Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

“We’re not just wearing face shields, we’re going with full-blown pressurized suits and respirators.” Rick sounded excited. “And the CDC set up a decon tent at the scene.”

  “Better safe than sorry. Got everything we need?” Ken asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Quinn looked it over to make sure. I’ll drive. I’ve got keys.”

  “Fine with me.”

  They walked in silence to the parking lot until Rick said, “You look refreshed.” He lowered himself into the same car he had just driven from the airport.

  “Looks can be deceiving.” He shut the passenger door. “I hadn’t lifted in a few days, so I did some quick sets. I showered. I was about to hit the sack when Quinn called.”

  “Go ahead and sleep. I’ve got the address. It’s fifteen miles away and I’m told it will take at least forty minutes, which is unreal by the way. It’s going to take me a long time to get used to LA traffic.” Rick started the car.

  “I’m not gonna sleep. I’ll feel worse if I do.” Ken leaned forward and adjusted the air conditioning.

  “So, what do you think we’ll find out there?” Rick turned to look over his shoulder and back out.

  “We’re hoping not to find anything to indicate this death is related to terrorism.”

  “But what do you think we might find to confirm it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s rare to find an Islamic flag and an intricate map of the sewer system on the wall, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking. Jeez.” He glanced at the navigation screen. “Quinn said you were U.S. Army Infantry same as him before the FBI. How long were you active duty?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t talk to me right now, okay? I have a headache.” Ken turned on the radio and closed his eyes.

  Rick ran his hand through his hair and kept his eyes on the road.

  The next thing Ken heard was Rick saying, “Wake up,” and turning off the ignition.

  “That was quick.” Ken rubbed his cheeks.

  Rick stifled a yawn. “No, it wasn’t. There was a wreck on the 110 overpass.” He got out of the car and stretched his arms to the sky, taking in the police and barriers blocking the end of the modest, otherwise unremarkable street. Police tape cordoned off a small house from the road. The word QUARANTINE wound around the perimeter on yellow tape, from the edge of the back yard to the front, crossing the sidewalk and meeting the roadblock signs in the street. Signs posted all around the property sent a clear message. No Entry or Removal. Unauthorized Keep Off. Danger - Infection Hazard.

  The agents exited their car carrying their PPE and evidence collection boxes. They approached one of the police guards and presented their identification.

  “FBI, huh? Guys from the CDC just left with the body,” the guard said. “Do you know what this is about?”

  Rick said, “We’re going to—”

  Ken interrupted. “We’re here to find out. We’ll change and have a look.”

  Neighbors stood gawking from a safe distance as Rick and Ken slipped on alien-looking protective suits.

  They awkwardly ducked under the yellow tape and headed across the front yard. “I’m already sweating in this thing,” said Rick. “And you look like a giant beast. Like The Thing from the Fantastic Four. Hey, why was Quinn so freaked out about my PPE? He talked to me about it again before we left.”

  “Something happened when he was in the military, in Iraq. Whatever it was got him into bioterrorism. That’s all I know. It’s classified. But, your father will probably tell you if you ask him.”

  Rick frowned.

  Walking up Pivani’s front path, evidence of the man’s violent sickness surrounded them. They maneuvered cautiously around dark streaks and splotches as if they were participating in a macabre obstacle course. They stepped across the blood-stained entryway and stopped on a patch of unsoiled carpet to survey the front room.

  “This guy wasn’t about to win any decorating awards. And he definitely wasn’t a hoarder,” Rick said.

  “You don’t need to provide a running commentary,” Ken said.

  The living room of the small ranch home contained a few pieces of simple furniture in good condition, aside from blood spatter. A framed college diploma hung on an otherwise bare wall. Rick lifted a framed photograph from its spot on an end table to take a closer look. Inside the frame, Raj Pivani stood between a bearded older man and a woman wearing a hijab.

  “Raj and his parents, I presume.” Rick set the frame down exactly where he found it.

  “The majority of Muslims aren’t terrorists, but every terrorist seems to be a Muslim,” Ken said.

  “That’s random. Won’t a comment like that get your ass in trouble?” Rick said.

  “You’re in the real world now, Rick. Life isn’t a PC college campus. Islamic State supporters don’t represent the majority of Muslims, but being a minority doesn’t make them any less of a major threat.”

  “Timothy McVeigh, the Unabomber-Ted Kaczynski, Eric Rudolph, Dylan Roof. Not Muslims.”

  “Yeah, okay, but the ones from outside this country. And that’s a short list you came up with, by the way. If people knew what we knew, if they sat in on the debrief meetings, they would be hiding in their basements, afraid to leave their homes, begging the President not to let anyone else in the country.”

  Rick frowned. “Immigration and refugee bans have a low statistical probability of preventing terrorist attacks. They might possibly prevent a few suicide bombers from sneaking in, but plenty of them are already here. And we can’t read minds.”

  “Was that your college thesis or something?” Ken sneered.

  Rick ignored him. “And we don’t know if this guy, Pivani, is a Muslim anyway.”

  “Of course he is. Did you see what his mother was wearing in the picture?”

  Rick dropped to his knees to peer under the couch. “Still, doesn’t mean he is.”

  “What I said is the truth. Rashid would tell you the same,” Ken muttered. “You sure don’t sound much like your father. He made it pretty clear he wants to keep the Muslims out.”

  From the other side of the room, Rick raised his voice in anger. “That’s not true.”

  “Someone turns grouchy when he’s tired,” Ken said.

  “Are you talking about me or yourself?”

  Ken snorted in response. He was in a bad mood. Tired. He’d missed two workouts and his body craved the endorphins those sessions generated. He was sweating like crazy under his PPE. And the text Quinn had sent didn’t help any. Quinn had told him to look out for Rick. “Teach him all you can at Pivanis.” Christ. He was essentially on babysitting duty. Clenching his jaw, he lifted the couch cushions one by one. He reached his gloved hands into the corners and along the edges. Finding nothing aside from lint, he stood next to an armchair in front of a small flat-screen television and looked around. No music, no videos, no DVDs.

  Thick engineering text books, history books, and two Tom Clancy novels stood neat and straight on a small bookcase, lined up in order of height. Rick opened each book, holding the spines facing the ceiling. He carefully rifled the pages and allowed them to flick apart one by one.

  “Good,” Ken said, watching him.

  The agents created grid patterns with their eyes, roving over every surface, floor to ceiling, making sure they hadn’t missed anything in the sparsely-furnished room.

  “Let’s hit the kitchen. I see his computer.” Ken picked up a laptop from the kitchen table, unplugged the cord, and slid both into an evidence bag from which it would be disinfected before being given to Rashid.

  “I’ve got his cell,” Rick said. He slid it off the counter, placed it in another bag, and added it to the evidence box.

  “Stay here and check out the kitchen,” Ken said. “I’ll go look through the bedroom. Holler if you have any questions. Don’t mess anything up.”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “It’s
not like I haven’t had training.”

  “But that’s all you’ve had.”

  An eerie breakfast tableau sat untouched in the kitchen. Two eggs congealed inside a pan on the cooktop. Dark drops trailed across the laminate counter and dotted a plate with toast.

  Rick opened the kitchen cabinets to reveal well-stocked shelves with neatly arranged containers of peanut butter, cans of tuna fish, and boxes of pasta. The refrigerator held dozens of water bottles, and some basic groceries: eggs, milk, orange juice, butter, and a few labeled Tupperware containers.

  “An organized planner,” Rick said to himself. He closed the refrigerator door and noted the almost bare, white surface void of memos, mementos, and take-out menus. In the center of the freezer section, a single silver magnet held a Chargers football ticket.

  Rick was looking under the sink when he heard Ken yell, “Oh! Shit!”

  “Everything okay?” Rick said.

  “Yeah. Apparently, the CDC thought the disaster in the toilet seemed worth saving. Don’t ask me why Raj didn’t flush it himself. He managed to get out of here okay and die on his porch.”

  “I’ve never died before. I couldn’t tell you what he was thinking,” Rick said.

  “Someone has to flush the damn thing eventually.” Ken pressed the lever and waited for the toilet to evacuate its messy contents. “Took three flushes to get it down.”

  “The other bathroom is clean, like no one has ever used it,” Rick said.

  “If he was a loner like everyone who knows him seems to think, probably no one has.”

  Inside the bedroom, Ken opened doors and drawers revealing undershirts, T-shirts, boxers, and shorts, all neatly folded, even the underwear. Several pairs of dark and khaki pants, white and blue dress shirts, two dark suits and a dozen ties hung from a bar in the closet. On the top shelf of the closet, Ken found a large shoebox. He lowered it down and opened its contents on the bed. The box contained photos of a younger Raj, surrounded by other young adults, in a college campus setting. “Looks like he had friends at some point,” Ken said out loud. He emptied the photos into the collection bag in case they needed to contact the people in them. He opened another door. “Found a prayer mat in this front closet,” he hollered to Rick.

  “So what?” Rick yelled back. “That doesn’t make him a terrorist.”

  “Makes him a Muslim though—probably. There’s not much else. Gather his trash. We’ll go through it back at the office.”

  Rick walked back to the kitchen, removed the bag of trash, and placed it carefully in one of his own biohazard bags. With the bag still grasped in his hand, he stared up toward the ceiling. “Humpf!” He snatched the ticket off the refrigerator and put it in an evidence bag. “You know . . . um, have you found anything to indicate he’s a sports fan?”

  Ken shook his head. “He doesn’t seem to have any hobbies. No weights or exercise machines. Like no life outside work.”

  “Yeah, I got that feeling too. But he has a Chargers football ticket on his fridge.”

  “A souvenir?”

  “No, it’s for this Sunday’s game. A really good seat too. Shame it’s going to go to waste.”

  “You can’t use it,” Ken said.

  “Yeah. I know that.” Rick’s tone made it clear he found Ken’s comment offensive.

  “It might be proof he wasn’t planning on dying,” Ken said.

  “Maybe. Um, I’m going to look around one more time.”

  “Make sure we’ve got all the trash.”

  Rick walked slowly through the house opening doors and peeking in closets, searching for something to disprove his notion that the ticket was out of place. “No team jerseys or caps. No sports equipment of any kind in the house. The ticket is…odd.”

  “Maybe his employer gives away tickets as perks. I wouldn’t know anything about that personally,” Ken said. “But some companies do it.”

  “Eh. He worked at a nuclear facility. Do they entertain clients? I don’t think so.”

  “I think we’re done here.” Ken looked around a final time to ensure nothing was missed.

  After they were sprayed down in the decontamination tent and extricated from their PPE, Ken called Rashid and put him on speaker phone. “We’re on our way back with Pivani’s computer and cell. We’ll drop them off and then hit the showers because we’re drenched with sweat.”

  “What else did you find?” Rashid said.

  “Nothing. If there’s anything to find, it will be on his computer,” Ken said.

  “Okay. I’m waiting on it.”

  “Wait,” Rick said. “Can you check something for me?”

  “What are you going to ask him?” said Ken, at the same time Rashid said, “Sure.”

  “Can you see if there’s any record of this guy attending football games or any other sporting events?” Rick said. “See if he purchased a Chargers ticket on his credit card, and if not, can you find out if his employers might have given away Chargers tickets?”

  “Will do,” Rashid said. “That all?”

  “Yes. Thanks,” said Rick.

  Ken disconnected the call.

  “He can do just about anything, huh? And I can’t believe he didn’t ask why,” Rick said.

  “Yep. He’s amazing at his job because he has the necessary experience. Unlike you, he doesn’t ask too many questions. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a double agent, someone chosen to spy on us because we’d never suspect you.”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Paris

  November 4th

  Kareem bit his nails to the quick on the train to Paris. He prayed for strength almost continuously, yet almost missed his sunset prayers. He needed to pull it together, channel his energy into serving without doubts, fear, or guilt. None of this was about him. It didn’t matter if he felt brave or terrified. Following through was the only act that counted now. His parents were dead. He had no wife or children. This, right here and right now, was the path Allah uniquely created by blessing him with everything necessary to make it happen—his American birth, his biomedical engineering expertise, his multilingual skills. This was all about Allah and honoring His plan. The events had been destined long before Al-Bahil found him. Say all of that enough times and it will be believed.

  During his travels from Syria, he wondered about the bombs scheduled to detonate in Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston. He had visited Boston when he was younger. He remembered Faneuil Hall, an enormous hollowed-out house crowded with food vendors and tables. He also remembered a mall with a giant escalator stretching from outside to indoors. Soon, people might be scrambling around Boston’s busy streets looking over their shoulders, too afraid to gather along the Charles River or enter once crowded museums. They may never feel carefree riding the subways again. But that fear would be temporary. It was nothing relative to the fear his virus would cause.

  Chaos and fear. Fear created a temporary feeling, one that needed to be reinstated repeatedly for the weak Americans. Unlike a subway attack, the fear caused by the spread of the virus would stay with them much longer. Maybe forever. Like their mantra for 9/11—Never Forget.

  He wondered about the last big attack on America. He honestly didn’t know what it was. So many organizations hated America. Any one of them might have recently succeeded in demonstrating just how much. He scanned his internet feed and found nothing about recent terrorism. He wanted to search for the information, but doing so would be incredibly stupid. The CIA or FBI or MI6 were always listening and watching. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the mission now. He didn’t want to be nabbed when he stepped out of the airplane because of his internet activity. He wouldn’t accomplish much from inside a jail cell. He turned back to his phone and internet browser. There was plenty of news about football, one of America’s biggest obsessions. He’d been interested once. He vaguely remembered middle school arguments in which he’d participated over who was the bet
ter team, the Lions or Packers. Always the Packers. Those days seemed a long time ago.

  In front of him, a young woman wearing earbuds waited to get through security. One hip jutted to the left in her tight jeans. Her short top revealed a few inches of her abdomen and a silver ring piercing her navel. The sight of her bare skin caused him to shudder: he was reminded of Al-Bahil’s gift. He pictured the young girl’s pretty face and how she looked on his bed. She’d had no choice. And now he felt sorry for her. Kareem wasn’t symptomatic, so no one around him at the airport was at risk, but he’d had intimate sexual contact with the girl and exchanged body fluids. She was going to get sick. Something turned in the pit of his stomach. He felt filthy inside. He scratched at his neck. He wanted out of his body, out of his skin.

  I hope Al-Bahil sleeps with her next.

  His tortured conscious hoped Allah wasn’t listening.

  He scowled at the young women around him. They were scantily dressed, with no attempt at modesty. Westerners. He hated them. All of them. It was their fault he was in this situation. If they weren’t such pigs, he would still be at the University of Damascus working in a lab full of hopeful young scientists.

  Kareem lifted his gaze and pushed his shoulders back. What would he say to Amin when he arrived in Charlotte? He remembered the Islamic term Taqiyya, which condoned lying when necessary to advance the cause of Islam. The concept left him feeling instantly vindicated. Surely Taqiyya, justified by the Quran and other Islamic texts, was created for situations exactly like his own. The Prophet said, 'War is deceit.” The Prophet was correct. He had deceived his cousin and he would continue to do so, until…well, he’d cross that bridge when the time came.

  Once he passed through security, he put his shoes back on and entered the nearest men’s room to wash his hands. He had the cure inside his bag. At this point, it was the only thing standing between him and certain death and there was nothing stopping him from taking it right now. The recruits could spread the virus and he could simply disappear, find a lab where he could work or a small University where he could teach. He had done his part. Surely Allah didn’t need him to die too. How on earth had he let Al-Bahil convince him his own death was part of Allah’s plan?