Reprisal (4 page)

He’d built a crude but serviceable workbench seven feet long across the wall in the largest room. Paul flicked on the overhead lights.

He organized his tools in specific order. Some were hung on pegboard mounted behind the low bench and others stored in the drawers of low file cabinets. Paul found the cabinets at thrift shops and was proud to have never paid more than four dollars for one. The presses for reloading shells occupied the far corner.

Although he liked guns better, his knife collection was extensive, and he particularly loved the antique ones he’d found. All were carefully sharpened since a knife without an edge was as good as trying to cut with a pencil.

Tonight, he’d simply clean some of the rifles, not that they really needed it since he kept them spotless. The sweet familiar smell of cleaning fluid and the special gun oil comforted Paul.

His passion was restoring older weapons. He found them from many sources, brought them back to his workshop, and set them on the white butcher block paper covering the table.

Usually, they came to him covered in rust, oil, or even mud—hiding the beautiful craftsmanship underneath. He loved the process of carefully cleaning and uncovering the original features. Many weapons had old stories or mysteries about them that Paul could discover when he scraped away the outer layers of age and abuse.

His friends would think his fixation was weird.

And maybe it was, but he loved the technical sophistication of arms and the historical romance. If he lived in northern Minnesota, he’d fit right in. In fact, next to small engine repair, gun repair was a major industry.

After high school, when the Army recruiter in St. Cloud had talked to his best friend, the midfielder on the high school soccer team, Paul became interested too. Paul qualified for the Rangers and took to the training with gusto. He loved the order, the mission, the clear rules, and the self-reliance he learned.

After his successful discharge from the Army, Paul knew he wanted to continue serving the country in some way. He returned to Minnesota, finished college, and then law school.

With the help of his parent’s friend, a congresswoman, she persuaded the FBI to hire him in 2000. Things went well until the disaster in Milwaukee almost cost him his job.

The recent Somali murder case offered him the way to rehabilitate his career and help his country.

His biggest challenge would be the political ones in the Bureau itself. Even after all these years, the memory of his screw-up caused his shoulders to tighten. He felt immense guilt and at the same time, furious anger at the Bureau. It had been his fault of course, but they’d hung everything on him as the sacrificial lamb, with no more concern than someone might have in shaking out a wet rag to toss into the dryer.

Then, after his demotion, he was the one who’d taken the call three years ago from a teacher at Hiawatha High School in the southern suburb that started the FBI investigation.

He remembered her breathy, anxious voice.

“This is Gennifer Simmons, that’s Gennifer with a ‘G,’ and I’m worried about something.”

Demoted to answering the phone on the public tip line, Paul droned, “What’s the problem?”

“Our school has a big Somali population and there’s a boy, well I should say he’s a man ’cause he seems much older than the other kids and …”

“What about him?”

She paused. “I … I don’t know if I should do this because a teacher’s first duty is to her students but, well, I’m really worried.” She gulped a deep breath. “We call him the ‘Pied Piper’ since he’s always getting the younger boys to follow him. And he lectures them, talks about infidels.”

“Yeah?” Paul tried to be patient.

“His lecturing and getting the boys to follow him wasn’t so bad, I guess, but when he came to me a couple times with maps of Minnesota and asked me to show him where to get across the border into Canada … well, I got really worried. But I’m not sure I should be telling you”

Paul’s feet clumped to the floor as his brain raced. He grabbed a pen and notepad. “We’re definitely interested. Who is this young man and where can I talk to him?” Was he being too alarmist? No … after 9/11 he knew to react to anything.

“Well … that’s just it. I don’t think you can.”

“This could be a matter of national security, don’t you see that?” he shouted.

“But … he’s gone.”

“He’s gone? Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know. He and three other young men just disappeared.”

The FBI response was instantaneous. In a few months, many other Somali young men disappeared from their homes and schools. No one—friends, family, religious leaders—knew where they went or why. Then, a few showed up, fighting in Somalia, and the FBI cracked open the case.

But now, Paul didn’t think the Bureau was going far enough in their investigation, and it scared the hell out of him.

In his basement, Paul walked to the stand up steel locker in the corner. He felt the damp coolness. He withdrew several of the weapons from the locker, both handguns and rifles. Paul laid some of his handguns on the table.

There was the cute little Glock 29, the subcompact with the powerful 10mm upgrade from the Glock 26. He held the grip in two fingers, as it was designed, and set it down. So light, it almost felt like a toy. Next to it, he put his larger Glock 21 that boasted a heavy .45-caliber shell. He marveled at the fact the Austrian Glock was made of high-strength nylon-polymer, much more resilient than carbon steel.

His cell phone rang.

Usually, his friends texted him, so it was unusual for a call. Paul wiped his hands on a paper towel and walked over to pick it up.

Didn’t recognize the number, clicked on receive, and said hello.

“Paul, sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got some questions,” Zehra Hassan said.

His breath caught in his throat involuntarily at the sound of her voice. He’d met her in law school, dated her for a short time, then they drifted apart. He still remembered how attractive she was, flawless skin and big, almond shaped eyes. “That’s okay. I’m not doing anything important. What’s up?”

He had initiated contact with her a few days ago. She’d been surprised, but Paul insisted he called as a friend to see if he could help her. She probably saw through that but agreed. He told her of the difficulty the police and FBI had in figuring out what happened to the missing young men.

It was a lucky break for the FBI when the witness came forward about the victim, Mohamoud Ahmed, and identified the suspect. The distrust of authorities in the Somali community made investigation difficult. Their loyalty to their clans trumped all other duties.

And Zehra didn’t trust the reason for his call. He’d told his boss about the possibility of using Zehra to gain information about the murder case in the hopes of getting an advantage for the FBI.

After Zehra agreed to talk, Paul suspected she’d use him for the same reason.

“I just met my client, Ibrahim El-Amin, this afternoon. Since you’ve worked on the case, I wondered if I could talk to you. I mean, you said to call.”

He sat down in the straight-backed chair at his bench. “Sure. What’s he like?”

“I hate the son of a bitch. And he hates me … well, all women.”

“Did he do something to you?”

“Other than to try to hit me, no,” she said. “He stands for everything I’ve worked against all my life. These traditional Muslim guys from over there are jerks. They treat women like they’re camels. Quoting me the Qur’an. Can you imagine?”

“Can’t help you there,” he chuckled, remembering how tough she was. “You know how badly we want to take this guy out.” She didn’t respond, and he knew why. Making contact with her hadn’t been an accident, and Paul knew she had her suspicions, but he couldn’t tell her everything right now. Primarily, the case was the most important aspect to him, not her. It involved connections much larger than she imagined. He’d have to be careful. “What else?” he asked her, fishing.

“Since I only watch the gardening shows, I don’t catch all the news. What’s the background?”

“The young Somali men disappeared from many families and locations, and it remained a local police case until a few developments this year.” Paul paused, careful how much he could reveal to her. “One of the boys, Shirwa Ahmed, blew himself up in Somalia last October to become the first American suicide bomber. Then, recently, Burhan Hassan was found shot dead in Mogadishu.”

“Odd.”

“Yeah. One of ’em was studying engineering and suddenly left.”

“What ages?”

“Anywhere from seventeen to their late twenties.”

Zehra sighed. “Why in the hell would they want to go back to Somalia? I thought most people couldn’t wait to get out.”

“Somalia hasn’t had a functioning government since 1991. It’s ruled by tribes, and that remains true today. It’s a pretty primitive place in many respects.”

“So why did these guys go back?”

“The Somali community here has many answers to that.”

“I know, Paul, but what do you think?”

“The FBI’s theory is they were recruited to fight in a group called the Shabaab militia. They’re ‘freedom fighters’ for the Somalia homeland.”

“So, what’s the problem with that?”

“Shabaab is a militant Islamic group aligned with Al Qaeda.” Paul paused. “You can imagine that rang a few bells in the FBI and in Washington.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, how does the victim in my case fit in?”

“He disappeared from a high school a year ago. His parents reported sporadic contact with him by cell, but they always felt the calls were monitored by someone else because Ahmed didn’t speak freely.”

“I saw that in the evidence material. He said he was on a jihad for Allah, and it was the purest he’d ever felt. A true believer.”

“Right. Without his parent’s knowledge, he showed up here and was murdered.”

“Had he been recruited by the Shabaab?” Zehra pried.

“That’s what the Bureau and the police think.”

“But … you hesitated. Is that what you think?”

He had to be careful what he said to Zehra. “It’s what I think, too,” he lied.

“I still don’t understand why he came back. Or why he was murdered.”

Paul chuckled. “You sound like a defense lawyer—what’s the motive? The simple answer is, he didn’t cooperate. Many of these guys come back to recruit their friends. Ahmed wouldn’t do it, so he was killed—by your client.”

Zehra didn’t respond.

“Come on, Zehra. You’re too savvy to believe this killer is innocent. You’re no bleeding-heart liberal.”

“I didn’t say he was innocent. I just don’t know.” She paused. “The ID isn’t great, especially since the killer wore a mask and glasses.”

Paul remembered the lush resonance in her voice when it dipped into lower registers. Their affair had been pretty hot. They’d come close to having sex, but at the last moment, she backed-off, saying the Muslim guilt would be too much for her. “You know I can’t say anything.” He cleared his throat. “What do you think happened?”

“The Shabaab theory sounds plausible. I wonder if the organization is strong enough here in the Twin Cities to have enforcers.”

“They sure as hell do and frankly, it’s asshole guys like your client who scare me. What if they start directing their kids to attack us here? On some jihad?”

“Scary thought.”

“Zehra, I know you have an ethical duty to keep your talks with him confidential and to zealously represent him in court but remember, if you learn of any possible criminal activity that’s going to happen …”

“Paul, how stupid do you think I am? Just ’cause I’m representing him doesn’t mean I like this jerk or believe him,” Zehra snapped. “I’m just as worried about terrorists as everyone else!”

Neither spoke for a while.

“Sorry. I just don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

“Trouble? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just be careful; that’s all I can say.”

Zehra said, “El-Amin’s demanding a speedy trial. So, we’ll set a trial date as soon as possible.”

“Can you be ready by then?”

Zehra said, “I don’t think he cares.”

“Okay.” His voice softened. “What are you going to do now?”

“Relax. I’ve got lots of watering to do in my garden. When I bought this place, I looked for the biggest balcony I could find. I’ve got about a dozen pots out there with lettuce, flowers, strawberries, and a few unidentified things. It’s so crowded I can hardly get around to water, but I’d die without my garden. It keeps me sane.”

Paul sensed they were done and said, “Zehra … I want you to be careful with this case.”

“What do you mean? The guy’s in custody, and the deputies all love me.”

After Paul clicked off the phone, he went back to work. He lifted his most expensive prize onto the table. The Browning BAR rifle with the telescopic sights. He’d splurged to buy the most luxurious one, the Safari model, which had the engraved steel receiver and upgraded walnut stock. He ran his fingers down the slightly oily barrel to feel the smooth precision of the engineering.