“None of that has anything to do with a woman’s life in danger.”
“What do you think, Houston?” he asked the Detroit guy.
“In this town, it’s always better to take it easy. You do not know the can of shit you are opening if you do something wrong. It will land all over everybody in this room and never go away.”
“I would add,” said Nick to Bob, “that maybe your read is that she’s in danger because you’re overcommitted to her, and maybe you’ve seen so much combat that everything is always combat. I’d hate to have to testify to a condition of ‘danger’ on such flimsy evidence at my board hearing.”
“Fair enough, and always a possibility.”
“Chandler?”
“Not fair to put her on the spot,” said Nick. “She’s junior and under Bureau discipline. Chandler, you don’t have to answer.”
“Yes, sir, but I will. Mr. Swagger, I’m FBI all the way. If the agent in charge—that is, Agent Memphis—makes a decision, I will obey it. Period, end of message.”
“Okay, she’s a good marine,” said Swagger. “We knew that.”
“Mr. Gold,” said Nick, “you’ve got more experience than any of us. Please jump in here, tell us what you think.”
“It would be different in Israel, where the courts and the media favor the government in its anti-terrorist efforts. So I cannot advise, because your context and nuances are so unique.”
“You have to say something,” said Nick. “Sorry, but you are here to advise, and it’s no help at all if you don’t.”
“Then I would say cock the hammer, point the gun, but don’t pull the trigger.”
“Okay,” said Nick. “Houston, you call that U.S. Attorney for a verbal warrant, so that if it does come to a raid, the State boys can hit the door in a second.”
“I’m going to move them across the street,” said Chandler. “That’ll shave even more time off their reaction interval.”
“Good move,” said Swagger, hearing in his mind the slide and click of MP5 bolts setting up for action.
* * *
• • •
Sister Abdullah, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am not. I want you to be comfortable with me, and the fastest way I can do that is endure a great deal of pain. I am not afraid of pain. My faith will enable me to forget it quickly. And if I am beaten to a point where you believe I could no longer lie and would say anything to avoid further pain and I do not deviate in my story, I will have proved by ordeal its authenticity.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I give you permission. I see it from your point of view. I will not file charges. I will go back to my room and heal and then go back to Baltimore, proud that I have served my faith.”
“You may give me permission, but the state of Michigan does not. I could end up in prison for ten years.”
“The state will never find out.”
“A guarantee you cannot possibly make.”
“Perhaps you should think this through a little more clearly. FBI agents are young women, athletic. I have varicose veins, and I haven’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. Would the FBI employ an old thing like me?”
“Young and beautiful FBI agents exist only in the movies. Who’s to say one couldn’t look like you?”
“So what do you recommend, the towels with water? I will undergo that. Many of the faith have.”
“I can only recommend what I’ve initiated, which is a detailed interrogation session, and these men will vet each answer on the Internet. It will be a long night. There will be great psychological pressure on you, if you are a spy, to avoid a mistake. We will see if you can stand up to it. When your story collapses, we will deal with what remains.”
She didn’t know if she could do this. The slow grind of it all, the utter concentration it would take to keep her details in trim, the mental effort against the deep fatigue—it would be too much.
Crack the button, she thought. Get the cops in here. Shake this place down, see what’s cooking. Smack el-Tariq and his pals around. Get them to talk. Get Juba that way. Find him, get him, kill him. You killed my Tom, and I turned into a different woman and I tracked you down and I killed you dead.
But—if she pushed the button, and they found nothing, the word would get out that the FBI was hunting a certain terrorist in Dearborn, and, if he were here, he’d know and vanish. Instead of hurting him, she’d have helped him.
“Mrs. Abdullah, you blacked out there.”
“I took a little nap,” she said.
The door opened. A man came in and set something on the desk. It was a file. He leaned and whispered to the imam, who listened intently, nodding.
“All right,” said the imam. “Perhaps this may move things along.”
He pulled out a picture.
A knife cut into her heart. How had they gotten it?
It was taken on November 12, 2002. Boys’ Latin had just beaten Gilman in football, and Tom, a tight end, had made a spectacular catch, late, to keep the drive going, to keep the ball away from Gilman’s offense. There was Tom, his helmet under his arm, his arm around her, on the happiest day of his life. His radiance was like the blaze of the setting sun at the end of a stormy day, promising much for tomorrow.
How had they gotten it?
“A handsome boy, Mrs. McDowell,” said the imam. “It’s a shame what happened to him. But perhaps we will now proceed with the truth.”
She cracked the GPS bead in her hijab.
18
Detroit Metro
We’d better get back there,” said Jared.
“Give me your phone,” said Juba.
He took the thing from the young man, set it on the pavement, and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. He removed the SIM card and put it in his pocket for later disposal in river or fire.
“Wh-what are you doing? How can I call my mom?”
“We will not go back there. Ever. It no longer exists for us. That phase is ended and must not be revisited. It is compromised, everything in it is tainted and potentially of lethal danger. We must think clearly and move quickly. How much money do you have?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy.
They stood on a street corner somewhere in the revitalized Tomorrowland of downtown, so sleek that it was devoid of human beings. A few retail outlets remained open—a Subway, a McDonald’s, an old auto-themed pub, a late-night Sprint—hopeful of snagging a few late customers. The glow of each establishment spilled out onto the dark sidewalks, while mute monoliths that by day were full of suburbanites loomed blankly overhead.
Jared pulled out his wallet, checked the cash, and saw that he had about thirty-five dollars in bills.
“But I have this,” he said, pulling out a red Bank of America card. “I have a thousand in my checking account. We can get eight hundred dollars out tonight, from an ATM machine, the other two hundred tomorrow.”
“Get the eight hundred now. Then the card is to be destroyed. It may have GPS. Our goal is to leave Detroit as quickly as possible.”
“To go where?”
“Away. We will need money and an automobile.”
“I can’t just walk out of my life. I have to call my folks, I have people I have to say good-bye to. I suppose I could borrow some money, but we’ve got to get a car, and that will take some time. I have contacts, and—”
“You’re an idiot child. Assume that in a short while they will know everything about you. Your picture will be flashed to every policeman in the state. They will net you by noon tomorrow. You will talk, giving them explicit description of me and an account of our conversations. You will cooperate with an artist, and a drawing will emerge. I will be the most famous man in America by five-thirty tomorrow afternoon.”
“I don’t—”
“Assume and operate
on the principle of the worst of all possibilities. No other course is safe but immediate escape and evasion. Now, where can we get a car and ten thousand dollars?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Well, I know. In this city, in certain areas, there are many drug transactions. We will rob one of them. Do you understand? They will not go to the police. Eventually the police will hear, but by that time we will be long gone.”
Jared could not keep the look of fright off his face, or the series of dry gulps coming out of his throat or the clumsiness overcoming his limbs.
“Those guys are really tough. They will not take any shit lying down. It’s well known in the community that you do not fuck with them. Fuck with anybody, but do not fuck with dope guys.”
“Little American boy, you say you are a jihadist. This is jihad. It is about action, commitment, discomfort. It is about will. Your faith should give you that. You cannot talk and posture and affect any longer. You must become my right hand—and, thus, Allah’s right hand. You have been chosen. Now you must contribute.”
Oh, fuck, thought Jared.
* * *
• • •
The car was not a problem. Juba selected a ’13 Taurus out of a parking lot, jimmied the lock with his knife, ripped the plastic shielding off the keyhole, did some fast wire twisting, and the thing came to life.
The car led to the ATM, which led to eight hundred dollars in crisp twenties. Next stop: Drugland.
“You’re sure this eight hundred dollars isn’t enough? We can get a long way—”
“Suppose we need to bribe? Suppose we need a new vehicle? We will need new clothes, we will need money for motels. The one thing necessary for surviving on the run is cash. I know, I have been on the run many times. Do not think of your old life and how things used to be. You have given your life to Allah. He will do with it as He chooses.”
Great, thought Jared, who was finding transfiguration from the theoretical to the actual more troublesome than he ever imagined.
His mood was not improved by the ghastly terrain south of Seven Mile Road. Abandoned crumbling houses, lawns overgrown, the stiff grass blowing in the wind off the lake. Now and then, the fluorescent, dead-bone illumination of a late-night mart or liquor store turning anyone caught in it into a zombie. Abandoned cars, broken toys, gardens that looked jungly and foreboding. About a tenth of the houses were occupied.
You didn’t want to be out here if you weren’t really good at the game. This was the big league. Predators or guppies, nothing in between. You could tell the whores from the dealers easily: the dealers looked better. They were everywhere, like specters, standing in the wind, oblivious to its chill. A hoodie over a T-shirt, baggy jeans, big white sneakers off some astronaut’s moonwalk, ball caps worn backwards.
“These guys?” he asked Juba. “They look uncooperative to me.”
They discussed strategy, Jared smiled and licked his dry lips, and, in time, they found their mark. Jared rolled out.
“Yo, little A-rab boy,” said the dealer. “Whatcha yo’ wanna be here fo’? You wanna score? If not, git yo’ ass outta here or some brothahs gonna turn yo’ shit to hurt.”
“Ah, actually,” said Jared, fighting a rise of phlegm in his throat, “I wanted to hook up with some stuff. Hard, you call it, right? Got some pals, we want to try it. That’s what I’m here for.”
The dealer sized him up. “Think yo’ know some shit cuz yo’ calls it hard, just like a bro wif two nines and a mouf-ful of gold and a shiny diamond? What yo’ know? Yo’ don’t know shit.”
Jared shrugged. “But the money is green. That should count for something.”
“Gots to try the ride? Yeah, man, dis shit give yo’ the ride. Yo’ show me the green—or is dis some bullshit fraternity test, see how long yo’ last on Seven Mile?”
“No, no, I have the money,” he said, pulling out his roll. The dealer looked at the thickness of the wad.
“Yo’ heavy, man.”
“Eight hundred, man. I want to buy that much.”
“Yo’ don’t know nuffin’! Yo’ think I got that much? I do nickel and dime bags, man. And it’s late, I done most of my business. Got two nickels and a dime left. My man be comin’ by soon. I got to put in a request, and he go load up. Then yo’ git yo’ eight dimes and go off to yo’ white-boy A-rab par-tay with all dem Beckys.”
“Shit,” said Jared. “How long do I have to stand here?”
“Yo’ come south of Seven Mile, that’s what happens, man. Okay, go ’way. Go back to that car wif yo’ friend. My man be by in a bit.”
“Do I give you money now?”
“Give me two hundred, down payment. That’s so’s I know yo’ come back, and also yo’ don’t go to no other dealers. I’m Ginger. Yo’ come back to Ginger, yo’ don’t go no other dealer or yo’ lose your two hundred dollars, get it?”
“Yeah.”
“Go ’way, come back in forty minutes, ’kay? He come, I tells him, we go load up, yo’ pay up. Yo’ gits yo’ bags and yo’ gets yo’ scared little Peter Pan ass outta here.”
* * *
• • •
They drove around the block and parked. Juba slipped out. He slid through the overgrown yard of one house, across an alley mainly used by rats, and through another yard, until he had a good vantage on the dealer.
Nothing happened for a time—no traffic, no pedestrians, no whores, no cops—but then a black SUV pulled up, and the dealer man went around to him. Juba watched as they exchanged words through the window and, finally, some cash and a plastic bag with new, but short, replenishment.
Juba turned, raced back the way he came, and jumped into the car. He pulled down the street, screamed around the corner, hit the street where the drama had played out, and turned. A couple of blocks ahead, they could make out the taillights of what could only be the SUV.
They rolled through back streets, closing the distance. Juba was counting on poor security from the runner. He wouldn’t be alert. Under normal circumstances, Juba would have followed at an eight-block increment, pulled off, waited for the next run, then eight more blocks, finally arriving near morning. But time was short. The only thing he did was turn his lights off, keeping eye contact with the taillights ahead. They turned, he turned, and when he got to Seven Mile, he had to guess which way the supplier had turned because he hadn’t made it to the street in time to see. He guessed left, put his lights back on, and pressed pedal to floor. Ah, yes, there it was, a black Jeep Cherokee, well-polished, glittering in the more vivid light of Seven Mile. He fell into place six car lengths behind, careful to keep a regular interval, low profile, nothing aggressive or hostile.
At least one person was impressed.
“Wow,” said Jared, “you’re on this guy’s tail like glue.”
“Concentrate. Eyes on the car. When it turns, I’ll go straight ahead. It’s your job to see if it turns left or right the next street over or continues.”
Jared nodded, swallowing.
The game played itself out for another three-quarters of a mile. Then, helpfully, the driver ahead signaled, slowed, and took a right.
Jared saw, from the vantage point of his own car, the SUV slow down in the middle of the intersection, saw the taillight signal, saw the vehicle swing around.
“He went left,” he said.
Juba accelerated through his block, took the right on two wheels, and pulled up at the corner, waiting for the SUV to pass him and for the chase to begin again. But it didn’t come, and he got out, ran to the corner, and saw the SUV parked in the road half a block down. A sudden shear of light signified the opening of the stash house door as the driver was admitted.
“Okay, that’s it,” he said as he got back. “Now we check it out.”
Slowly, they drove by the house. It was dilapidated, like all the others, but three lights burned in various w
indows. Otherwise, it was quiet.
They pulled around the corner, parked, and, catty-cornered, observed, sheltering in the lee of an abandoned place across the street.
In time, the dealer came out. He had a large paper bag with him.
“Okay, he’s loaded up, headed back with your eight dime bags,” said Juba. “We’ll give it a few minutes and then we’ll hit them.”
“Hit them? With what?” said the boy.
19
Interrogation room A, task force MARJORIE DAW headquarters
The interrogation of the Imam Imir el-Tariq didn’t take place until nearly 5 a.m., after various administrative tasks had been completed. The imam’s lawyer had to arrive and meet with his client, the relevant federal attorney had to be roused from bed and brought on scene, the FBI evidence retrieval had to work the room found in the basement in which a single man had lived for a week, Mrs. McDowell had to be medically attended to, cleared, debriefed, and her testimony integrated into the strategy Nick would take, the evidence collated and mastered—all of these activities backed by paperwork and cyberwork.
Finally, Nick, SAIC Houston of the Detroit Field Office, and the sleepy federal prosecutor, who was instructed to keep his mouth shut since he knew nothing, sat across from the imam and his lawyer, a well-known firebrand named Kasim. Swagger, Gold, and Chandler observed via closed-circuit TV.
Nick began by speaking into the recording device, identifying each participant and his allegiances, the date, the circumstances. Then he began in earnest.
“Imam el-Tariq, as your lawyer has undoubtedly told you, the government will indict you on the following counts: detaining a federal agent against her will, use of force against a federal agent, conspiracy to assault a federal agent, and, if necessary, kidnapping a federal agent or conspiracy to kidnap a federal agent. This could amount to a federal prison sentence of more than fifteen years. And please note that we do not anticipate filing state charges, so that the cases will not be tried in the somewhat dubious Dearborn judicial system. Hard time is a distinct possibility.”
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