by Jay Deb
They continued through the day. For lunch, they stopped at a ragtag restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Faizan and the three men sat down on the bench outside, and a man came out. Felix ordered chicken tacos for everyone.
After a short wait, a boy brought out a bunch of tacos on a porcelain plate that was chipped in a few places at the edge. Faizan picked up a taco and was about to put it in his mouth.
He stopped, wondering whether the chicken was halal. There was no point asking the boy, and he remembered what Halim had said – ignore petty things and focus on the big goal. He started munching the tacos and found he liked them.
Three hours later, Faizan thought he saw a board that said ‘Welcome to Nuevo Laredo.’ The pickup truck drove through a labyrinth of roads and finally stopped near a large tree. Faizan saw a river in the background, and he knew it was Rio Grande. On the other side of the river was America. He tried to look for a road on the American side, but all he saw was the ground covered by trees and grass.
The truck stopped near the riverbank, and a boat could be seen nearby. The four men stood behind the large tree, about fifty feet from the riverbank. It was 4.30 p.m., and the sun was about to go hiding.
“Once it gets dark, we will drag that boat into the river,” Rodney explained to Faizan. “We pull those bags from the truck into the boat, and then you and I will get in, and we will row to the other side. You will get off the boat along with the bags. Two men will be waiting on the other side to take you wherever you are headed.”
“Why don’t we start now?” Faizan asked.
“Are you crazy?” Rodney pointed at the river. “American police will come out in boats if they see us. They will shoot at us, try to chase us away. And if we are really unlucky, they will catch and put us in jail.”
Faizan had not gone to so much trouble to be caught by the police and placed in a prison. He sighed and looked back. The truck and the other two men were gone, leaving tire marks on the grass. He waited, along with Rodney, near the Rio Grande River for night to fall so he could take the next step closer to his destination. He peered at the landscape beyond the river.
That’s America, the Satan, he thought.
DOERR KNOCKED ON Rosania’s hotel door and waited. Nothing. He knocked again, and a few seconds later, he heard footsteps inside. Someone was hurrying around. Suddenly Doerr felt anxious and worried about Rosania.
He knocked a third time, and the door opened. A stocky man with a thick beard stood in front of him, his right hand tucked behind him.
The man took two steps back. Doerr was sure it was Ahmad.
Ahmad made a motion with his hand, indicating that he wanted Doerr to come in.
Doerr raised his foot, which trembled a bit. Doubt pervaded his mind – should he enter, should he not? The man was obviously hiding some sort of weapon in his hand. Doerr didn’t give the doubt time to settle in his mind. Rosania was inside, he was sure, and she was certainly in danger. Doerr scanned the room visually, as far as he could see – no Rosania.
Doerr walked past Ahmad, keeping a close eye on him. He could easily take Ahmad down, but he decided to wait. An elbow to the jaw and a quick knee into the man’s bulging stomach would have done the job. But he decided to be patient.
“Go and sit there, please.” Ahmad pointed to the chair at the end of the room. Ahmad’s voice was as thick as his beard.
Doerr walked slowly and observed the taut bed sheet.
Good, no one has been on it lately, Doerr thought.
Doerr turned and sat down on the chair.
“Would you like to drink something? Maybe some wine?” Ahmad asked mockingly.
“No, I’m fine.” Doerr understood why Ahmad said it in such a way. He had been lured into this room, in part, with an expensive wine.
Ahmad walked forward, a gun in his hand. Ahmad raised it and pointed it straight at Doerr’s head, and then he asked, “You work for the CIA too?”
Doerr nodded.
Ahmad came forward and stood about five feet from Doerr. Ahmad took a quick look back, as if checking if he was being followed.
Doerr could still do it. He could stand up and throw a flash kick at Ahmad’s hand, all in a fraction of a second, and the gun would fly in the air. But he decided to wait.
“What you want?” Ahmad pulled out a chair and sat face to face with Doerr, his face stern and the gun pointed straight at him.
“We want to know where Halim is.” Doerr looked down and avoided eye contact with the man before him.
“Halim? Huh?” Ahmad took a quick peek at the TV, and that was the third time Doerr could have overwhelmed the guy, but, once again, he decided to wait. Doerr knew the man didn’t have any military training, and from the way he was handling his gun, Doerr was sure Halim hadn’t given him any training either.
“Yes, Halim,” Doerr said. “He is about to attack Americans in some way, and we are going to find him and stop him.”
“You seem to be a confident man.”
Doerr said nothing for a few seconds and then asked, “Where is he?”
“Where is who?” Ahmad’s tone was commanding. Perhaps he wanted to remind Doerr that it was Ahmad who was in charge.
“I was talking about Halim.”
“I don’t know where Halim is. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know who Halim is.”
“Ah-huh.” Doerr knew the game Ahmad was playing. The nose of the barrel was pointing straight at him. If fired, it would hit his chest or upper abdomen. Three different men had confirmed that Ahmad was one of Halim’s close accomplices. Keep calm, Doerr told himself. This is the wrong time to do some hot-headed shit.
“Which office do you work out of?” Ahmad asked. His English was pretty good given that he had never set foot outside of the Middle East.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked which CIA office you work from.”
“Oh. I work at a place called Allentown, Pennsylvania.” That was not a total lie. Doerr had trained at a place close to Allentown, years back. “Have you ever been there?”
“Where? America? No, why would I visit the infidel country? I have a cousin who is now settled in America. I don’t understand why people even go to America. Why do you think people go there? Is it all about money?”
“I was born there,” Doerr said. “So I don’t know why people move there. Maybe they like the weather or the American food.” Doerr repositioned his legs so that he could spring out of the chair and grab the man’s throat the next chance he would get. He had waited long enough.
“No.” Ahmad shook his head. “I think it’s just the money. People are greedy, nowadays. And American food sucks. I tried eating a burger and some fries at one of our malls – awful. I don’t know how you people eat that shit.”
Doerr looked into Ahmad’s eyes. They were full of hate. Doerr waited for Ahmad’s eyes to veer away.
“America gives so much money to Israel,” Ahmad continued. “And Israel does anything America asks it to do, without shame. They kill innocent children and women in Gaza and elsewhere.”
“What do you guys do to your own women? Shackle them. Jail them. Mask them. See.” Doerr pointed his hand to the TV, where a burqua-clad woman was saying something.
Doerr’s legs were ready, muscles taut; his mind was focused, fixed on the action ahead. On the TV, they were showing some protesters participating in a procession in Jordan. Ahmad took a sidelong view at the TV. That was the opportunity Doerr had been waiting for. He pushed his butt up and lunged at Ahmad. He grabbed Ahmad’s wrist and jerked it forcefully, and the gun fell on the carpet. Ahmad looked shocked at first, but within a second he seemed to recover and kicked Doerr’s stomach with his knee. Doerr was expecting it, so the kick hurt very little. Doerr passed his hand under Ahmad’s knee and pulled him up. The chair toppled; Ahmad fell on the floor, and his white headscarf fell too. Doerr planted one knee on Ahmad’s chest and jabbed his cheek. Ahmad shrieked in pain. Doerr jabbed him one more time, and blood appeared
on Ahmad’s lips.
Doerr grabbed him by his thick beard. “What did you do to Rosania? Where is she?”
Ahmad said nothing and tried to jerk himself free. Unsuccessfully. Doerr hit his face again. “Tell me; where is she?”
“She is in the bathroom.” Ahmad’s blood-covered lips moved. “Now let me go.”
Doerr stood up and picked up the gun quickly. “Stay on the floor. Don’t get up.”
Doerr walked to the bathroom, keeping the gun pointed at Ahmad. He opened the bathroom door, and there she was – gagged with her own scarf, sitting on the white toilet, the lid closed, and her hands tied with another piece of cloth that went from her hands around the water tank attached to the toilet. She tried to say something with her muted voice once she saw Doerr, but he did not understand. He took a quick look at Ahmad, who was still on the floor, and then quickly freed her.
Fifteen minutes later, Doerr’s and Ahmad’s positions were reversed; the gun was in Doerr’s hand, and Rosania sat on the edge of the bed. The drape on the glass door to the balcony was closed.
“Now, Ahmad, tell me; where is Halim?” Doerr asked with a serious tone.
“Where is Halim?” Ahmad mocked and lowered his chin. His beard was covered with blood, his shirt bloody.
“If you don’t tell us, you die here,” Rosania said. “No one knows you are here.”
“I sent a text to my wife. They will be looking for me soon. You all are foreigners. Once our police catch you, you will be sent to jail with a long sentence.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Doerr said cynically. “Did you text the room number?”
“Yes.”
“When did you send the text?” Rosania asked. “I didn’t see you use your cell phone.”
“I sent it when I was in the cab.”
“Take his cell phone out.” Rosania looked at Doerr. “And check it.”
“I don’t think there is a need.” Doerr turned to Ahmad. “How did you know the room number when you were in the cab? You are lying, aren’t you?”
Ahmad said nothing. His silence said it all. Doerr stood up and forced the barrel of the gun in Ahmad’s mouth. The grating noise of metal colliding with teeth was loud in the quiet room. “Tell us what plan Halim is hatching, or you die here.”
Ahmad’s head tilted backward. Doerr saw Ahmad’s mouth filling up with blood.
Doerr withdrew the gun and pressed the mouth of the barrel against Ahmad’s forehead. “Tell us now. Our patience is running out!”
“Okay. I will tell you.”
Doerr lowered his gun and pulled his chair closer to Ahmad. Rosania clasped her arms together at her chest.
“I don’t know where Halim is,” Ahmad continued. “Very few people actually know his whereabouts. I met with him a few weeks back, and that was it. I haven’t heard from him again.”
“Tell me about your last meeting with Halim,” Doerr said. “Who else was there?”
“It was just me, Halim and Faizan.”
“Who is Faizan?”
“Faizan was a new recruit. He is an Egyptian student whose visa was rejected by the American consulate in Cairo.”
“And what did you guys talk about in the meeting?” Doerr asked.
“Nothing much,” Ahmad said in a nonchalant way.
“Nothing much?” Doerr screamed, stood up and raised the gun as if he was about to hit Ahmad’s head.
“Halim had a plan,” Ahmad said quickly. “He was going send Faizan to the center of American power, and something big was going to happen.”
“If Faizan didn’t have a visa,” Rosania said, “how is he going to get to America?”
“I don’t know that part. Halim said he would work on it.”
“What else?” Doerr asked. “You guys must have talked about something else. Where exactly in America was Faizan going to go? Where will he stay?”
“Halim said he knew a professor who Faizan could stay with for a few days. Now, I’ve told you everything I know. Please, let me go to my family. They will be worried.”
Doerr glanced at his watch. It was 9:45 p.m.
Rosania stood up and said to Ahmad, “Why should we worry about your family when you people are out to destroy us?”
“Who is you people, and who is us?” Ahmad said, his tone confident, spiked with anger. “Muslims against you Westerners? That we are out to kill the rest of the world? You know the Muslim religion is very peaceful. We greet one another saying ‘salaam alekum.’ Do you know what it means?”
“No,” Rosania said.
“It means ‘may peace be with you.’ We are not at all violent. But we have been projected to be.”
“Shut up! We are not here to listen to your lecture,” Doerr demanded, holding the gun in one hand and patting it with the other. “Tell us more about Faizan.”
They talked for another thirty minutes. There was no new information. Doerr was fairly confident that Ahmad was being truthful. He let Ahmad clean up in the bathroom, and then Ahmad left.
Rosania started packing her stuff. Doerr knew Rosania had to switch to a new hotel. Ahmad would not go to the cops in a million years, but he could return with some of Halim’s armed goons.
“So all we know is that an Egyptian guy named Faizan is headed for America,” Doerr said.
Rosania placed her clothes in her suitcase. “Didn’t Ahmad say Faizan could be staying with a professor for a few days? So narrow it down to a professor from the Middle East.”
“Do you know how many professors there are in America? Over a million. I’m sure there are thousands and thousands of lecturers who are originally from the Middle East.” Doerr paused. “And Faizan is heading to America’s power center. That means he is going to Washington or maybe New York. Maybe he is in America already.”
“Maybe. What I don’t understand is why Ahmad became so chummy with us in the end.”
“Did you put the serum in his wine?” Doerr asked.
“Yes.”
“And did he drink it?”
“I’m not sure.” Rosania closed the lid of her suitcase and thought for a second. “He must have. I saw his glass was empty.”
“Then there you go. The serum and guns make people talk. And Ahmad is not stupid,” Doerr said. “How much longer are you going to take to pack up?”
“Another fifteen minutes perhaps. Why?”
“I’ve got to call the FBI CTD right now.”
“I know the FBI,” Rosania said. “But what is CTD?”
“Counter Terrorism Department. We have to track down Faizan. Something is telling me he’s already in America.”
ONCE DARKNESS FELL, Faizan and Rodney dragged the small boat across the soft soil. They had placed the marijuana bags in the boat already. Only some distant sodium vapor lights were visible, and the constant noise of the crickets was audible. By the time the boat was near the water, both Faizan and Rodney were exhausted and breathed heavily.
“Let’s take a break.” Rodney stood close to the boat and bent forward a little. Faizan opened his duffel bag, inserted his hands inside and felt the barrels of two AK-74 rifles, the same firearm he had trained with in Somalia.
Also accompanying the rifles were three hundred rounds of ammunition. Felix had handed over the firearms before leaving New Mexico City. Everything was going according to the plan.
Rodney started pushing the boat, and Faizan joined him. The gentle sound of water splashing could be heard.
Soon the boat was afloat on the dark surface of the river. Faizan jumped into the vessel first. Rodney gave one last push, and he jumped into the boat.
The two men rowed with small wooden planks, bringing the boat closer to the American soil. When the boat was near the midpoint in the quiet waters of the river, Rodney pulled out his cell phone and typed something fast.
“What’s that?” Faizan asked.
“I’m texting guys on the other side. They come to pick you and those up.” Rodney pointed his hand to the marijuana bags. “Don’t
talk now. I hear the American police have electronics that can pick up even low voices.”
The two men kept rowing slowly but steadily, without creating any splashing cacophony. The boat moved forward through the darkness; only a thin slice of the moon was visible in the sky.
It did not take long to cross the three-hundred-foot-wide river. Twenty minutes later, the boat landed against the American riverbank with a jerk. Faizan saw two shadows appear, and then they approached the boat.
Here is my ride, Faizan thought. Those must be the two men Rodney talked about.
The taller of the two men was near the boat; he asked Faizan in a hushed voice, “Ready, amigo?”
Faizan nodded and picked up his duffel bag. The two men lifted the marijuana bags, and Rodney started rowing back to Mexico. Within minutes, Rodney and the boat disappeared into the darkness.
AN HOUR LATER, an Impala was moving at seventy miles an hour on I-20 West Highway. The two men were riding in the front seats, and Faizan sat in the rear, keeping his right hand over the duffel bag. He looked out of the window, but he could only make out the pairs of headlights of the oncoming cars and the rear lights of the cars ahead. The Impala took an exit, and after a few turns, it stopped at the parking lot of a Walmart store, right next to a black sedan.
The man from the Impala’s passenger seat alighted and walked to the trunk of the vehicle. He pulled out the marijuana bags, put them in the trunk of the black sedan, and then he sat in the vehicle.
Now, Faizan was left inside the Impala with just the driver, who was a little older and a little taller than Faizan, perhaps twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old and six feet two inches tall. He had an unshaved beard and a thin mustache.
“Come to the front, amigo?” the driver said to Faizan.
“No, I’m fine here,” said Faizan. He remembered what Halim had told him – “Be friendly but avoid unnecessary conversations. If you talk too much, you might give away things that you did not want to.”