by Rachel Brune
Scott looked pointedly at Mark’s shoe choice, then down at his own feet, shod in well-broken-in desert combat boots. He lifted up the ankle of his jeans, then dropped it.
“Yeah. Thanks a lot.” Mark put his foot down.
“You going to be able to walk?” asked Scott.
“Yeah,” said Mark. “How many more of these do we have to go to?”
“Just this last one,” said Scott. “Then I’m going to call it a day.”
The mosque was painted dark red, with the name “Islamic Society of Brooklyn” neatly scripted in white paint. Crescent moons bordered the title. Pamphlets in both Arabic and English, the English ones notifying the community of upcoming events, crowded onto a bulletin board displayed next to the door. A sign in green and white listed the time for the Friday prayers.
Mabry knocked on the door. An older boy, dressed in jeans and a Turkish soccer jersey, answered the door. The teenager regarded the two men with suspicion.
“Salaam aleikum,” said Scott. He continued in Arabic. “My name is Detective Mabry. I would like to speak with the imam?”
The boy didn’t reply. He looked from Scott to Mark, then back to Scott. Abruptly, he shut the door.
“Huh.” Scott shrugged.
“Weird,” said Mark.
“Yeah,” said Scott.
“No, check it out,” said Mark. “Look at what’s next door.”
Scott looked next to the mosque. The adjoining building was painted white with a blue trim. The name “American Judaic Center” was painted neatly between two Israeli flags. A small mural between the two buildings depicted hands shaking, with a dove hovering over them.
Scott smiled. “Only in America.”
The door opened again. A Middle-Eastern man who looked to be about in his late-twenties greeted Scott.
“Salaam aleikum.”
“Aleikum salaam,” said Scott. “Masa al kheir.”
He began introducing himself in Arabic, but the man held up his hand.
“Thank you, but I speak English.” The man’s speech was inflected with the slightest hint of a British accent. “Please come in. My name is Rayid Hamsa. I am the imam here. You wished to speak with me?”
“Yes,” said Scott. “I’m a detective with the NYPD, but I’m here unofficially.”
“Ah,” said Rayid. He led the way in through a short hallway, inviting the two men into a cramped office. High on the wall, a small shelf with a copy of the Koran displayed caught the visitors’ eyes as they entered. The rest of the office was covered in activist pamphlets, stacks of books, calligraphed banners and scraps of papers with notes in both Arabic script and English. Rayid pushed some books off of two chairs and offered them to his guests.
“Would you two gentlemen like some tea?” he asked, then paused, took a closer look at Mark. “You look familiar.”
“TV?” Mark smiled. “Mark Granger, New York Central News.”
“Yes, I think I remember something about a broccoli? Cabbage?”
“Cauliflower.” Mark sighed. “It was a cauliflower.”
“Are you working on a story now?” asked the imam.
“Sort of,” said Mark. He looked at Scott, who nodded. “I’m doing a story on the NYPD and terrorism, but it’s turning into a story on crime.”
“Ah,” said Rayid. “And so you are here?”
“I’m following some leads on a string of robberies that occurred in the past few weeks,” said Scott.
“I thought you were here in an unofficial capacity?” asked Rayid. His tone remained calm and even.
“Yes,” said Scott. A sense of déjà vu settled around his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind some tea if you are still offering?”
“Of course.” The imam unplugged an electric water heater from the wall and placed it on his desk. From atop one of the bookshelves, he took three small glasses and placed them next to the water heater. He lifted the top off a small container on the desk, revealing raw, brown sugar. Using a spoon, he ladled generous amounts of sugar into each small glass, then poured dark tea over the sugar. Placing a tiny stirring spoon into each glass, he offered them to Scott and Mark. “Please help yourself.”
Scott sipped gently at his tea, the steam curling from the glass. The déjà vu was almost choking him. He admired the etching on the glasses.
“This is a very nice set,” said Scott. “What does the Arabic script say?”
Rayid smiled. “You seem familiar with this sort of custom.”
Scott nodded.
“Then, I will offer to you to dispense with the small talk,” said Rayid. “I hate to be rude, but I have to get ready for evening prayer, and I know Americans are accustomed to directness.”
Scott leaned forward. “Thank you. Here is my question. In the past couple of weeks, even say the last month or so, have you seen any new faces turning up in your congregation?”
Rayid thought for a minute. “We have new faces all the time. This tends to be a mobile population.”
“These would be different,” said Scott. “I’m looking for men who may have asked to preach, who may have tried recruiting for a more radical mosque, something like that.”
Rayid smiled. “How do you know we are not the more radical mosque?”
Scott shrugged. “I don’t. But I saw your neighbors, and I saw that mural. I drew a conclusion.”
The imam and the detective sipped their tea. Mark finally decided his had cooled off enough, tasted it, and hastily put the glass back down. It was sweet enough to set his dentist up for life.
“I think I may know someone like who you are looking for,” said Rayid. He shrugged. “I don’t have a name though.”
Scott waited. Mark noticed that Scott was able to get more information out of prolonged silences than he was sometimes able to get from the shrewdest interview questions.
“He was a little older than me,” Rayid finally continued. “I’m pretty sure he was Turkish, from his accent. He looked almost European though, green eyes, dirty blond hair.”
Scott nodded. He had spent some time in northern Iraq and knew that many of the inhabitants of that area did not fit the common stereotype of the dark-complected Middle Easterner.
“He wanted to preach one Friday, but when we discussed what he wanted to talk about, I thought he was not educated enough,” said Rayid.
“Really?” asked Mark, then immediately regretted it.
“Really.” Rayid’s British accent grew more pronounced. “The religion of Islam has a long history of deep study and thoughtful enlightenment.”
Mark shut up.
“But this man, he was neither an imam nor a scholar,” said Rayid. “And he started asking for money, and he wouldn’t even tell me his real name. He told me he was Ali al Malik, which is ridiculous.”
“How so?” asked Scott.
“Ali al Malik was a great Muslim scholar from India,” said Mark.
Scott and Rayid both turned to look at Mark with astonishment.
“Yes, you are correct,” said Rayid. “It’s the sort of juvenile pseudonym that the uneducated radical would take. This is not the mosque of uneducated radicals, so I told him to go away.”
“Do you get a lot of those coming around?” asked Scott.
“Not so many, but this is the first I’ve seen with a tattoo,” said Rayid. “It was the crescent of Islam in blue ink on his forearm.” The man shook his head. “He was bad news.”
“Ah.” Scott finished his tea.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to excuse myself,” said the imam. “It’s time for prayer.
The men stood.
“Of course,” said Scott. “Thank you for time.”
Out on the street, Mark stooped once again to massage his foot. Sitting down, he had been comfortable for a while, but standing up was even more painful to the welts on the bottom of his feet than before. He swore he could feel the liquid in the blister squishing with every step.
The two men stood on the corner, wai
ting for the light to change. A man dressed in sweatpants and a Giants football jersey passed them and entered the mosque.
“How did you know that, about the Muslim scholar?” asked Scott.
Mark straightened up, brushed his hands off. “Remember that e-mail that you keep telling me not to worry about?”
“Yeah,” said Scott.
“Well, that’s the name signed at the bottom,” said Mark.
“Huh,” said Scott.
“Is that enough of a lead for you?” asked Mark.
Scott didn’t reply.
The light changed. A loud static emanated from the small speakers mounted on the corner of the mosque. A voice broadcast from the speakers.
“Allahu akbar.” The trills and grace notes followed the muezzin through the call to prayer.
Mark stopped on the other side of the street to find himself alone. Scott was still standing on the sidewalk. The “Don’t Walk” sign began to blink. Wincing, Mark started back across the street.
The streets stretched out in front of Mabry, elongating, superimposed with images of unpaved, unpainted strips of gravel. Sidewalks strewn with trash and street vendors grew up alongside the buildings on the street. One- and two-story buildings, trimmed in light blue faded over the taller brick of Brooklyn. Mabry saw, yet didn’t see, two landscapes at once. The city lay underneath the memory as he stood on the corner, frozen in a flashback.
Mark cursed, feeling something pop and liquid begin to spread inside the sole of his shoe. He didn’t know what was wrong with Mabry, silhouetted in the streetlight, not moving. He made it three-quarters of the way back across the street.
Mark reached up with his hands, in a “What the hell?” gesture. He tried to catch Scott’s eye.
The Brooklyn/desert street exploded across the night.
Mark lay on his back. His eyes were dry, and his sleeve was on fire.
Scott lay across the intersection, blown forward by the dynamic force of the explosion.
Mark’s first thought, when he could assemble a thought, was: “This is perfect timing.”
His second thought was: “I’m bleeding.”
Dazed, he propped himself up on his elbows, beat out the fire on his sleeve. Touching his forehead, he drew his fingers away, sticky and red. He looked around. Cars had stopped and people were pointing. One or two were on cell phones, but no one was running toward the scene.
The street had grown completely silent, but as Mark spotted the red and white strobing of emergency vehicle lights, he realized that the explosion had deafened him. He rubbed his eyes. The mosque no longer had a front door. The bulletin board, the peaceful mural, and part of one of the Israeli flags had crumpled in the force of the explosion. He didn’t remember seeing a bomb, but there had been a trash can under the bulletin board. Or maybe it had been a fire hydrant. He couldn’t remember, and the ground was sliding in two different directions at once.
His vision was cut off by a man and woman dressed in paramedic uniforms, shining a light in his eyes.
“His pupils are fine,” said the woman. “He’s got a cut to the forehead, but I think he’s mostly in shock.”
“Help me get him up,” said the man.
Mark looked around him. More men and women in uniforms were clustered around Mabry. The man wasn’t moving, and a large pool of something dark was spreading from the protective circle of paramedics kneeling around him. “Scott?”
“Your friend’s going to be fine,” said the woman. “Come here.”
Together, they helped Mark into the back of the ambulance. He didn’t remember an ambulance arriving. He didn’t remember firemen putting out the fire, but they were rolling their hoses up. Police cars had also arrived. Mark swayed. He felt more time slipping. His attempts to peek out the back of the ambulance and spot Scott were foiled by the paramedics firmly pushing him down on the stretcher, fitting an oxygen mask to his face. He looked up and saw the roof of the ambulance and then he saw only black.
* * *
Alan was happy. Eddie and Dodger were drinking in the kitchen when he called them into the living room. The news on several channels was of the explosion outside of a city synagogue. One channel was calling it the “Hate Crime of the Century,” neglecting to mention that it was only a decade into the current millennium, and also that the city mosque had borne the brunt of the damage.
New York Central News in particular was getting the most mileage out of the story, by highlighting the fact that one of their own, Mark Granger, had been injured and the NYPD detective he was shadowing was in critical condition after the explosion.
“See there?” Alan asked. “That’s where you hurt them the most. That’s how you get their attention.”
“By almost killing a cop?” said Eddie. “Shit, all that gets is less chance of parole.”
Alan sighed. “No. Hitting the media where it hurts.”
Dodger took a sip of beer, looked at Alan and Eddie uncomprehendingly.
“Okay, man,” said Eddie.
“Listen,” said Alan. “You watch the news right?”
“Yeah,” said Eddie.
“Okay, so watch.” He flipped to one channel. “Here, you see a story about five soldiers killed in Afghanistan.” The story played out. “Takes about thirty seconds and they’re on to the next thing.”
Eddie shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”
Dodger shrugged, too. “So?”
“So, look at this channel.” Alan switched it back. “There. We hit a reporter, immediately we get, what, like hours of coverage.”
“Makes sense,” said Eddie. He was starting to understand where Alan was going with this. He thought about some of the places Alan had sent them—movie theaters, television studios. “Guy’s there, he can talk about what’s happening.”
“It’s even better, he’s got all blood and shit all over him,” contributed Dodger.
“Exactly,” said Alan.
“Hey man, you want a beer?” asked Dodger.
“No thanks.”
The knock on the door was quiet, hesitant. Dodger and Eddie looked at each other.
“You hear that?” asked Eddie.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” said Alan. He left them watching the news and walked into the kitchen to answer the door.
The knock came again. Alan opened the door. A teenager in jeans and a Turkish soccer jersey stood on the porch.
“Salaam aleikum, sayid,” said the boy.
“Aleikum salaam, siddiq,” said Alan. “Come in.”
The boy entered. Alan invited him to sit down at the table.
“You saw the explosion?” asked the boy.
“I did, we’ve been watching,” said Alan. “You weren’t followed?”
“No. I slipped out the back before the bomb went off.”
“Very good,” said Alan. “The imam?”
“He was in his office,” said the boy. “I don’t think he made it out. He was talking with two cops before it went off.”
“One cop,” said Alan. “The other was a reporter.”
Eddie wandered back into the kitchen. “Hey.”
Alan nodded. “Eddie, this is Abdel. He’s going to be working with us from now on.”
Eddie shrugged. “Hey man.” He got a beer out of the fridge, headed back into the living room.
Abdel looked at the fridge.
“Never mind,” said Alan. “They are only a means to an end.”
Abdel nodded. “So, it was a good thing that those two came to the mosque?”
“Good in one instance,” said Alan. “It’s getting a lot of coverage we might otherwise not have gotten.”
“But?” The teenager spotted a half-empty bag of potato chips on the counter. As Alan spoke, he unrolled the bag and began to eat a few.
“Frankly, I have no idea why they were there tonight,” said Alan. “And that’s not something I want to leave to chance.”
“You want me to follow them?” asked Abdel.
“No, I need you
and your cousin to help me with some other things,” said Alan. “The events tonight have started to put things in motion, and you will be needed for future missions.”
He reached in the bag, took some chips.
“This time, we will let the Americans take care of their own.”
Chapter Ten
Detective Scott Mabry knew he wasn’t dead. The nurse currently switching out his IV bag was too pretty for him to be in Hell. On the other hand, even the most dedicated masochist would not equate Paradise with the ass-chewing he was currently suffering.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, dragging along a freaking reporter to the interview?” Nina Morris’ dark complexion was flushed even darker. Behind her, Kyle MacAllister had his arms folded, head buried in one hand. She continued. “And what the hell were you doing out of your office?”
Scott started to speak, then winced. The nurse, changing his IV bag, had pulled at the tube inserted halfway up his forearm. She re-taped it down, looping the tube over his thumb so it wouldn’t pull off again.
“As of now, you are on administrative leave with pay,” said Morris. “You stay here. Don’t come back to the office. When the docs say you can go, go home. We’ll call you when you can come back.”
She pivoted on her heel, walked around the privacy curtain, the heels of her boots thudding rhythmically.
“That woman scares me sometimes,” said MacAllister.
“I heard that!” Nina’s voice drifted back from down the hall.
Scott settled back on his bed. He plucked at the tube in his arm.
“Don’t pick at that,” said Kyle. “It freaks me out.”
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Scott. He rested his arms on the back of the chair.
“I gotta tell you, buddy, you don’t look so good,” said Kyle.
“I got a piece of shrapnel,” said Scott. His mouth was dry. It was hard to get the words out. “Went in the back, came out the front.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Kyle. “How the hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott. “One minute I was walking down the street, next I was waking up and Morris was yelling at me.”
“Well, I can’t help you out,” said Kyle. “All I know about it is what I saw on the tube, and they usually screw everything up. From our end, it looks like you got caught in some sort of hate bomb. What were you doing in Brooklyn anyway?”