Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  DeMarco looked up to see streamers of flaming debris arcing through the sky and raining down onto the street.

  “Get down!” Smith shouted, pulling him back.

  He tripped over his own feet and fell back on his rear, knocking Smith a few steps away. He quickly righted himself, getting to a knee. “What the—”

  A second explosion tore through the expanding wall of dust, sending gouts of flame curling through the air. More debris rained down, smacking off car roofs and shattering windows. People screamed, scrambling to get away from the destruction. The cloud of smoke that rolled down the street filled the air with a fine gray dust.

  Coughing, DeMarco got to his feet and swiped at the smoke and dust.

  From down the street, where the bike messenger had gone, now hidden by the haze of smoke, came the sound of cars slamming into each other, one after another. An ear-splitting blat of an air horn cut through the commotion, and a second later a semi emerged from the dust and smoke, barreling through the line of cars, sending the twisted wrecks spinning away. A Taurus rolled onto the sidewalk, barely missing a couple in a full sprint.

  DeMarco saw a few foolish gawkers actually moving down Lafayette toward the destruction. Covering his mouth with one hand, he waved at them and shouted, “Get back! Back!”

  Smith, coughing, moved to a Lincoln stopped in the middle of the street and pounded on the window. “Get out! Come on, you gotta get out of here! Come on!”

  The driver, a confused businessman in a suit, climbed out of the car, keeping his head down. “What the hell happened?”

  “Just get moving!” DeMarco shouted, motioning him to the west.

  “We’re under attack!” someone screamed. “Was it another plane?”

  DeMarco grabbed his radio. “Central, be advised, there’s just been a massive explosion at St. Patrick’s Basilica! We need EMS and Fire here now! Send everyone you have!”

  Screams and shouts filled the air as people emerged from the thick cloud of smoke and dust. A limping man, blood streaming from the side of his head, was being helped along by two others; all three of them were covered in gray powder. A woman in a torn white blouse and skirt limped along as well, her leg bloody from a gash in her thigh. Tears streamed down her face, drawing streaks through the dirt and grime.

  “Keep moving!” DeMarco shouted, pushing up the street toward the blast. He covered his mouth, trying to keep from breathing in the dust. Thoughts of the almost-weekly news reports of first responders dying from exposure on 9/11 rushed through his mind, but he pushed on.

  “What the hell happened?” Smith asked beside him.

  DeMarco shook his head, not knowing what to say.

  At each vehicle they passed, DeMarco checked to see if anyone was inside. He found no one. As they reached the next intersection, the dust cloud finally began to dissipate, revealing the extent of the destruction.

  Almost the entire west face of the basilica was missing, turned into a pile of burning rubble. Black smoke poured from the jagged remains of its roof, and flames licked up the sections of the wall that still stood. Brick and glass filled the street, and the trees that separated the building from Prince Street had been blown apart, flaming branches and sections of trunk littering the road in all directions.

  DeMarco stepped up to a Chevy Malibu lying on its driver’s side and looked through the shattered windshield. There was someone in there, lying against the door, white shirt soaked with blood, a jagged piece of metal the size of a briefcase protruding from their side.

  “Oh my god,” Smith said, though he wasn’t looking at the impaled driver.

  DeMarco turned, and his heart sank. As the cloud of dust rose away from the street, it revealed a cluster of mangled bodies. A man in a jogging suit was missing a leg. A woman next to him was bleeding from countless gaping wounds, her clothes ripped to shreds. A bike lay twisted and bent in the middle of the street, its rider several feet away, face-down on the pavement.

  DeMarco ran a hand through his hair, trying to process what he was seeing. “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Connor slapped his palm against the bridge’s handrail. “No, I’m telling you, I haven’t seen a goddamn thing. What are you trying to say, that the bureau doesn’t have any leads at all? Isn’t anyone claiming responsibility?”

  “Oh, there’s several groups claiming they did it,” Thompson said, the tension in his voice evident despite the signal being relayed through several secure satellites. “But they’re all full of crap, trying to get noticed. We can be sure of this, because none of them know the one detail that’s been kept from the news. The bomb that went off… it was dirty. There was low-grade radioactive content mixed into whatever package was blown up.”

  “Are you serious? How are they—”

  “It’s not as big of a deal as you might think; it can be cleaned up. The analysts say it was done more for terror effect than for any real meaningful damage. That’s why it’s being kept under wraps. Luckily, the people on the scene are already treating the bombing as a level B hazmat exercise anyway. I do find it surprising, though, that none of the city’s radioactivity sniffers caught a whiff of it until the thing blew up.”

  “I guess we can be thankful it wasn’t a nuke. That would have leveled a whole lot more than a church.” Connor glanced over his shoulder, suddenly aware of what he’d just said. Nobody seemed to have noticed, but he lowered his voice regardless. “As it is, eleven people are dead. What’s the Outfit got on this?”

  “We have nothing. Are you sure Khan didn’t have anything to do with the attack?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Connor said. And that was true. But his mind whirled at the possibility that he’d been standing in the same room with the people responsible for this. The mosque had gone into a whirlwind of damage control, but as far as Connor could tell it was simply because they knew the authorities would be looking at them. It was inevitable.

  “Well, the one thing I can tell you is that the NYPD is going to be tearing the city apart to figure out what happened. And the FBI rapid response team has been called in. They’re going to be crawling up people’s asses trying to figure out what’s going on. Just be aware. With bodies in the morgue and dozens injured, the politically correct sensibilities that might keep that mosque safe are probably going to get relaxed.”

  Connor snorted. “Relaxed? More like thrown right out the window. The folks at the mosque know they’re going to be targeted.”

  Things had been bad for Middle Easterners for years after 9/11. The stigma of being a “possible terrorist” had been branded on everyone with slightly darker skin than the average American—including Connor himself. The problem wasn’t nearly as bad as the media led everyone to believe, but it was real all the same.

  “I suppose that’ll make it even harder to get into the office,” Thompson said.

  “I don’t know about that—it was hard enough already. Before I could even try, they started posting guards on the door. They’re stationed there even when Khan’s not in the office.”

  “Wait, when did they do that?”

  “Night before last,” Connor said. Then he finally put the pieces together. “Crap.”

  “So something did change recently.”

  “Yes.” Connor kicked himself for not picking up on it earlier. “Son of a bitch.”

  “So how are you going to get in?”

  Connor stepped around a couple holding hands and walking the opposite direction. “Are you kidding me? I don’t know that I’m going to get in at all. I’d have to take out the guards, and that’ll be a huge red flag if ever there was one. I’d never be able to return to that place again. They’d know it was me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “These guys aren’t stupid. They’re meticulous and thoughtful. They’ve proven that by having their computers offline. They know what our strengths and weaknesses are, and they’re exploiting them perfectly.”

  “So wh
at are you going to do?”

  Connor looked up as a patrol car sped past, lights and sirens blaring. “I don’t know.”

  “Connor, we need to get in that office. Now more than ever.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “So,” Aliyah said, sipping her tea. “What do you think?”

  She and Connor sat at a small table on the patio of the Leafy Bean, a tea and coffee cafe. The white metal chairs and table weren’t the most comfortable, but the atmosphere was nice. The only thing Connor didn’t like was being exposed. If they were inside, the avenues of approach were limited, and he could observe them. Out here there wasn’t even a wall to put his back against, which made him uneasy. He concentrated on using his peripheral vision to keep track of the limited number of patrons in the outdoor cafe. Trying to watch the entire street was almost an exercise in futility.

  He sipped at his own tea. It was a little too hot, and a little too bland, but he smiled and nodded as he set the cup back on the saucer. “It’s great.”

  One side of her mouth curled up into a knowing smile. “Liar.”

  The last twenty-four hours had seen a flurry of activity throughout the city. FBI agents by the dozens had flooded the streets, talking to anyone they could find. NYPD had recalled almost everyone to active duty, canceling vacations and days off, in a concerted effort to put as many of its thirty-eight thousand uniforms on the streets at the same time. But now that the attack was over, what good did all those cops do? Other than further elevate tensions. The whole city was a match head, just waiting to be struck.

  Yet despite everything going on, Connor felt relaxed around Aliyah. True, she was the daughter of the target of his investigation, but he tended to forget that when he looked at her. Her light-blue hijab rustled in the wind, accentuating her eyes, which sparkled in the early-morning light. When she smiled, she made it that much worse.

  Connor scoffed. “Am I that obvious?”

  “I’ve seen children lie better than you.” She canted her head to the side. “I won’t be offended if you order something different.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Connor lifted his cup. “I’ll drink it, it’s just not what I’m used to. I haven’t ever really been a tea person.”

  “Oh? And what is it you’re used to?”

  Connor laughed. “Well, I’m used to burnt water, colored brown so that it resembles coffee. My tastes are not as refined as yours.”

  “Have you ever had a French pour-over?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then you haven’t ever had good coffee.” Aliyah smiled. “I prefer tea, but I never said I didn’t drink coffee.”

  Connor raised his small cup to her. “To the pour-over.”

  Aliyah mirrored his gesture, then sipped slowly and deliberately.

  “I have to say,” Connor said, setting his cup down again, “I’m surprised your father allowed you to come with me.”

  “Ah, so someone has told you who I am.” The smile vanished from Aliyah’s face. “My father does not allow me to do anything. I am my own woman. He is a fundamentalist, yes, but he is realistic. He knows there are many things that are within his control, and many things that are not. I happen to be one of the things that is not—much to his dismay.” She smiled again.

  “And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to hear it. Still, it’s surprising, considering…” Connor trailed off.

  “Considering what he preaches every day?”

  Connor nodded. “He’s extremely vocal about returning to the old ways, to bringing sharia here.”

  Aliyah cocked her head to the side, an inquisitive look on her face. “And how do you feel about that, Bashir?”

  “I…” As he paused to consider what she was asking, he felt a red flag wave in the back of his mind. If she was part of this whole thing, she could very well be fishing. Probing the new guy. The thought had previously crossed his mind, but he’d dismissed it as paranoid thinking. Now he reconsidered the undertones of this meeting.

  The response Connor finally decided on was taken straight from a paper he’d written on the subject in college. “I feel that, as an ideology, sharia severely limits the capabilities and aspirations of women—to a degree that is harmful to all women.”

  Aliyah considered him for a long moment, staring through the wisps of steam curling off her tea. Then a smile spread across her face. “This is true.”

  Despite himself, Connor felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. It had been a gamble. Her reaction could have very well gone the other direction. He relaxed a little, sitting back in his chair and taking another sip of the awful black tea.

  Aliyah’s eyes flicked to something behind Connor and remained there for several seconds. Connor turned and saw a couple walking down the sidewalk toward them, both with suspicious expressions. The woman whispered something to the man, and they abruptly crossed to the other side of the street. As they continued on their way, they occasionally turned back as if to make sure Connor and Aliyah weren’t going to follow and murder them.

  Connor sighed and shook his head. “It’s going to be like that for a while, you know.”

  “A while? Bashir, I don’t know where you come from, but that is my entire life here in America. Everywhere I go, people give me odd looks. Maybe they think I’m a terrorist, or maybe they just don’t like the hijab or my abaya. Just wearing my traditions makes me suspect to them.”

  Connor understood all too well. But he’d also experienced the other side of things. In the military, he’d been truly equal. He hadn’t been a Middle Easterner, he’d just been a soldier. And it had been the same way at the agency.

  “You don’t see it that way?” Aliyah asked.

  Connor opened his mouth to respond, then paused, searching for the correct words. “I… I do know what you mean. And what you’re saying is almost certainly true in some cases. I don’t discount your experience.”

  “But…”

  “I think that those attitudes aren’t as prevalent as we think. I think most people you see staring… they’re just naturally curious. Your clothes are different from what they’re used to.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I tell you, it is also fear. And truthfully, being in this country and seeing the things I’ve seen, I can’t say that I blame them. Fear does strange things to people.”

  “Fear is the mind killer, Muad’Dib,” Connor said, quoting one of his favorite movies. Aliyah frowned, obviously not getting the reference. He waved a hand. “Forget it. I agree with you. I just wish everyone could intellectualize the subject like you.”

  Aliyah sat back in her seat, eyes narrowing. For a moment, Connor thought he’d gone too far, but he just couldn’t get the idea out of his head that she was a good woman caught up with the wrong people.

  “My father is a very passionate man,” she said. “He is a true believer. He believes the downfall of this society is the modern age of capitalism and imperialism, and he has been able to rally many to his cause because of his passion.”

  Connor took a stab in the dark. “But you don’t believe the same?”

  “I don’t. For all his preaching, he forgets that it is capitalism and imperialism that allow him the opportunity to speak his words—that allow him to be here in this city. If neither of those things existed, these opportunities wouldn’t have been possible. I’ll grant him that there are many aspects of capitalism and imperialism that deserve criticism. But they are not the evil he makes them out to be.”

  Aliyah suddenly glanced around them as if she was worried someone had overheard her. “I apologize.”

  “Apologize?” Connor said. “What have you done that you need to be sorry for?”

  “We have come here for tea, and I am subjecting you to the philosophic differences I have with my father. I don’t mean to.”

  “Not at all. We’re having a conversation—nothing wrong with that.”

  Connor took a breath, weighing the words he was about to say carefully.
There was a part of him that just wanted to relax and enjoy this time with a beautiful woman, but another side of him was screaming at him to remember why he was here in the first place.

  “My parents were killed when I was very young,” he began. “I… I could’ve very easily turned to someone like your father for support and guidance. Listening to him speak now, I know, with one-hundred-percent certainty, that my younger self would’ve been all over that.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “Now I try to make decisions based on practicality, not emotions.”

  Aliyah smiled. “Don’t let my father hear you saying that. He is a fervent man, and obsessive about his beliefs. He demands complete loyalty from the people around him and has no patience for those not committed to the cause. Especially those who give mere lip service to Allah’s commandments. I believe the only reason he is lenient with my sisters and me is because my mother would’ve wanted it that way.” She paused. “Like you, my mother was killed when I was very young. In Syria. My father and sisters and I traveled here as refugees.”

  “Why did your father choose to bring you here if he hates America?” Connor asked, trying his best not to sound as if he was questioning her father’s beliefs.

  “He hates what is convenient to hate,” Aliyah said. “If it wasn’t America it would be something else. We don’t talk much about what happened, but I know my father. I don’t believe he was a gentle soul before my mother’s death, not by a long shot, but I do believe it thrust him over the edge.”

  “Do you remember your mother?” Connor asked.

  “A little. I have memories of her reading to me as a little girl, and praying with me, but they aren’t solid images. They’re like hints of things that used to be there, and I have trouble remembering her face sometimes.”