love almost beyond comprehension and for that I am humbled and eternally gratefully.
Acknowledgements
I can’t say what inspired me to write this particular novel. All I know is that at one point a compelling desire to write this story was born and it manifested into what is now The Brotherhood. I discovered writing to be a solitary experience that seemed to go on forever but it was one I continued with unwavering resolve. The journey kept me sane at times, when the walls of life appeared to collapse around me, and for that I am grateful.
First of all I have to thank my extended family for their support, and especially my father for reading the manuscript within hours of me handing it to him.
Many thanks to Danny Mills for his honest assessment – chapter after chapter, Nina Axaris for her constant and uplifting support, and all my work colleagues who read it and gave me such positive feedback.
A special thank-you to Ignazio D’Alberti and Donato Tancredi for their encouragement and loyal friendship, and to everyone else who contributed their sincere thoughts and ideas. A thank-you to the author Jill Blee for her teachings on book writing, and Nadine Davidoff and Sue Harvey for moulding this pile of words into shape.
Prologue
‘Mr Elkhoury, your wife has been intruding into areas of the company that are none of her business,’ Sam said, gritting his teeth.
‘What are you implying? She’s the accountant and she’s doing her job.’ Ilias knew Sam would take extraordinary measures to protect the contents of the server and he had warned his wife to be careful.
‘You know very well what I mean. I’ve received the audit reports from the server; they all show unauthorised access and I know it was her.’
‘It’s a legitimate –’
‘Enough of this, Ilias. I don’t know how she coaxed Kareem into bypassing security but I’ll deal with him later.’
They looked into each other’s eyes, a couple of battle-hardened wolves assessing each other’s strength and neither backing down.
‘Don’t forget your level of authority, Sam. I don’t bow to your demands.’
Sam raised his voice and pointed his finger. ‘That server contains vital financial data and it’s off limits to all. Access requests go through me first. I thought I made that clear to you and your wife.’
‘Sophia’s not just anyone.’
‘You should have asked me first instead of going behind my back.’
‘We did. You turned us down each time with vague excuses. What are you hiding that’s so damn sensitive?’
The heated argument was taking place in Sam’s office but it was loud enough to draw the attention of the employees outside. When he noticed the other workers peering in at him, Sam composed himself; it was as though he’d flicked a switch and another personality took charge.
‘I haven’t been convincing enough. You’ll learn who has the authority around here,’ he warned.
‘Don’t threaten me.’
‘I don’t provide that privilege,’ Sam said, staring into Ilias’s eyes. It was then that the other man realised Sam was crazy and extremely dangerous. ‘And this discussion is over.’
Before leaving the office Ilias turned to make a final comment. ‘It’s not over and I won’t stand aside for you.’ He slammed the door behind him, the windows rattling from the force.
‘I wouldn’t spread rumours if I were you,’ Sam muttered. He picked up the phone and spoke in Arabic. ‘I want it done now and make sure you leave no traces.’
Sophia was on her way home when her mobile phone rang. Using the hands-free she said, ‘Hello, Sophia speaking.’
‘It’s me.’
Sophia reached for the volume on the car stereo and turned it down.
‘I just had a very uncomfortable meeting with Sam,’ Ilias said.
‘He knows, doesn’t he? How did it go?’ She was glad to hear from her husband but wasn’t looking forward to the news she was about to receive.
‘He knows everything, including that Kareem helped you. The man’s insane. He threatened me and God knows what he plans to do.’
‘We have to find out what he has on that server. He has no right to do as he likes.’
‘I don’t want you or Kareem trying anything again. It’s not worth it. I’ll send word to the other members and let someone else deal with it.’
‘All right, if you say so,’ Sophia said reluctantly. ‘I don’t like that man. He scares me.’
‘Is Aazim coming for dinner?’ Ilias asked, keen to change the topic.
‘I haven’t heard from him. Can you call him and find out? He doesn’t like me calling.’
‘That’s because you ring him every day! He’s a grown man, Sophia. He needs space.’
‘Don’t you start. I’ll stop nagging when he gets married and I know he’s not alone.’
‘All right, I’ll see you tonight then. Do you want me to pick up anything on the way home?’
‘No, I’ve bought everything we need. Bye.’ She hung up and turned the volume back up again.
The afternoon sun was slowly retreating, signalling the day’s end. Sophia breathed a sigh of relief as she parked the car in her usual spot outside their apartment building. The disaster of a work day was behind her and all she could think of was a hot bath followed by a foot massage from Ilias – the latter being a somewhat wishful thought. She was making her way towards the building when Mrs Sparrow came into view. Their friendly next-door neighbour was practically a member of the Elkhoury family. The elderly woman was some distance away, struggling to carry her bulging plastic bags.
Sophia called out to her and crossed the street. ‘What are you doing carrying those by yourself? Here, let me help you.’ Taking most of the bags, she said, ‘Why won’t you let me drive you? How can you carry this on your own?’
‘You’re a darling. I wasn’t planning on buying this much but one thing turned to another and here I am.’
‘You always say that,’ Sophia said and laughed.
She didn’t have time to register the mass of metal barrelling towards her. The grunt of a strained engine was the only thing she heard before the beast inflicted a deadly blow, throwing her body into the air with the ferocious impact and killing her instantly.
Mrs Sparrow stood frozen to the spot, her frail mind trying to process the scene before her. She started screaming for help, gesticulating wildly and weeping at the sight of Sophia’s dead body. The mystery car slowed for a few metres before speeding off again, its tyres spewing a plume of white smoke as it disappeared down the suburban street.
Sophia’s funeral was held on a grey and rainy day. Even so, masses of people came to pay their respects to the broken man and his son. Aazim was worried about his father. Because of the rain lashing his father’s face Aazim couldn’t tell whether Ilias was crying or not, but Ilias refused to take cover under the many umbrellas offered to him by concerned friends. He had retreated to his inner world where no one could reach him and only one thing preoccupied him: the phone call he’d received from Sam the previous night.
‘You have my condolences Ilias, what a tragic waste,’ Sam had said. ‘I received the news from the sheik and he tells me you’ve resigned. It’s unfortunate but understandable. These are tough times for you and I urge you not to forget that you have a son who needs you to be strong. Let’s hope we all learn from such terrible events and make sure they don’t happen again.’
The message was clear. Ilias had lost his wife; he couldn’t afford to lose his son too.
Chapter 1
Six months after his mother’s death, Aazim was an IT specialis
t at the height of his career. He was good at his work and had been snapped up by a computer company as a young graduate from university. Employers looked for a capacity for hard work, sound ethics, professionalism and loyalty; thirty-two year old Aazim had them all. In Arabic, his name meant ‘the determined one’. At times he felt he wasn’t taken seriously and had to work harder to prove himself because his small build, short curly hair and bad posture were features far from the alpha-male type. However, his quiet intelligence and straight-down-the-line attitude won people’s attention.
Aazim was an only child. His mother had been pregnant when his parents – both academics at the American University of Beirut – had migrated to Australia in the mid seventies. It had been a time of uncertainty and growing unrest in Lebanon as a flood of Palestinian refugees looked set to ignite a conflict with Israel at any moment. The PLO rule in south Lebanon was a nightmare for the Lebanese residents. The ‘state within a state’ had been established by the invading PLO, and countless acts of murder, torture and rape had been perpetrated by the organisation before it had cemented its control under the guise of armed resistance against Israel.
Unlike most, Aazim’s father had refused to support any one faction, religious or not, and had vigorously opposed the PLO’s presence in his country. Ilias and his friends organised student protests and tried to bring the world’s attention to the region by warning of an armed conflict that seemed imminent. As a vocal opponent of their illegal activities, Ilias received numerous death threats and was attuned to the disaster awaiting his tiny country. Threats failed to dissuade him, but when they were directed towards his wife he realised it was time to think about the future and make hard decisions. Following their close escape, a fifteen-year civil war turned Beirut to rubble.
Aazim was a Muslim but not a practising one; he preferred to keep away from the subject of his religion in general conversation with colleagues. Post 9/11 and Australia’s involvement in the ‘war against terror’, his cultural background became a hot topic. He was not an expert on the subject of Islam, and nor did he have any interest in the Middle East crisis, but when his Anglo peers joked or made sarcastic remarks about Arabs and terrorists he felt offended, despite their jocularity.
It wasn’t something he’d had to deal with throughout his life; this targeting of Muslims seemed to be a phenomenon of the past few years. He’d made a great effort to fit in and find a balance between adopting Western culture and maintaining his Arabic heritage. However, lately he’d felt increasingly isolated and it disturbed him that a cosmopolitan city like Melbourne could suddenly breed so much fear and ignorance. He believed intolerance was gripping the nation and the justice system was at the government’s mercy, with politicians using the race card for political gain.
His mother’s death had hit Aazim hard. Not able to find the culprit, the police had put it down to a hate crime, but the case remained unsolved. A strong, educated woman, Sophia had guided Aazim to the path of education and allowed him to make important decisions for himself. ‘Aazim,’ she would say to him, ‘for a person to find happiness they must be proud of who they are. You must do the right thing by others; a clear conscience keeps a healthy soul.’ For most of his adult years Aazim had tried to live by this philosophy, and it had served him well. But for the first time in his life he felt hatred for another human being: the man who had taken his mother away from him. It was a loss he could not accept.
He had moved in with his father after the accident, recognising that they needed to support each other, but living at his parents’ place was a constant reminder of his mother. The first night had been the worst.
Aazim had broken a long silence during dinner. ‘Why, Aba? Who could possibly have anything against Mum?’
‘I don’t know, Aazim, but I promise you they will answer for it,’ Ilias replied with a heavy heart.
‘How do you know that? The police have no idea who it was. Not that it’s a priority case.’
‘Have hope.’
‘What are you talking about? What hope? Mum is gone!’ Aazim burst out in anger. He was tired of people telling him it would be all right.
‘I know it’s hard for you, Aazim. I miss your mother too.’
‘It doesn’t make sense, don’t you see that?’
‘This is not helping, Aazim.’
‘Why, Aba? Why Mum? What did she ever do to deserve this? I mean, this guy comes out of nowhere and then completely disappears. No car, no driver and no one sees anything?’
‘They will find him,’ Ilias said, but without conviction.
‘You know what I think?’
‘Please, Aazim, stop this,’ Ilias pleaded.
‘I think it’s all that community stuff you’re involved in or whatever you call it. You’ve pissed someone off, some racist redneck and now Mum is dead.’
‘Stop it.’
‘She’s dead and you could be next.’
Ilias slammed his fist on the table. Without uttering a word he rose and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Aazim’s eyes drifted to the plates on the table where the food had hardly been touched. He sat in silence and cried.
In the bedroom Ilias picked up a bedside picture frame displaying a photograph of his wife and sat on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers across her face and sighed, his heart torn with grief. In the last few days he had felt tired and old, a man aged beyond his mid fifties.
‘What do I tell your son?’ he whispered, but it was a question to which he already knew the answer. He wouldn’t tell his son anything: Aazim’s life depended on it. There was only one person who could stop Sam, and Ilias had to see him personally.
Work was Aazim’s only escape and distraction. Technical jargon was like another language that occupied his mind, neutral and unassuming. And work was where he first met Rami, a person he could confide in and a fellow Arab, a warm chubby character with an Egyptian background. Their friendship had grown during their frequent conversations over lunch and coffee, from tedious time-passers to open and personal discussions about life in Australia.
Rami, a devout Muslim, accepted that his friend was not a man of the Quran like he was. He respected Aazim’s opinion but also felt it was the right time to encourage him on a path to a fulfilled life, a path to true Islam. A starting point was mentioning the local mosque and the interesting people he would meet there, a lot of them with similar stories to tell, young and educated professionals like him.
‘You should come one night and just look around,’ Rami would say, knowing that gentle and tactful persuasion was needed with a person like Aazim. He also told Aazim about the job opening at Aust Global Fund, a position for a technician in a specialist server role at the finance company. Sam, a manager at Aust Global Fund, was looking for someone with the right credentials to join this successful and growing firm in the Melbourne CBD.
The offer sounded attractive to Aazim. He was aware that his parents had worked there – his mother as an accountant – but his knowledge of the firm was limited as the family had never discussed work matters.
‘You’re wasting your brain here, Az. You should be earning twice as much. Here, have a cookie.’ Rami took out a chocolate-chip cookie and handed it to Aazim. His work drawers were stuffed with the things and crumbs clogged his keyboard, hence his nickname of Cookie Man.
Aazim conceded that a change of scenery would be good, and if the money was right his decision was already made.
Rami gave him a little background on the company: it was of dual ownership, one a Middle Eastern partner and the other Australian. ‘Sam’s real name is Saeed, but he uses his preferred name with business contacts and everybody calls him Sam now.’
‘Do you know the partners?’
‘No, just Sam. He’s half French and half Algerian but he’s lived most of his life in England. He worked all over Europe before being sent to Aust Global Fund to oversee the IT operations department.’
‘Yeah, okay, when do I meet him?’
‘Have you ever been to Masjid Saad Mosque, Az?’
‘My dad took me a few times as a kid but I can’t remember much. I’m not the most religious person, you know, but I have been to one.’ Az was a little embarrassed. He had never taken an interest in religion or really contemplated the idea of a higher being looking down on him. His parents had brought him up with education as his religion and time hadn’t afforded much else.
‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ Rami replied, ‘we can’t all be perfect.’ His belly wobbled as he laughed and took another cookie from his pocket. He gave Aazim the address of the mosque and said he would organise a meeting with Sam.
‘You’re gonna overdose on those things one day and turn into a ball of blubber,’ Az remarked.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing, crumbs flying out of Rami’s stuffed mouth.
Az visited the mosque on a week night. He programmed the address into the car’s GPS, a satellite-positioning unit that gave him the exact location of and shortest routes to his destination. He loved playing with gadgets and electronics: like a kid in a toy shop he was completely carried away by the eBay wave, becoming so addicted that he bought items simply for the challenge of outbidding other contenders. Electronic equipment – mostly stuff he didn’t need – lay all over his bedroom, such as a stun gun for forty-five dollars that had never been used.
He didn’t mention his expedition to the mosque to his father or anyone else. He wasn’t even sure why he was going. As he drew near, the first thing he noticed was the minaret towering above the dome-shaped building: a tall, graceful spire stretching towards the moon with what seemed like an onion crowning its top. Large spotlights beamed upwards from the ground, highlighting the elongated white shaft. Their original purpose was as watchtowers, later evolving into a vantage point to summon worshippers to prayer by the muezzin, usually someone with good vocal cords and a favoured character.
A few people were chatting outside while others slowly made their way inside the building. He spotted Rami talking to a clean-cut man with southern Germanic features, and his friend turned and smiled as Aazim approached them.
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