Watched

by Marina Budhos

  When he flips on the controller, there’s contempt in his arms, his shoulders, as if to say Join me if you want to, little guy. I don’t know how he does it. Even here, in this pathetic little room, in the same unwashed clothes, Ibrahim has a way of making me seem ordinary.

  On the screen is Far Cry, a solo shooter game, paused midsequence. The sighter is trained on a valley, snowcapped ranges in the distance. Now he’s bent forward, control in his hands, leaning into the game, steering the shooter around boulders and long grasses. Blowing open a steel box. Soon he’s completely absorbed, shoulders, arms shaking as he aims at a figure in the distance. The game’s over. He slams down the controller and looks up, wild-eyed, as if surprised to see me here.

  And that’s when I know.

  Or I think I know.

  It’s the eyes: pin-bright, like imploded stars. A deadness inside. He doesn’t see me. He sees through me, past me.

  The light sifts down from the windows. For the first time I notice the screen on his computer. Opened to Islamawake. “I better go,” I say. I can’t breathe. “Gotta pick up my little brother.” I feel queasy, as if the floor is made of waves rolling beneath me.

  He casts me a beatific smile. “Someday,” he murmurs, “you’ll see, Naeem. What I can do. There are always people holding you down. But I’ll have my day.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble.

  I leave. The whole trip back on the subway, I can’t shake that scene: Ibrahim, hunched in front of a flashing screen, fingers tensed on the controller. That chilly ocean washing up under me. Tugging me deeper, into what I don’t know.

  —

  I stand under the elevated line’s slashing shadows, where I usually meet Taylor and Sanchez. I’m trembling like crazy, as if I’ve got a fever. I’ve got to blurt this out quick.

  Taylor’s on the other end of the line, waiting. I know he’s surprised by my call.

  “You want to know about lone wolves?” I finally say.

  A pause. “Yeah.”

  A train passes; dirty water cascades down the flaking metal girders. I’m losing my nerve.

  “Naeem?”

  There’s a distant whoosh, a train approaching. It stops in a tornado of noise. My mouth opens, shuts again.

  “I have a friend.”

  Sanchez.

  Not on a stool, or in the back. Sitting right opposite me, in broad daylight, shaking his sugar packet into his coffee. Grinning. No dodge and fake here. No two-bit kid sitting in the shadows, pocketing bills. No sneaky walk in a strange neighborhood. I’ve moved up; I’m one of them. I’m redeemed in Sanchez’s eyes. I got the stuff. It’s like a reunion from that first night they took me to the diner.

  It’s been about a week. I’ve told them everything. About Ibrahim’s computer. His strange talk. They’ve been able to do some intelligence on him. They picked up some kind of intercept. Postings. Chatter about family in Pakistan. Time to join two parts, one said. No more feuds. We are one.

  But I don’t know. It could be nothing. It could be what Ibrahim said—a squabble. A misunderstanding. Maybe he was serious about that online stuff. But that was Ibrahim, always deep in his head. Lost on the Internet. As usual, I don’t have the big picture. I’m swimming too far down in the murk. I wish I knew for sure what Ibrahim meant.

  “We need more,” Taylor urges. “Did he say anything about what he’s doing next?”

  I keep turning Ibrahim’s words over, trying to remember, trying to understand. But there’s no understanding. Just that uneasy feeling in his apartment. His paranoid talk. And his eyes. And this: my chance to set things right. Dude didn’t even admit to what he did to me. What do I owe him? Nothing.

  “He’s planning something,” I blurt out.

  A look flashes between them. “Go on,” Taylor says.

  “I can’t say what. But he says it’s big.”

  I feel the air go taut.

  “He give you specifics?”

  “No.”

  Again the silent conference between these two.

  “Look, it might be nothing. Probably just some family drama.”

  “No doubt,” Sanchez says.

  We fall silent. I feel sick and cold and sick again. “Maybe he’s just mixed up.”

  “Maybe,” Taylor concedes. “But you want to take a chance?”

  I shrug. I don’t know what to say.

  “Naeem.” Taylor’s looking at me, straight on. “Get real. He’s the guy who left you in the lurch.”

  “Yeah,” I manage.

  “That sucks. He a friend of yours from school?”

  I shake my head. “No. Around.”

  “What about his family? Who he hangs with?”

  I shake my head again. “I don’t know. It’s like we had this thing. We’d hang around, just with each other.”

  “A loner,” Sanchez observes.

  I wince. “I guess.”

  “See?” Taylor’s hands are splayed. “You never know a person. Not really.”

  “Sucks,” Sanchez echoes.

  My mood has gone gray. I know I should be jumping with joy. Finally! I showed them. Gave them a solid lead. But there’s an unease twitching underneath my thoughts. I’m not sure about Ibrahim. Is he going over to the other side? I don’t know. I know what I’ve been pushing away all these months, doing better in my life, rising up to skim air, sun. Underneath, though, there was this dark cave of hurt. Not the one with Abba, with Ibrahim. I couldn’t understand why he cut me like that.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Naeem. In this line of work, you never know. Someone can be one way on the outside. But inside”—he shakes his head—“whew.”

  Sanchez grins. “But now you got to hang with us.”

  “Yeah, great,” I mumble.

  “You know the conveyor belt theory?” asks Taylor.

  I shake my head, tired. I want this conversation to be over.

  “Someone’s on it, heading toward radicalization. It’s where we catch them, before they can do damage.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Push it harder. Keep up the conversation. Ask him his feelings about the government. Keep it going. Ask if you can help. Say you know people. That you’re fed up too.”

  “But isn’t that, like, trapping him?”

  “It’s procedure,” Sanchez puts in crisply.

  “Okay.” After all, I’m the one who told them about Ibrahim. What did I think would happen? That they would take him off my hands? Of course not. I’m in deeper than I was before. I check my watch. It’s time for me to get back to the store and help Abba. “That it? You going to pay me?”

  A glance between the two of them. I can feel the frustration boiling up inside me. I hate this—their little tease with money. It’s never straightforward.

  “There is one thing. An item—”

  “What?” I ask, irritated. I just want to leave, pocket my bills, and later sort out the questions sloshing inside me.

  “A wire,” Sanchez confirms.

  A small prickle at the back of my neck. This is more than I bargained for. But it’s exciting, too.

  Then he reaches into his pocket. It’s tiny as can be, encased in black plastic, resting in his palm. It looks kind of like a Bluetooth, only the clip is different.

  “You understand?”

  A puckering in the air, drawing us close, secret.

  I can see Ibrahim’s haggard look, blots of shadow under his eyes. Is that who I wanted to catch? But maybe they’re right. Ibrahim is plotting something. This is my chance. To do something for real. Slip a tiny device inside my shirt. Talk smooth, so he doesn’t even notice where I’m leading. Set the trap.

  “Do I have to?” I ask.

  “It’s the only way,” Sanchez replies.

  —

  “Naeem?”

  It’s Zahir, his eyes shining like an insect’s in the dark.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”

  He’s rubbing his eyes with
his fists. “I had a bad dream.”

  As I sit down on the edge of his bed, he flings his arms around my neck and presses against me, trembling. I feel his thin ribs against mine, his breaths panicked and fast.

  “What kind of dream?” I ask. His neck smells tangy-orange, of soap and shampoo.

  “I don’t know. There’s this country. No, not a country, it’s a world. A planet. They’re on the ceiling. They want to take me away. They want me to go with them.”

  I get up and pour him a glass of water from the bathroom sink, which he gulps, his lips parched. His eyes are fever-bright wicks, which scares me. Every now and then this happens. He sleepwalks and stutters about alternate worlds and people and numbers chasing him. Zahir’s always been a light sleeper, hypersensitive to noise and light. He hears and sees things, and then they rise in him, an insistent chain of words.

  “Hey,” I tease. “What about those math books? Have you been working on them?”

  “Some,” he says. “But I need you.”

  I laugh. “You know how bad I am at math. You’re the whiz.”

  He slips his hand into my palm, his voice tiny. “Will you help me?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “You won’t.”

  “Zahir,” I say, getting a little impatient. “I told you. I will.” I pat the covers. “It’s time to go to sleep.”

  “Where are you going all the time? Why can’t you just stay?”

  I slide my arms around his thin shoulders, hold him to me. “Nowhere,” I whisper.

  Eventually I feel him give way, his little body releasing. His breathing grows long, steady. I gently tuck him back in, smooth the covers over his quieted limbs.

  Then I see: he was working on the desk that sits between our two narrow beds. The math book I bought for him is opened. But so is my computer. When I go to shut it down, the hairs on the back of my hand tickle.

  At least a half-dozen windows open on my screen. Sites, all the ones I know, the ones I follow for Taylor. I did not leave them open. I never leave them open.

  But then again, I’ve been so freaked about the Ibrahim situation, maybe I did.

  One by one, I point the arrow in the corner, click so they vanish. But even after they’re all closed, I can’t stop shaking.

  I don’t know how to stop this.

  FILE

  Subject: Ibrahim Syed, 19 years old

  Address: Unknown. Presently residing at XXXX 165th Street, Jamaica, NY

  DOB: XXXXXXXX

  SSN: XXXXXXXXX

  Mosque: Queens Islam Center

  • Inquiry indicates that Ibrahim Syed is a frequent contributor to a Salafist Web forum called IslamAwake.com that is primarily for an English-speaking audience. This forum has been affiliated with the teachings of individuals who have been associated with individuals engaged in terrorism or criminal activity related to terrorism. Syed has posted before and after significant speeches telecast on the website.

  • Attended LaGuardia Community College but is no longer enrolled.

  • Landlord’s name not obtained. Residence last occupied by several unidentified men of South Asian descent.

  • Initial information obtained from neighbors describes erratic behavior and isolation from family. Family members travel to Pakistan with some regularity.

  Plan of Action

  • Subpoena phone records and submit for analysis.

  • Continue surveillance.

  • Pole camera request at corner of 165th Street.

  • Mail cover request.

  The sun is a wobbling spot in the sky. Another blazing hot August day. The apartment is humming with all the fans that are on. Abba is already in the living room; he has just finished his prayers. He rises, folds his prayer rug away in the closet. His shirt is patched with sweat.

  Why do I always feel so flimsy next to my father? Even with the money I brought in last night—five hundred dollars! Only Abba is solid in the world.

  Abba, I want to say. The question burns in my mouth. What should I do? But we don’t talk like that.

  “You are coming today to the store?” he asks.

  “I have to work.” My stomach tightens. I’m supposed to meet Taylor, get my instructions.

  He shuffles to the refrigerator, snaps open the door, and retrieves the tubs of rice and kitchrie he and Amma will eat behind their counter today. The new stock is moving—they even had to order some more manila folders.

  Ask him. Ask him. I’m sure my heart’s going to explode out of my chest.

  “Abba, was there ever a time when you had to do something…and you weren’t sure if it was right?”

  His eyebrows bristle, suspicious. “Somebody ask you for a bribe?”

  “No, Abba.”

  “Bribe I never do.”

  “I know, Abba. It’s not that.” This is what Abba always talks about! As if we’re still in Bangladesh. I don’t know how to explain that that’s not the way it is here. That’s not what matters. “I mean…like being asked to do something against a friend.”

  He goes into gruff silence, stares at his feet. He takes so long I wonder if he’s forgotten the question. After a while he looks up, his eyes squinted small. “This question is not a question,” he says. “No one makes you do something. You do it. You. Do not act as if it is someone else. One time they asked me to do a bribe. I said no. I said no again. But then my mother said, we have no choice. But that is not true. We do have a choice. Even if I do something bad, even if I do it because it helps my family, or me, it is my choice.”

  To my surprise, my breath is still, caught in my throat. That’s more advice than my father has ever given to me. Ever.

  Grunting, he moves toward the hall. “Long day, hanh?” I hear the front door shut.

  I almost run after him. Abba! I want to call. I want to be little like Zahir, full of terror and love, able to fling my arms around my father’s waist, hard.

  —

  Outside, the heat hits me like an aluminum pan right between the eyes. The streets are all glare and heat. My lashes feel singed. After a couple of blocks, I duck into a little bodega and suck down a cold Coke under the slanted shade of an awning, where I was told to wait.

  An Asian lady stands next to me, using an umbrella for the sun. Her skin is tinted milky-pink from the bowed red nylon.

  “Bus comes here?” she asks.

  “I think so.” I shift uncomfortably. It’s too hot to go any farther, out of the shade.

  “I wait for bus. Always late.” She looks at me curiously. “You are waiting for bus?”

  “No. A friend.”

  “Lucky you. I have factory, but bus always late.”

  I know, lady, I think. You said that already. The heat’s drilling a bit into my skull. Where is Taylor? I’ll get my wire and instructions, then I’m off. I just want this to be over.

  Taylor’s car glides up. His sunglasses bounce with light. Sanchez is beside him, wolfing down what looks like an Egg McMuffin.

  “Morning!” He grins.

  “Morning!” The woman smiles, as if he’s talking to her.

  “You’ve got a friend,” Taylor observes as I climb in beside him.

  We turn off the main thoroughfare, where the slow-moving pedestrians are suspended in the sun’s glaze. Taylor’s car bumps on broken asphalt. “Listen, buddy. I was thinking. This must be kinda hard for you,” he says.

  “It is.”

  “Talk to me.” That voice, like a father’s, knowing.

  The tight pain in my temples loosens just a little. “What if Ibrahim…doesn’t take up on what I’m saying?”

  He laughs. “We’ve got other fish to fry, Naeem. You think the department wants to waste all its resources on some kid fooling around on the Internet?”

  I grin, despite myself. “I guess not.”

  “That’s the spirit. If it’s a bust, we’ve got other work for you.”

  This cheers me. I sink back into the seat, watch how Taylor’s got his hand on the wh
eel, as if we have all the time in the world. Now we’re steering down narrow streets of low aluminum-sided houses, then a boxy lineup of warehouses and garages.

  Taylor pulls the car to the side, shuts off the ignition. He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a black nub of plastic. The wire. Leaned over the console between the two front seats, he shows me how to clip the device to my jeans waistband. It feels cool and hard against my bare skin. With his thumb, he flicks a small swatch of thick electrical tape to keep it fixed against my stomach.

  “Here’s the deal. You wear this. When you’re done with your day, we take it off you. We put it on and pull it off. You never touch it. Never walk off with a wire, understand?”

  “Don’t even think about going anywhere,” Sanchez adds. “Showing it off to your pals—”

  There’s heat on my face. “I wouldn’t do that!”

  Taylor settles back in the driver’s seat. “Okay, now we’re gonna go meet someone special.”

  “Aren’t we driving to his place?” I can’t even say Ibrahim’s name out loud.

  “We’ve got some agency cooperation here. FBI.” He adds, “Another guy. So you don’t have to do all the heavy lifting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s like me and Sanchez. We’re a team. Yin and yang and all that.”

  What about you and me? I want to say.

  “This guy is the best,” he says as he starts the car and makes a right on the next street. “Experienced. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be your backup. You lay the foundation. Once you get Ibrahim warmed up, the idea is you introduce him as your friend. He’s the one with the connections, who can help with the plan. He’ll take it from there.”

  A hundred questions crowd my mind. Is this really happening—FBI? A partner? We’ve drawn up to a place where rows of gleaming hubcaps are stacked against a wall. Several cars are jacked up on lifts. From inside the warehouse a guy moves toward us, wiping his hands on a rag. Something about him is familiar. The thick crop of wavy black hair. The sloped shoulders. I blink. It can’t be.