Love Thy Neighbor

by Mark Gilleo

  Ariana walked behind James and he stared straight ahead with his blue eyes.

  She put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked down at his hair. “You have ten seconds to pick the lock.”

  James pulled his hands from beneath the table. Pinched between his forefinger and his thumbs was a paperclip. He unbent the clip and slipped the end of the wire into the lock. By the time Ariana reached three, the locking mechanism released and the U-bar clicked open.

  “Where did you get the paperclip?” Abu asked skeptically.

  “He pulled it off the lid of the box,” Ariana answered. “Very deft. And quite insightful. Nice anticipation of a problem to come.”

  “You gave it away when you tested Syed and Abu. I knew something was coming.”

  “What about him?” Abu asked, nodding towards Karim. All four men had perked up. The impromptu talent show had them rapt at attention. Severe isolation and boredom are easily tamed by the slightest stimulation, as any child without siblings and with a backyard and a magnifying glass can attest to.

  Ariana pulled a piece of paper from her purse and put it on the desk in front of Karim. “Karim here is a little more cerebral. A little more creative. Consider him the Michelangelo of our group.”

  Ariana dropped a ball-point pen on the table next to the plain sheet of white paper. “A hundred dollar bill, please.”

  Karim’s left hand plotted the outline of a hundred dollar bill with a near perfect rectangle. In under a minute the bill was complete with a Ben Franklin, slightly off center to the left, just as in the real bill. The room was silent as Karim sped through the five places on the bill where the denomination was written on the front. The United States of America came next, and then the serial number in the upper left-hand corner. The Secretary of Treasury’s signature came next, a perfect forgery that even the Secretary would have had to look at twice. The Federal Reserve seal followed and then Karim went to work on the intricate outer frame of the bill. At the five minute mark, Ariana spoke. “That’s enough. I think we all get the picture.”

  James looked at Karim and the drawing of the bill. “That’s fucking incredible. All from memory.”

  “I’ve had practice.”

  “No shit,” James replied.

  Ariana stood proudly over the table and then walked to her seat.

  “Are there any questions?”

  James answered. “If we aren’t supposed to discuss ourselves, why the show-and-tell?”

  “As I said, it was necessary to know that we all bring different skills to the table. Our mission will depend on trusting one another. Trusting that each person has both the skills and the fortitude to perform under pressure. I think I have answered, or rather, I think you have answered the question as to whether the person next to you has the skills necessary for this team.”

  “What about the fortitude?” Abu asked.

  “A very good question. Indeed, that is why we are here.”

  Ariana reached into the box again and pulled out a bag of small, slightly oval, asymmetrical objects with a chocolate-swirl appearance.

  “We’re going to play a game now. The objects you see here contain one of the deadliest poisons know to man.”

  James swallowed hard once. Syed started to perspire. Abu shifted in his chair. Karim quickly counted what he could see in the bag. Fifteen.

  Ariana’s eyes made their way around the table. “Everyone here is going to eat three. In turn, we are going to consume this whole bag. Decide among you who will choose mine and I will go first.”

  “I’ll choose it,” James said eagerly.

  “Why you?” Abu retorted.

  “Because I have no allegiance to her, as you have said many times.”

  “Let her close her eyes and choose it herself,” Syed said diplomatically.

  All men nodded. Syed reached for the bag and Ariana shut her eyes. Syed rotated the bag once in the air and the three other men nodded again in silent approval. Syed guided Ariana’s hand to the top of the open bag. “The bag is under your hand. Take one when you are ready.”

  Ariana reached into the bag deliberately and grabbed the first object she touched. She put the object, with its detailed, chocolate swirl-like design in her mouth and opened her eyes. Looking around the table she swallowed without changing her facial expression.

  Ariana opened her mouth to show it was empty, swishing her tongue around as the men inspected from their respective positions around the table. “The secret,” she said, “is not to chew. If you don’t chew, I can almost guarantee that you will live.” She paused for affect. “If not, well, there are no guarantees.” Then she added, “Who’s next?”

  Abu shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll go next.” He put his hand in the bag without taking his eyes off Ariana. He pulled an object from the top of the small pile that had gathered in the corner of the plastic bag, put it in his mouth, and followed with an immediate swallow. “No problem.”

  The atmosphere went from fear to aplomb. James was not to be outdone. Without asking, he reached for the bag, plucked one, and threw it in the air. He opened his mouth, moved his head to the left, and caught the object in the back of his throat, where it disappeared.

  “Almost as smooth as opening the lock,” Syed said.

  “Almost,” James answered with a smile.

  Syed and Karim followed suit and then the rotation began again with Ariana. Two minutes later the bag was empty.

  “Does that answer the faith question once and for all?” Ariana asked, her eyes focusing on Abu.

  “As long as we all wake up in the morning,” James replied.

  Chapter 25

  The street light peeking through the crack in the curtains hit Clark in the eyes. Outside the window, young Asian males raced their souped-up, high-pitched Hondas with blue neon lights past the Pentagon on Route 395. Fidgeting for the second night in a row, Clark’s mind begged for sleep. Lisa was snoring lightly, her head facing away from him. Her auburn hair crept over the pillow, tickling his face, pushing sleep further away. With insomnia winning again, Clark stood from the bed. Lisa rolled over once and staked her claim to the real estate down the middle of the queen mattress. The red digital clock on the night stand displayed 2:33.

  Clark looked out the window over the far end of Pentagon City Mall towards the Capitol in the distance beyond the Pentagon. The roads around the Pentagon curved and swerved wildly, the result of post-9/11 paranoia and the government’s attempt to keep traffic farther from U.S. military headquarters. The fact that it was a plane that hit the Pentagon, and not a truck, was irrelevant. Clark watched as a high-octane rice-rocket zoomed by, followed by flashing lights seconds later. As the mix of lights disappeared down the onramp for the GW Parkway, Clark walked down the carpeted hall to the kitchen for water.

  Glass in hand, he strolled into the small den on the far side of the living room. Folders were neatly stacked on the floor. The shadow of a floor lamp seemed to grow from the corner behind a leather club chair. Clark opened the laptop on the desk, pressed his thumb on the power button, and sat down in the proper posture-inducing Aero Chair. With the melodic Microsoft boot-up music fading into the background of another motor racing outside the apartment, Clark searched the computer’s desktop for the Internet Explorer icon, his eyes running over names of unfamiliar applications that he had seen Lisa use. He fought the urge to poke around, and checked his personal Yahoo email account before mindlessly surfing the web. Ten minutes later, with his little devil sitting on his shoulder egging him on, Clark succumbed to the Satan of Snoop.

  He opened several applications, clicked a few icons with his mouse, and closed them without making headway. When he hit the icon for the IRS’ Master File Database Access, the screen opened with a soft red hue, and a pop up window demanded a password. Beneath the password, in bold font, was a warning: Unauthorized access to this application can result in prosecution by the Department of Treasury.

  Clark opened the small drawer in the middle of th
e desk, as he had seen Lisa do countless times, and looked at the Post-It notes that were stuck to the cover of a green plastic folder. IRS criminal investigator Lisa Prescott, like the rest of the world, needed a lesson in security. She may have carried a gun but she left her passwords written down without a lock.

  Clark read the Post-It notes and tried the first password on the list. On his third attempt, the screen turned from soft red to light green. He looked across the living room of the condo towards the darkness of the hall and considered what he had done. Screw prosecution, he thought. He was more worried about a serious breach of trust between him and the sleeping beauty in the bedroom he was falling in love with. He also knew there was something he needed to check. Just so he could sleep at night, if he could put the light coming through the curtains and the street racers outside out of his mind.

  The Master File Database Access (MFDA) for the IRS is the largest single non-commercial database in the world and the second largest overall after Wal-Mart’s inventory database. Clark was sitting on the front porch to the house of personal tax data and the door was wide open. He poked around the menus on the first page and read through the dozen search criteria from which to choose. Last Name, Social Security Number, Address, Date of Birth. He punched in his mother’s address, and a list of supporting data filled the screen. He was sure Lisa had spent a few hours perusing the same screens he was now viewing for the first time. Somehow, the thought of his parents being investigated made his breach of trust feel righteous. If one looks hard enough for justification, one will find it.

  He paused and listened for noise from the bedroom, but the sound of another police siren outside echoed off the walls of the den turned office. He hit the button for a new search and the computer returned to the previous screen. With trepidation and guilt overridden by the still-present devil on his shoulder, he changed the house address on the previous screen by one number.

  Nazim Shinwari and Ariana Amin. Married in 1999. Property records showed that the house was also bought in 1999 with a current outstanding mortgage just north of $235,000. All tax forms were complete and filed on time. The couple had never been audited. Of course not, Clark thought. The IRS is too busy auditing dead Americans. Liana was listed as the couple’s only dependent.

  Clark went back to the opening page and searched by name. He ran a query for Nazim Shinwari as an individual and found a glut of information. He was a U.S. citizen, naturalized in 1992 in Detroit. His occupation as a car mechanic seemed genuine, as did the salary Clark imagined would go with the position. Born in Pakistan in 1969. Started paying taxes in 1990 in Dearborn, Michigan. No relatives listed.

  Clark plugged the name Ariana Amin into the name field and left the address and other fields blank. An hour glass appeared on the screen and a few seconds later the computer listed nine different individuals with the same name throughout the U.S. All those were listed under their current addresses. His neighbor was the only one in the Washington area. Her records indicated that she hadn’t paid taxes prior to her joint return with Nazim after they were married. Her social security number was issued in 1996. As Clark read the next field his eyes bugged. No known relatives. Clark’s mind raced back to his conversation with Ariana.

  “What are you doing up?” Lisa asked from down the hall.

  Startled, Clark almost fell from the chair.

  Lisa, wearing only a long t-shirt, was rubbing her eyes as she walked past the entrance to the kitchen.

  Clark’s face lit up in fear and he fumbled to log out of the application. “Just checking email. I couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled as his index finger speed-tapped the button on the mouse.

  Lisa got closer and Clark realized the computer would not shut down in time. He jammed his finger on the power-off switch, and as Lisa’s hand hit Clark’s shoulder the computer went dark. “I’m finished.”

  “Good. Come back to bed. Keep me warm.”

  Clark’s racing heart from his breach of trust episode combined forces with the sudden increase in bloodflow to his manhood, and he sprang from his chair. “Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  As Clark followed the well-shaped legs of his new girlfriend, the functioning portion of his brain was still at the computer. Maybe my mother isn’t so crazy after all.

  Chapter 26

  The steady pulse of an AK-47 emptying its magazine pierced the air over the bustling swarm of people negotiating prices. In any other market a high-powered semi-automatic, even a perfect replica, would have sent patrons to the floor scurrying on their hands and knees. Children would have their ears covered, their bodies draped by protective mothers. But in the Sakhakot market, where twenty people a year are killed by raining bullets, no one even flinched as the AK-47 spent its load. The buyers and sellers knew that the risk of lethal projectiles was part of the trade.

  Al-Zahim, hands tough as leather with steel-like calluses, wiped down a .357 magnum as he waited for his potential client to empty the full magazine into the air. When the gunfire stopped, Al-Zahim spoke. “I will throw in a case of ammunition for free.”

  “Ammunition is hardly worth carrying back home.”

  “What good is a gun without ammunition?”

  “I can get ammunition anywhere.”

  “Not real ammunition with an official Russian Army stamp.”

  The patron, dressed in a traditional salwar kameez, ignored the statement. “How much for the gun?”

  “Thirty.”

  “That’s too much. The guy on the corner is selling two for forty,” the customer said, gesturing towards a storefront in the distance.

  “Maybe he would. But do you want a gun, or do you want a near-perfect piece of machinery? I have been in this shop for over thirty years. I make weapons that are precise replicas. Some say they are better than the real thing. Built by hand with identical material and then blessed by Allah.” Al-Zahim, the art of the sale perfected over the decades, paused for effect. “But I think you already know this.”

  The customer stared down the sight of the weapon while pointing it across the crowd at a man selling grenades for a shoulder-launching RPG.

  “You have a reputation,” the patron responded, pointing the gun into Al-Zahim’s store.

  Al-Zahim gently pushed the barrel of the gun towards the ground. “No, I have a good reputation.”

  “How much for two?”

  “Sixty.”

  “One for thirty and two for sixty?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Forget it.”

  Al-Zahim leaned forward and pulled the assault rifle from the grip of the customer. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. If you don’t see me, I’ll be in the back working.”

  The customer huffed once and walked to the next storefront.

  “Did you lose a customer?” a voice called from the workshop in the back of the store.

  “He’ll be back,” Al-Zahim answered. He grabbed a towel off the back of his chair and wiped the ever-present dust off his wares. More gunfire exploded from a .50 caliber machine gun and the trees on a hill on the far side of the market danced, leaves and branches falling to the Earth.

  Al-Zahim pushed aside the small canvas curtain and entered the back of the store. His brother was working on another AK-47. A piece of metal that would become the gun’s barrel was pinched firmly in a vise as Al-Zahim’s younger brother lovingly filed the metal to perfection. The back of the store was hot. The air was stale. Al-Zahim’s brother, in his fifties but no longer counting the years, sweated profusely. His shirt stuck to his back, his hair dripping with perspiration.

  A young boy appeared at the back of the shop near the heated foundry where metal was forged, hammered, and re-forged. His sandaled feet shifted on the dirt path that ran behind the strip of shops. His clothes were sweaty but otherwise clean, his face serious.

  “Are you Al-Zahim?” the boy asked.

  “I am.”

  “I have a letter for you.”

  “Wh
o are you?

  “I was told not to say.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nine.”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No. I was told to give you this letter and return as quickly as I can.”

  The boy held out his hand. Pinched between his grubby fingers was a folded piece of paper. Al-Zahim exchanged glances with his brother and stepped forward to retrieve the note. The boy extended his hand, let go of the letter, and vanished.

  Al-Zahim picked his glasses off the workbench and slipped them over his ears. He opened the letter and caressed his graying beard as his eyes darted from letter to letter, word to word. When he reached the end, he started over at the beginning. Halfway through his second pass, a tear ran down his cheek and his hands started to shake.

  His brother stood from his short stool and put his hand on Al-Zahim’s shoulder. “What is it, brother?”

  “My daughter is going to be a martyr,” he said. “Allah Akbar.”

  His brother read the note and smiled.

  “That is wonderful news.”

  “Now everyone will see that my decision was the right one.”

  “I never doubted you.”

  “My wife did.”

  “It’s too bad she did not live long enough to see your success.”

  “It is time to celebrate,” Al-Zahim said, tears of joy still on his face. He reached into a wooden box similar to a foot locker and pulled out two grenades. He threw one to his brother and pulled the pin on the one in his left hand. They both exited the rear of the shop and lobbed the grenades into the bed of a small stream that ran twenty yards from the back of the shops. The Earth shook and mud rained down in large thick drips as the brothers embraced. Celebration, Sakhakot style.

  Chapter 27

  The small communal metal table with an unknown history in the corner of the warehouse was well-worn. Two of its folding legs were dented, bent in some past mishap and then straightened for further use. The matching chairs were equally abused, the thin padding torn from its moorings, the caps on the end of the legs long since missing in action.