Reprisal (8 page)

“To what end, Paul?” Mavis asked.

“I’m not sure. But remember, I got the first call five years ago. Something was going on way back then.”

“The Shabaab militia?” Mavis said.

“Didn’t really pick up traction until 2006. So, what were they doing here in the high schools long before that?”

“Laying the ground work, obviously.”

“I think there’s more … Didn’t you hear the news this morning? On Minnesota Public Radio? There’s a new wave of protests breaking out in the Somali community. Nothing like we’ve seen before. What’s it mean?”

“Paul, you’re a great agent, but you’ve just come off probation,” Bill interrupted. “In my experience the simple explanation is usually the right one. We’ve got the explanation now. I used to tell that to Reagan all the time when I was in the Attorney General’s office. He liked it simple.” Conway looked back at the group. “The activity’s down, so I think we’ve succeeded.”

“But why did the Ahmed boy come back? None of the other missing men has returned. Why this one? And why was he killed here?”

“Let the local prosecutor figure that one out. It’s not our jurisdiction anyway.” He turned away.

“But Bill …”

“Back off.” Conway spun to face Paul. “Let me tell you something. You didn’t get all the goddamn pressure from the press, the public, congressmen, the Director, or the agencies before we finally broke this case. It was hell. Right now, we’ve got the case solved, the organizers are in jail, and things are quiet. If you poke some hornet’s nest, all the shit starts over again. And for what? You ‘think there’s more,’” Conway imitated Paul’s voice. “But until you know you’ve got something solid, I don’t want you stirring things up again. Am I perfectly clear?” He poked Paul in the chest with a pointed finger.

Bill was so close to Paul’s face, he could smell stale cigarette smoke on Conway. Paul knew him well enough to understand the order and dismissal. He looked from one agent to another as he scanned the room. Good people, good agents, but like most groups, once a decision was made, it was difficult to alter the course. People became attached to their agendas and ideas.

He took a deep breath trying to accept what his unconscious mind told him—he’d continue the investigation on his own. If he screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself pushed him forward.

Eight

Zehra dreaded going home to her beloved parents. She drove her ancient Audi. This old one was all she could afford on her government salary. Her mind swirled with plots to get out of the meeting she knew

her parents had set up—with some nice, boring Muslim guy. What could she do?

Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Indians from long ago. At least, they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra’d come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country.

Thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra discovered the people surprisingly diverse. Along with a significant Native American population, the state also held the country’s second largest group of Hmong people from Laos and the largest Somali population. The Minneapolis and St. Paul schools reported over one hundred languages spoken in their classrooms.

After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters. She wished for a large, middle-class Muslim community, born in America like her. Americanized, but still faithful to the teachings of Islam, she spent much of her time educating others about the similarities between Christianity and Islam. Zerha didn’t mind the effort because it was part of her larger desire to help the progress of American Muslim women.

Zerha curved into her parent’s drive. They owned a rambler on the edge of a small pond. She shut off the engine and looked over her shoulder at the gold Dodge parked in the street. Must be the dreaded guest.

Mother
… she complained to herself …
if I didn’t love you so much
. Like many Muslims, family meant everything to the Hassans, Zehra included. She climbed out slowly with the bag of organic pita bread. Normally, she didn’t drink much, but tonight she brought a large bottle of Chardonnay. She’d probably need it.

Before entering, Zehra stopped to savor the best part of coming home—her mother’s gardens.

Zehra inherited this garden obsession, but since she lived in a condo, her garden consisted of potted plants. Considering the short growing season in Minnesota, she indulged in every opportunity to enjoy the colors, textures, and scents of her gardens.

Water splashed across the roses from a sprinkler, and Zehra could smell fragrant, damp black earth and freshly mowed grass.

Zehra loved the orderliness of her mother’s plans, even though it appeared as natural as Nature. It was as complicated as law school had been. When her pots weren’t challenging enough, Zehra came home to help her mother.

Unlike her work as a defense lawyer, where it was often difficult to find the truth or to reach a final, successful result, gardening offered both.

And the truth surfaced in that beauty of Nature’s work … along with Zehra’s help.

She walked up the stone path that led to the front. Wafting out through the screen door, spices met Zehra’s nose. She stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden.

In the back stood the alliums—tall stalks with flower bursts that looked like fuzzy, purple tennis balls. In front of those were the bleeding hearts. Nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits, leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.

Zehra smiled at the peaceful feeling, and then forced herself to open the door to walk into the house. The narcotic perfume smell of a hyacinth drew her inside in spite of the fate that awaited her.

Her mother, Martha Hassan, came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. “So nice to see you,” Martha said.

“Killer gardens, Mom.”

“Just trying to keep things alive. If I could get your father to help more …”

Her mother avoided the living room to pull Zehra into the kitchen. She set the pita bread on the counter, dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine next to the bread. Like a lot of older Iranian women, her mother gladly took on all the trappings of an American, including her name. So did her father, Joseph.

“How’s work? I don’t know how you can defend those guilty criminals,” Martha asked. “Isn’t it dangerous?” She avoided the living room.

“No … just a pain in the butt.”

“How can you represent this terrorist?”

“I don’t want to, believe me.” An uncomfortable twinge raced through her lower body when she remembered the email. Zehra pushed the thought away

“These crazy ones give all us Muslims a bad name. Remember after the Oklahoma City bombing, we were afraid to let you and your brother outside for days? I was scared to death our usually wonderful neighbors would do something to you. Why do you insist on defending these terrorists? I’m so disappointed.”

“I said I don’t want the case, Mom. I’m trying to get rid of it,” she sighed.

“Well … why don’t you go back to medical school?”

Zehra stopped her. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go meet him.”

“Huh? Oh, yes. He’s such a nice man. And so handsome.” Martha’s face glistened like the edge of the sweating wine bottle.

Pulling Zehra by the hand, she led her back into the living room. As they entered, a tall man stood with his legs together and his arms flat against his sides. He nodded and waited for the introduction.

Oh, brother! Zehra thought, here we go.

“Zehra, this is Robert Ali. He’s got a good job at 3M.”

He stuck out his hand to grasp Zehra’s. He nodded again and said, “Hello, Zehra. I’m an accountant at 3M, but I’m also interested in the theatre.”

“How interesting.” She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. She marveled at the contrast in colors—pale face surrounded by thick black hair, black eyes, black nostrils, and a black, pressed dress shirt.

“After your mother told me all about you, I was anxious to meet you.”

Zehra shot her mother a glance. “Oh, I’m sure she told you everything.” She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert inspected for possible purchase.

“I’ve got a role in a play at the White Bear community theatre.”

“How interesting.”

“How do you like your job?”

Zehra said, “Well, right now, with the case I just got, I’d be happier teaching snowboarding.”

“My role is Marc Antony in
Julius Caesar
. That’s by Shakespeare, you know.” He emphasized the playwright that any sixth grader would recognize.

“I know. How interesting.”

“Do you like Indian food?”

“Huh? Yeah, the spicier, the better.”

“The early reviews in the paper, the
White Bear Lake Community News
, said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my naturally out-going personality and my love of fun.”

Zehra felt dizzy. “Mom, where’s Dad?”

“He’s still stuck in Arden Hills at his job. It might be described as part time, but he works like it’s full time.” She whispered to Zehra, “He told me he’s working with a nice young Muslim man. A bio-engineer.” Her eyebrows bounced upward. Louder, she said, “The lamb’s almost ready. Lamb is Robert’s favorite dish.” She smiled at him. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. I tried to get the director to substitute lamb in the food scene but not too many Americans are used to it.”

As they filed into the kitchen to check on dinner, Zehra looked at her mother. Pretty, in an old-world way. Long nose, deep, expressive eyes, dark skin, and long hair cut below her shoulders, which she hid during the day when she usually wore
hijab
, the head covering worn by millions of Muslim women. The irony struck Zehra again. All the Americanized habits still couldn’t eliminate a few of the old-world ones. When she looked at her mother, she saw intelligence and love.

In their own way, her parents had fought battles, too.

It started with the struggle her parents faced when they decided to leave Iran, years ago. Ruled by the Shah and supported by the United States, they were part of the educated elite. But her parents sensed trouble. Available at the time, dual citizenship enabled them to come to America.

They came as Muslims who looked like they had a perpetual tan. A few Iranians had opened doors previously, but after “students” captured the U.S. embassy and the Ayatollah took power in 1979, they faced suspicion and hostility. They were forced to hide their own identity and religion for a long time. Anyone who looked dark and Middle Eastern was suspect by many Americans.

The struggle continued over the years.

Thank goodness, things progressed so that Zehra lived a much different life, although hers presented its own, new struggles. She knew she’d inherited her mother’s drive and was grateful for it. The support of her parents comforted her all the time and provided a rock through tough periods—except for arranging men to meet her.

Zehra marveled that in spite of the difficulties her parents experienced, they were the most patriotic Americans she knew.

Her mother lifted a pot of water onto the stove to boil for rice. The lamb stew contained some of her early-season herbs from the garden. She spoke without looking at Zehra, which always meant her mother was uneasy about something. “I still can’t get over your defending that crazy man. I saw you were interviewed by the
StarTribune
. Sounds like you’re having trouble? I’m worried.”

Zehra sighed. “It’s tough. The Somali people are wonderful, what I know about them, but they won’t cooperate with the police or FBI. So getting any trust or communication with them is hard. El-Amin refuses to cooperate with me. He represents all the things I hate about extremist Islam, but I’m forced to defend him. I don’t want to have anything to do with guys like him.”

Her mother’s face jerked around. “The men are the worst.”

“Well some, I guess. This guy’s bad. Always quotes me the Qur’an …”

“Do you read it often?” asked Robert, who’d followed them into the kitchen. He stood straight with his hands cupped together in front of his waist.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, not every day, but it gives me peace. I also like the old poet Rumi. I know it’s old fashioned, but I still like him.”

“I absolutely love Shakespeare. I’m not sure the Qur’an is very relevant for us today in the U.S.”

He leaned closer to her, and she smelled stale breath.

She said, “I disagree. I think it’s more important than ever to study the Qur’an. There’s so much misunderstanding in America about Islam. We need to be able to quote the Qur’an accurately. If some of us who are moderate and progressive don’t stand up and teach others, we’ll always be associated with the fringe extremists. And women will always be subjugated. Things are changing, and we should be a part of that.” Hopefully, the speech would scare off the proud thespian for good. No such luck.