The Storm

by Arif Anwar

  In just the past year, he has been called a “raghead” and a “Paki,” both those times when emerging after Friday prayers from a small mosque on Eye Street, near GW. First was a homeless man who called Shar the epithet and then cackled through a toothless mouth. The second was a well-dressed businessman driving a Corvette who just missed him on the crosswalk as he took a fast right turn. Red-faced and swearing, he left in a squeal of tires.

  “Be that as it may,” he says, “it’s a guarantee I’ll go to a federal prison if I get caught.”

  “An extremely small chance. Mr. Ahmed will do his best to make sure that it doesn’t happen.”

  “That’s something I had a question about, actually.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me that Mr. Ahmed hired you to be a paralegal, when your fiancée visa fell through, right?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Wouldn’t you have to leave the country first to change your visa?”

  Wary until now, Katerina becomes indignant. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No . . . no, I just . . .”

  “What is more important here, Shar? What happened to me, or what will happen to you in a few weeks? As for me, yes, you have to leave the country to change visas, but Mr. Ahmed has ways of making things happen. He was afraid that if I left the country I’d never be let in again.”

  He speaks quietly. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? You’d get to see your daughter again.”

  She rises. “That’s it. I’m not going to sit here and let you insult me.”

  He takes her wrist. “Look, I’m sorry. I take it back. Please sit down.”

  She does, scowling.

  “I’m not saying yes or no, but tell me what this involves again.”

  She once again unearths an artifact from her purse, this time an object about the size of his thumb. “This is a USB flash drive. Thirty-two megabyte capacity. Volcker’s computer, if it’s built in the last ten years—and we think it is—will have a USB port right in front. All you have to do is stick this in and copy the files. Very simple.”

  “And these are the files that concern the immigration bill Aguilar’s pushing?”

  “Yes. And even beyond. Any correspondence between the two will be useful. Emails, white papers, decision notes. Anything.”

  They sit, their eyes trained front. Across from them, beyond the strolling tourists, joggers and office workers out for lunchtime strolls, is the White House. A group of protestors hold up Free Tibet banners near its fence.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why does Faisal Ahmed need this?”

  Katerina rises, sweeps her dress smooth with both hands. “I don’t ask these questions, Shar. All I know is that he is a good man. And that he will keep his word.”

  She bends down and gives Shar a quick kiss on his cheek before walking away. Soon, she is swallowed up by the milling crowds.

  FAISAL Ahmed calls him later that evening. “Hello, Shar. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Just trying to understand what is being asked of me and why.”

  Ahmed sighs. A weary parent dealing with a difficult child. “I understand that you have questions and concerns, Shar. Trust me, I do as well. But as Katerina promised, none of this will get back to you. That I can promise.”

  “I don’t even know why you want this information, I mean—”

  “Let’s keep the discussion general, Shar, shall we?” Ahmed sharply interrupts, then continues in a softer tone. “I think my interest in this matter is rather understandable, don’t you think? I’ve been an immigration lawyer for well over twenty years now. I’m president of the American Institute of Immigration Lawyers. I’ve served thousands of young men and women like you, who asked for nothing more than a chance at the American dream. If there’s anything in this upcoming bill that might jeopardize the work I do, of course I’d like to know about it. You’re one of my clients now. If anything, this helps you.”

  “And you can’t find out by reading the paper, like everyone else?”

  “Time is of the essence.”

  “It’s just a huge risk.”

  “I’m asking for a lot, but offering you a lot in return. I’ve spoken to one of my friends. We can get you hired as a trainee manager at a Wendy’s franchise as soon as next week.”

  “What?”

  “Hear me out. I’ll get you a job as a policy analyst in a DC firm, but that’ll take time and the pulling of many strings. In the meantime, you’ll have to do something to support yourself. This is temporary, I assure you.”

  Shar closes his eyes. Six years of post-graduate work, a PhD obtained with distinction from George Washington University—tracks of achievement that now converge on a grill assembling burgers.

  “Tell me it’s at least close to DC.”

  “Depends on your definition of ‘close.’ It’s in Huntington.”

  “Huntington, Virginia?” He tries to find solace in this. Huntington is a fifteen-minute drive from Anna’s house.

  “No. Huntington, West Virginia.”

  “What?” His laptop screen is open before him. He types in the city name and state in Google. “Oh my god. That’s basically Ohio.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Shar.”

  “What’s to stop me from saying no to you and just working under the table somewhere?”

  “Nothing, but that’s a life in the shadows. Cowering. On the run. You won’t be able to file taxes, renew your driver’s license, rent an apartment or visit your parents in Bangladesh. If you stay back as an illegal, you forfeit seeing them. You’ll be choosing your child over your parents. I’m offering you a life in the sun. You don’t have to choose; you can have it all. That’s the American way, isn’t it?”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Yes,” Ahmed says. “You have a week.”

  BUT the next morning, he receives a text from Niten asking to meet near Shar’s work at noon. The brevity of the message underlines its urgency; Niten promises to explain more when they see each other.

  Shar awaits his friend at the Starbucks on M Street, and he arrives at the stroke of twelve, looking perturbed and carrying, of all things, a briefcase.

  “Can I get you something?” Shar asks. Since college, Niten has developed in the opposite direction of most men: he has lost weight and has grown out his shaved head so that he now sports a thick crop of hair going prematurely gray, cut short and swept neatly to the side in the manner of a news anchor.

  “Just a green tea, man, thanks.”

  Shar buys a tea and returns with it to the table, upon which Niten has placed a stack of papers. “I’ve been looking into this Faisal Ahmed guy.”

  He hands Shar a printout of a newspaper article from the Baltimore Sun titled, “Complaints Mount about Gaithersburg Immigration Lawyer.” It occupies a single page, with a black-and-white picture of a younger Ahmed as an inset. Shar reads the article from beginning to end, then looks up at Niten.

  “This is what this guy does, Shar. He sets up people in dodgy job enterprises with the promise of getting them legal papers. That’s when he’s not setting them up for fake weddings for green cards. If there have already been complaints about him, then my feeling is that the government’s been looking into this for a while. I’d be very careful if I were you.”

  Shar sets the paper aside. “In that case, you should know what’s going on.”

  He proceeds to tell Niten of his dealings with Ahmed so far. His interactions with Katerina. What is being requested of him in exchange for employment in America.

  Niten stares at him open-mouthed by the end. “For the love of God don’t tell me you’re considering this.”

  “I’d rather not. But what choice do I have? If nothing turns up in the next month, I either have to leave here or stay illegally.”

  “Can’t you get a tourist visa and come back?”

  “That’s not a guarantee. Ever since n
ine-eleven, I get hassled at the airport coming back in from Bangladesh, even with a valid student visa. And even if I got the tourist visa and came back, I still wouldn’t be able to work here.”

  “So you’re gonna break federal law and risk how many years of jail instead?”

  He is morose. “I didn’t say this was the perfect plan.”

  “No shit. What’s he supposed to do with this information anyway?”

  “He said he needs it to understand what’s on the horizon for immigration law. But I think that’s bullshit.”

  “I agree.” Looking thoughtful, Niten rifles through the stack of paper. “Just hold on a minute, though . . .”

  He finds his quarry. He places between them another printout, one that features a picture of a group of people in a hotel lobby. “You said he wanted correspondence between Aguilar and Volcker, right?”

  “Anything relating to the immigration plan especially. But yes, more or less.”

  “Then read this.”

  The picture shows an older, more recognizable Ahmed shaking hands with another man, taller and silver-haired. The two are in the center of a throng of people.

  “What am I looking at?’

  “The tall guy is Clarence Cummings. He’s the current Maryland AG. This was at an event in January where he announced that he’s running against Aguilar this fall.”

  “So?”

  “Think about it. What does an attorney general do?”

  “Advise the state government on the law?”

  “Keep going.”

  “You’re the one who went to law school, my friend.”

  “Among a host of other duties, a state AG is the one that decides who to prosecute on behalf of the state.” Niten leans forward. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “Ahmed’s trying to curry favor with Cummings?”

  “Most likely in the hopes that he doesn’t bring charges. The Maryland Justice Department is probably investigating him.”

  “But how?”

  Niten places the articles in question side by side. “Put two and two together.”

  “Cummings is running for the Senate in the special election against Aguilar . . .”

  “Who was appointed by the Republican governor. As a Democrat, Cummings can’t hope for support.”

  “So he needs dirt on Aguilar?”

  “And?”

  “And Ahmed is providing him with details on Aguilar’s signature bill in the hopes that Cummings won’t prosecute?”

  “Well, he’s selling you that angle, but I think that’s a red herring. He probably doesn’t care about the immigration bill. Otherwise he wouldn’t be asking for his emails. He’s likely hoping to find something incriminating or salacious in it that Cummings can use. From what I read in the Post today, the race is tight. Aguilar’s just a few points ahead of Cummings—within the margin of error. Cummings is looking for any advantage he can get. When you let slip that you work at IPD, Ahmed probably sent Katerina after you with her sob story to soften you up. Maybe he thought you’re a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “I suppose. Although it sounds like a very Rube Goldberg way of going about it.”

  “Got a better theory?”

  “No.”

  Niten puts the sheaf of papers in a dossier and pushes it toward him. “Never underestimate a man facing jail time. Before you do anything rash, I suggest you do a bit of digging on Ahmed on your own. See if you can find out more about him.”

  “I think I know just the place,” Shar says.

  Claire

  Chittagong, East Bengal (Bangladesh)

  APRIL 1942

  She forces herself to sit. Her heart is racing, her neck damp. She relaxes when she hears the toilet flush, the tap run, but only a little. She holds her breath for the interminable minute that follows, until its end is marked by a stream of curses from Ichiro.

  He emerges. “What have you done?”

  “Please be calm,” she says, getting up.

  Ichiro does not approach. His expression is unreadable. She eyes the door, steps away. She could run, call for help. But he need only move to his left to cut her off.

  “What have you done?”

  “Those sedatives I gave you that evening, they knocked you out. I feared that you’d try to kill yourself again. I had to search your person, and the only way I could do that was if you were in a deep sleep.”

  “You found the capsule in my tooth?”

  “I looked through the keyhole. I could see you reaching into your mouth.”

  “Why did you do this? It is not for you to decide if I should live or die.”

  “Nor you. Do you value your life so little that you’d take it so easily?”

  “It is because I value my life that I wish to choose the manner of my own ending. Even if I am someday released from the prison camp, my life is finished. There is no greater shame in Japan than that of a soldier who has let himself be captured. Or to have such a soldier as a member of your family. My government has made sure that death and shame are my only options.”

  He staggers to the bed and sits with his head bowed. “That choice was the only thing I had. And now you have taken it from me.”

  SHE arrives at the ward at two past eight in the morning the next day, after a sleepless night at the end of which she came to an important decision. She stands before Ichiro’s door, debating whether to enter, when someone clears a throat behind her.

  Rachel stands with a tray in her arms.

  “I thought you had the day off?”

  “I did, but Ivy came down with something. Is everything alright with you, dear? You look a bit funny.”

  Claire laughs, the sound strained to her ears. “Just tired. I suppose.”

  “More reason for us to get a tipple at the club. I don’t think I’ve even had a chance to chat with you since this Oriental fellow fell into our laps.”

  She opens the door for Rachel. They walk in to find Ichiro in bed exactly as Claire had left him the night before. Tied to the bedposts. As he looks from one face to the other, his expression is bland and submissive.

  As Rachel turns her back to put the tray on a rolling trolley, Claire tips over Ichiro’s IV drip. The glass shatters with a resounding crash.

  “Sorry, dear. I’m such an oaf.” Claire looks sheepish.

  Rachel clucks with annoyance. “The stuff’s everywhere. Not to worry. I’ll get the orderly.”

  She follows Rachel out, watches her lithe figure canter to the far end of the hallway.

  She rushes back into the room and undoes his restraints as fast as she is able. “We’re just on the second floor. But directly underneath the window is a flower bed. Can you jump down?”

  He sits up rubbing his wrists. “Yes, but—”

  “No time. I’m going to pull the fire alarm. When you hear it, you can run out in the confusion. Everyone else is going to be gathered on the front lawn.” She hands him a map. “You have to go due east. Meet me at the top of the hill marked by the X. It’s the tallest—you can’t miss it. There’s a temple at its summit. I’ll meet you there tonight.”

  THE klaxon blare of the alarm draws the staff and patients to the front lawn in minutes. There they jostle and fret. Though they are accustomed to the air-raid sirens by now, this is the first fire alarm in months. Those too ailing to move have remained inside, attended to by a handful of staff.

  A vanguard of C8s arrives before the fire trucks. Selwyn alights from one, surveys the crowd until he spots Claire and walks over, swallowing the distance between them with long strides.

  “What happened?”

  “The fire alarm went off. We followed procedures.”

  He rushes into the hospital. Returns in minutes, his pale features screwed into lines of rage under his army cap. He jabs a finger in her face and bellows, “If you followed procedures, you’d know that someone was supposed to stay with him in case of a fire. He’s gone.”

  “Who?”

  “You bloody well
know who.”

  “The prisoner of war? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you?” He looms over her. There is a dark band of sweat at the lining of his cap.

  “There’re more than fifty soldiers in my ward. My first thought was to evacuate everyone safely. It’s likely that in the rush I forgot to lock the door. I’m sorry, again. But I’m sure he can’t have gone far.”

  The crowd’s attention is on them. Selwyn glares at her, clenches and unclenches his fists. “He was supposed to be strapped to his bed at all times. Your forgetting to lock a door shouldn’t have made a difference.”

  “I know,” she says, finding Rachel in the crowd, standing at a distance to them. Her expression is sullen, that of someone made to play a fool.

  “I know.”

  CLAIRE returns to a silent and empty house at the end of the day. Her staff have the day off, and she is all alone, exhausted, despite knowing that much remains to be done.

  Selwyn spent two hours interrogating her in the matron’s office, his aggression eventually moving the older woman to ask if Dr. Drake could kindly return to her rounds. He left, face twisted with suspicion, and Claire knew she would have to choose her next moves wisely. So she put her mind to going about her tasks for the remainder of the day, a mental eye always on the clock, an ear trained to the hammerings of the shift bell.

  At home, she packs a tiffin carrier filled with food, a flask of water, a small knife and an army blanket into a haversack. An envelope containing her first month’s salary from the hospital she places into one of Teddie’s old wallets and wraps it tightly—along with a handwritten letter—in a cut-up old waterproof. Finally, she pulls out the bottom drawer of the wardrobe in her bedroom and removes a neat pile of her husband’s clothes to reveal a Luger P08. Left behind for her protection, she has never dared touch it until now. It confronts her like a dark, coiled snake. She buries it under the shirts again and closes the drawer.

  She sorts through Teddie’s clothes. Not finding a black sweater to wear, she makes do with navy blue. She trims a pair of his charcoal trousers with kitchen shears and slips them on. She twists her hair into a tight bun and shoves it under a cap. She stands before the mirror and assesses her appearance. The clothes smell of him still and suddenly she is overwhelmed with loneliness, desperate for the crutch of his strength, his presence.