Reprisal (22 page)

The sweet smell of jasmine carried on the breeze from someone’s garden.

Zehra paused to look in the windows of the small shops on Cedar Avenue. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the man from the mosque coming toward her. She spun around but didn’t see him. Her breathing came harder. Zehra hurried toward the car, parked around the corner.

As she passed the corner of a brick building, shouldered next to a vacant lot with high bushes along the sidewalk, the man from the mosque popped out. He must have ducked around the back to ambush her. He lunged for her.

Zehra screamed and stopped.

Of all the things she shouldn’t do, she stopped. Shocked. He reached for her again, trying to pull her behind the bushes. She threw-off his grip and launched herself down the sidewalk. He came after her.

Suddenly, the sidewalk was deserted of people. Where had they gone? Zehra ran for the corner, then thought that even if she reached the car, he’d be able to grab her before she could get the door open.

Around the corner was an old frame building that housed the West Bank School of Music. Surely, someone would be in there.

When Zehra rounded the corner, she saw the house a block away. She sprinted for it.

The man yelled at her and crossed the street to cut her off.

Zehra’s lungs hurt and her legs felt like lead. She pushed on, cutting left to avoid him. She faked turning down the street to the left. The man changed course and leaped back across the street. Zehra saw a swirl of black robes as he increased his speed in order to intercept her.

At the last moment, she faked right and, with a shrug of her shoulders, let him pass off to her side. Zehra clambered up the steps to the school and tugged at the door.

Luckily, it popped open and she dove inside, slamming it behind her.

Sweat poured from her face and she gasped to gain her breath. Zehra remembered to turn around and lock the door. The school remained quiet except for her bellowing lungs.

Twenty-Six

The phone rang. A breathy voice asked, “Mr. Schmidt? I don’t know if you remember me but … well, I didn’t know who else to call. This is Gennifer Simmons and you were so good.”

“Who’s this?” Paul sat at his desk watching the sun rise higher over the skyscrapers to the east, burning off the last fog.

“Gennifer Simmons. Remember? Gennifer, with a ‘G.’ I’m the school teacher at Hiawatha High School. We talked a few years ago, and you were kind and listened to me.”

“You’re the one who called about that ‘Pied Piper’ guy who disappeared with the Somali kids?”

“That’s right. Well, I hate to make this call. You know, as a teacher we are hard-wired to protect our kids but …”

“What happened?” He was wide awake.

“I … I talked to a student. Well, he came to me, actually. A Somali boy, about seventeen. He’s one of my favorites, and I’m really worried about him.”

“Tell me.”

“His name is Ibrahim, but he’s taken the American name, Abraham, and he’s the sweetest boy.”

“What happened?” Paul shouted.

“Oh. Well, he caught me after school one day as I was walking to my car. He obviously didn’t want anyone else around. He told me he was scared, because some of the other boys had talked him into a meeting at the community center in his mosque. In fact, they’d met several times. Each meeting was attended by one of the elders from Abraham’s tribe and another younger, Middle Eastern looking man who was Muslim. The other man must’ve been some kind of a scientist, Abraham thought, because he talked to Abraham about his math and chemistry courses.” She cleared her throat.

“Did the scientist try to kidnap your boy?”

“No. That’s the strange part.”

“He didn’t talk about leaving for Somalia?”

“Just the opposite. The man talked to him about doing something great for Allah in the mosque.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Abraham hasn’t been back to the mosque because he’s afraid.”

“Tell his parents?”

“No, he’s afraid the elder from their tribe will find out. Mr. Schmidt, what should I do?” Her words tore at Paul.

“Nothing. Give me your address. I want to meet with the boy and yourself. Just us. And don’t say anything to anyone. Is the boy there today?”

“Yes, for regular classes. I could have him meet you.”

“I can be there in thirty minutes.” He hung up and called Conway. Paul knew on one level Conway would be upset, but the teacher called Paul. He had to follow-up. His boss didn’t answer. Paul left a voice mail and ran out of the office to his car.

A half hour later, on his way to the school, Paul’s cell rang.

“All right, what are you doing?” Joan Cortez asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t bullshit me. I just called your office and your secretary said you shot out of there like from a cannon. What’s up?”

Paul took a deep breath. How much should he tell her? Since he was already on his way to meet the kid, ICE could never keep up. “I’m meeting a high school boy who says someone’s recruiting him to go to a mosque in Burnsville.” It sounded stupid, so he explained some of what he’d learned.

“Doesn’t make sense. Did you say the recruiter wants him to go back to school?

“Think so.”

Without saying goodbye, she clicked off.

In ten minutes, he met with Ms. Simmons in the teacher’s lounge at the high school. A small woman with brown hair, she hopped around the room like a nervous bird.

“We can meet Abraham in the classroom next to mine. No one’s in there for this hour,” she told Paul.

He followed her to the classroom, and, within a few minutes, Abraham entered. Paul looked at the slender boy with dark skin. He had short, shiny black hair and immense coal-black eyes and perfectly white teeth. No wonder Ms. Simmons liked him. The boy’s eyes darted from Paul to the teacher. She smiled and put her arm around him while she introduced Paul.

“Abraham, I won’t tell anyone that we met so whatever you can tell me will not get out of this room. Okay?” When the boy bobbed his head, Paul continued. “Your teacher told me you said a man, a scientist, talked to you at the mosque?”

Abraham looked at Simmons again then turned toward Paul. “Yeah. A couple of times with Mr. Kamal.”

“When were these meetings?”

“In the past year or so. One of the elders of my tribe was there, and he seemed to be friendly with the scientist.”

“Why do you call him a scientist?” Paul said.

“He told us he was some kind of scientist and that Islam had an ancient history of the best scientists in the world, but that it’s been lost. It’s up to people like him and younger people like us to regain that spot.”

“What kind of scientist?”

“He never said.”

“Did he want you to do something?”

“Yeah. He wants us to volunteer for a special mission for Allah.”

“What?”

“He didn’t say exactly, but it would involve a great and important sacrifice, he said. He wanted us to meet at the mosque.”

Paul shook his head. “He didn’t ask you to go to Somalia?”

“No. He told us we must attend our schools. That was the most important thing,” Abraham said.

“Are you sure he didn’t talk to you about becoming a freedom fighter in Somalia?”

“Nope.”

Paul looked at Simmons. She shrugged her shoulders. He asked the boy, “What are you supposed to do at the school?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something very important for Allah. We were instructed not to tell our parents about anything.”

“Did you?”

“No, because the scientist isn’t Somali and my parents don’t trust many people outside of their tribe.” He glanced at the teacher. “I didn’t know what to do, so I told Ms. Simmons.” Tiny drops of sweat popped out over the boy’s forehead.

“You did the right thing, Abraham,” she told him.

Paul asked, “So, you were supposed to go to the mosque. When?”

“At the end of the week. Then, we’d have to go to school every day without missing any classes. The end of the week, Friday, is the holy day for Muslims.”

“Sure” Paul said. “What were you going to do at the mosque?”

Abraham shook his head. They all stood in silence. Paul wrestled with the facts. They were thin—some scientist told the boys to go to school. So what? Was this connected to the other missing Somali boys?

“But I know where he works,” Abraham said.

“Huh?” Paul looked at him.

“Well, I saw his briefcase that he always brought with him. It had the initials, ‘M.A.’ on the top and the name of his company on it too.”

“You remember the name?”

“Sure, Health Technologies.”

A grin burst across Paul’s face. “Great work! I should recruit you for the FBI. You remember anything else? What’d he look like?”

“Uh … tall, skinny dude. Wasn’t Somali. He looked Arab. Big nose, smooth skin, good looking. I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. Are you scheduled to meet him again?”

“Only if I want to participate. I’d like to.”

“In the next few days?”

“Yeah.”

Paul thought for a moment about using the boy as bait to lure the scientist in, but decided it was too risky. “Health Technologies, huh? I can follow up on that.” He thanked both of them, left the school, and climbed into his car. He pulled out his Blackberry and keyed in Health Technologies. He found their website and address in Arden Hills, a suburb on the north side of the Twin Cities. He checked to make sure he had FBI identification, and left the school. There probably weren’t too many Middle Eastern men employed there. It should be easy to find Mr. A, the scientist.

He tried Conway’s number again and received his gruff voice mail. Depending on what Paul found when he arrived at the company, he’d call for back-up if necessary.

Twenty-Seven

At the elevator in the basement of her building, Zehra pounded on the button to retrieve it. She rode it up, rushed inside her condo, and locked and chained the door.

She tried to calm herself. Gasped for breath but couldn’t seem to get enough. She felt as if she were choking. This was too close. What should she do?

To distract herself and calm down, she filled the old copper watering can her parents had given her when she first moved in. Her condo had an unusually large deck, which she’d crammed full of pots. Gardening had always given her a respite, a spiritual retreat.

Zehra sprinkled the spinach and chives then watered the begonias. It was easy because her hands shook. Gardening magazines urged her to buy worms for the soil. They created a richer environment for the plants and even disposed of garbage.

They were right of course, but the thought of all those worms crawling around her deck made her queasy.

The missing imam.

Zehra punched BJ’s number on her cell in speed dial. He answered. She told him everything as fast as she could get the words out.

“Chill, girl. I’ll be over.”

“But, BJ, we lost our main witness.”

The trial was scheduled to start next Monday. Now, what would they do for the defense? The fake DNA test might not be enough to win, depending on the other witnesses and evidence.

Like a dog sensing things before humans could, Zehra felt a gathering storm. Someone had to fake the DNA … who? And why? Now, the imam was missing. Who were the people recruiting the young Somali boys? Paul had been right—this was bigger than the murder case. She felt alone and vulnerable.

She thought of Mustafa and emailed him. Since BJ wasn’t able to make headway with these people, after Mustafa’s work in the community, maybe he could help. Zehra explained how she’d gone to the mosque and found the alibi witness missing. Did he think he could open any doors for her? To her surprise, he responded immediately. Maybe, he told her. He agreed to meet her later.

Zehra unlocked the lobby door downstairs to let BJ come in. He couldn’t do much and Zehra knew that, but just having him with her for a few hours helped. He assured her he’d stick around. He hugged her so close that she could hear his heart thumping and that made her feel relieved.

“What really spooks me was the guy from the mosque. He kept asking if he could find me.” Zehra’s voice didn’t sound like her own. “Do you think he’ll come after me again? Here?” She started to shake.

“I’ll be here as much as you need me,” BJ said. “I’ll call my old partner and get him to have a squad hang around here.”

Zehra felt like crying. BJ’s presence calmed her. She sniffed back a few tears.

In ten minutes, Mustafa arrived, and Zehra was happy to leave the condo She introduced the two men. BJ said he’d let himself out. Zehra climbed into the front seat of his Mercedes. He turned off the air and opened the windows to let warm summer air surround them. It felt good, and Zehra relaxed a little. His car had a manual transmission, and she watched his strong hand maneuver the stick, shifting with confidence. They must find the imam