Reprisal (18 page)

“Biking’s great. I’m a gardener. That’s why the Rumi verse means so much to me. He wrote often of gardens. My garden’s my sanctuary, my refuge. I live to watch the plants come up in the spring. After a Minnesota winter, that renews my hope.”

“Then, I should buy you a gift.”

“Huh?”

“Around the corner, there is a garden store. You know of it?”

“Never noticed it before.”

“Come on, I will buy you something.”

They stood. As she passed in front of him, he rested his hand on the bare skin of her forearm. She couldn’t miss it. On the sidewalk, they turned left and walked a little too closely side by side around the corner.

Nestled into a restored brick building stood a narrow garden store. The front door was propped open with a copper watering can. The scent of new flowers and damp earth drew them inside. Zehra loved the cute tools and unusual collection of plants they offered. All of it very expensive.

“Do you like orchids?” Mustafa asked her.

“Sure. I’ve even wintered over a few at home.”

“Come here.” He moved her as if he’d been in the store before.

Near the back of the shop was a partially enclosed area devoted entirely to orchids. When they stepped into the cramped area, Zehra felt moist warmth. A mister wheezed clouds in the corner, behind the various pots. Other than that noise, it was quiet.

They stood before a display of the most unique orchids she’d ever seen. But then, there were probably hundreds she’d never seen. For a long time, they studied each plant, looked at it from different angles, and leaned back to get perspective. Finally, Mustafa pointed. “This one. I want you to have this one.”

Zehra moved closer to study it better. She gasped.

From a clay pot, a long narrow green stalk rose as if it were a cobra swaying to the piping rhythm of a trainer. At the top, it tipped over to explode into several leaves, open and vulnerable. The outer leaves, dull yellow and striped in purple, bent back to reveal a second set of tiny, perfectly formed openings like little mouths. On the bottom, hung little blood-red “slippers.” She could almost imagine the plant breathing.

Zehra loved orchids but, at the same time, they were so creepy. She didn’t even know this man and already he offered her a beautiful flower. Zehra felt dizzy, and the longer she stared at the plant, the more it seemed to sway to the sound of silent piping.

She pushed out of the room. Took a deep breath of cool air in the shop. Smelled the familiar roses next to the check-out counter.

Mustafa followed behind her. “I noticed you seemed to favor this one.” He set it on the counter and paid quickly.

Zehra mumbled thanks and carried the thing outside. She didn’t know what to think. It was weird, for sure. But other than a few $3.99 clumps of dandelions from Costco that other men had given her as an afterthought, this was the most exquisite plant anyone ever gave her. After all, there were roses and then there were orchids—a whole different level, if you knew anything about flowers.

She decided to accept it.

“I would like to see your garden some time,” he said.

“Sure … sure.” This was moving way out of control, too fast. Her cell phone buzzed. She answered it. BJ. The other world jarred her awake.

“Zehra, I’ve been trying to call you for an hour!”

“Huh? I … I’ve been busy. What’s up, Denzel?”

“My friend, the scientist with the testing company. He just called me and said the DNA tests run by the BCA are faked.”

“What?” She clung to the orchid for fear she’d drop it.

“Yeah. Someone doctored the sample, so the BCA got a false reading.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“El-Amin, they got the wrong guy.”

Twenty

The Yemeni left Turkmenbashi with the briefcase, by ship. It didn’t rain, but heavy winds heaved the ship up and down as it plowed westward into the storm. He hated traveling by ship, but in this case, the route across the Caspian Sea was the quickest. He’d secured the case under a bunk below deck. Whenever he moved, it came with him.

All he had to do now, was get to Cairo. He’d get his money when he handed over the package. He grinned when he thought of how he’d squeeze for a little more.

He thought briefly of the stupid Russian. All these Christian kafirs were so willing to endanger their people for the gain of a little money. He thought of them as being lower than dogs.

Once on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Yemeni would transfer to a train and continue his journey. The train system, some if left from the European construction in the late nineteenth century, was patchwork and worn out. Riding it required patience for the constant break downs and transfers. Flying would be easier of course, but the security on the train system was lax, and he could move without many questions. By early morning, they approached the rich city of Baku on the western shore.

Before the American crusaders invaded Iraq, the Yemeni would have turned south, in his journey, to Tehran, then crossed into Baghdad for the final leg to Cairo. Now, he had to take the northern, longer route through Baku and across Syria.

He’d travel in Muslim countries to make it easier.

The sun rose behind the Yemeni while he stood on deck and watched the city come closer. Before World War II, the Baku oilfield had been one of the largest in the world. The city boasted many rich, cultural adornments. He could see the minarets of mosques built in the old Walled City by the harbor. The dawning sun lit them up in coral and orange.

He felt the hot wind off the shore.

The ship passed next to the yacht club, then turned to the north for its own berth. Baku huddled under the southern side of a peninsula that jutted into the sea.

He was off the ship quickly and walked down the pier to a clump of palm trees. Several taxis waited in the shade under them. He called for one, and when the driver offered to put the briefcase in the trunk, the Yemeni refused. He set it on the back seat. When he climbed in, he clutched it next to himself. They left for the train station.

The journey to Cairo exhausted him.

Though a young man, the Yemeni struggled through endless waiting, transfers, currency exchanges, different languages, and old train cars that stopped often, but he finally arrived in Cairo. He’d been in such a hurry that he forgot to bring food with him. Luckily, in Damascus, there’d been a long delay, so he was able to get off, find a market, and buy food and water before continuing on his journey.

Before eating, he boarded the train and washed thoroughly. Along with dozens of other passengers, he knelt on the floor as the train rocked along on its way out of Damascus. He prayed, facing south, toward Mecca. After his prayers were finished, he ate slowly and read sections of the Qur’an. The lovely words of the Prophet strengthened him, reminded him of why he made this arduous effort for the greater glory of Allah.

From Damascus, he was forced to turn west again toward the sea. The direct route would go south through Israel, but security in that country was the toughest in the region. The Yemeni would have to travel through Lebanon and, once again, board a ship for Alexandria, Egypt.

From there, he’d make his way to Cairo, to meet the agent planted in America who would take the transfer from him. They had scheduled a time and safe place for the meeting. The Yemeni wasn’t sure of all the details of the plan and really didn’t care, so long as he was paid and the work was for Allah.

And he’d be happy to get rid of the briefcase, turning it over to the other man’s care. It made him uneasy to handle it. They’d emphasized again and again, to carry it carefully, not to drop it or let it be slammed around. And he was never, never to open it. He didn’t know what the contents were but had been assured it wouldn’t blow-up or anything like that if it remained sealed.

It didn’t weigh much, and many times his curiosity almost overwhelmed him. Two locks, with two different keys he’d been told, prevented access. What was in it? He longed to find out, as a child wanted to open a secret gift. But the fear of what would happen should he open the case stopped him. It was obviously valuable. He wondered it he could squeeze the rich American for a little more money

He reached Cairo in the evening, feeling tired and dirty. Long before they stopped at the station, the train trundled through the outskirts of the city, miles of small, drab huts and houses. For as far as the Yemeni could see in the dusky light, the city stretched in all directions. Even inside the train, he could feel the pulsing lives of millions of people around him.

He heard the chanting call to prayer from loud speakers in the mosques, the bawl of donkeys, and horns of hundreds of cars. He smelled the dust and heat. He saw groups of well-dressed school children walking together, going home probably. Women grilled fish for dinner in the narrow alleys. Bearded men huddled in small groups, talking and gesturing wildly. Some were playing chess.

The eruption of life around him made the Yemeni proud.
Let the imperialists in Europe and America have their luxuries. We have people and life and energy in our Islamic countries
, he thought. And considering his role as a warrior for Allah, he felt even more proud.

Twenty-One

The next morning, Zehra and BJ waited for his friend, Dr. Malcolm Stein at the doctor’s office. Last night, after the call from BJ, she’d explained to Michael what happened. They had hurried to her car. After putting the orchid on the floor of the backseat to make sure it couldn’t fall over, she turned to him to say goodbye.

“Thanks so much for a great time,” Zehra said. She could feel herself blushing. “And thanks for the beautiful plant. No one has ever…”

“Dont worry. I enjoy you, and the orchid is a gift in appreciation of that pleasure I’ve had with you. Would you call me by my real name, Mustafa?”

“Of course, if you’d like.”

He smiled. “May I see you again?”

Every nerve in her brain told her to be careful. This was just too good to be true. She hardly knew him. She’d tried to discourage him. Slow down. As the thoughts ran through her mind, her mouth opened and words came from somewhere inside her, “Sure. I’m gonna be swamped with the trial, especially now, but let’s try to fit some time in.” She smiled into his face. His skin looked flawless.

“Well … thank you again.” He twisted from left to right. “You better get to work on the trial.” He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

She could feel the warmth of his skin, and she felt herself blush like a teenaged girl.

“Yo, Z … you still here?” BJ’s voice boomed around the conference room of Dr. Stein’s office. His big hand rested on her shoulder and calmed her.

“Yeah …”

“Dr. Stein usually works on Saturday mornings, so he agreed to meet us. I want you to hear this directly from him.”

In ten minutes, a large man with a moustache and a halo of curly gray hair came into the conference room where they sat. He wore a pink golf shirt and khaki pants. “Hey, BJ,” he called. “What’s shakin’?”

BJ introduced Zehra to Dr. Stein

“This dude can’t be all bad, ‘cause he’s a fan of jazz.”

“Even more, a fan of yours,” Stein grinned.

“Can you tell us what you found?” she said.

“Sure. You guys want water? Coffee?” He sat awkwardly at the head of the table. A huge gold watch dangled from his wrist and tapped on the table when he gestured with his hand. “My brother in Tel Aviv has a company that developed a test that can distinguish real DNA samples from the fake ones. I’ve started the U.S. outpost of his company. We hope to sell the test to labs all over the country.” He leaned back.

“Is it complicated?” Zehra asked.

“You have to know the techniques of DNA sampling and how to run the tests. Once trained, anyone could do this, I suppose. Probably, the average criminal doesn’t have the brains or training, but an undergrad biology major might be able to pull it off.”

“So, the DNA sample tested by the BCA for the El-Amin murder case is fake? What does that mean?” she said.

“It means someone planted false evidence at the crime scene. It’s really easier than planting false fingerprints. When the BCA took their samples of saliva from the face mask, they did all the correct tests and determined the donor was Ibrahim El-Amin, but we discovered it’s all faked. The sample doesn’t ID him.”

“Who does it identify?”

“Can’t say unless we had a sample from the true donor on file. All I can tell you is that El-Amin is not the true donor.”

“How does your test work?” BJ said. He leaned forward and rested his big arms on the table.

“You need a real DNA sample from the suspect. It could be a strand of hair or saliva off a drinking cup. It doesn’t need to be large. Then, you amplify the sample into a large quantity of DNA, using a standard technique called whole genome amplification. Of course, you could use a strand of hair, but blood or saliva left at a crime scene is more convincing—which is what they did here.”