Enemy Among Us-A Jordan Wright Thriller (9 page)

He knocked and knocked again.

“Father? It’s Aziz. I’m home,” he called through the door.

There was no response.

He turned and bounded back up the stairs to the apartment. In the kitchen on the hook, he found the key to the door. Aziz headed back down and inserted the key into the lock. His mother had been on his father for months to change this lock. The key stuck and it was hard to turn the tumbler. Aziz stood there, jiggling the key, attempting to get it to turn and unlock the door. Finally, with his fingers and hands turning red from the pressure he was exerting, he felt the lock give.

He sighed and turned the knob. As he entered the store, it was completely dark, expect for a bit of sunlight coming in through the front windows. He decided not to turn on the lights right away since his father, in the past, had yelled at him not to waste the electricity when the store was closed. His father would talk about how, when he was growing up, they never knew when they would have power, so it wasn’t something to take for granted.

He moved about the store. As he crossed the aisles, he would look down each one to see if he could find his father. When Aziz got to the last aisle with still no sign of his father, he turned to the right and headed to the back of the store. He went behind the rear counter and through the doorway, which began the storage area for the shop. It was completely dark back there and he’d no choice but to turn on the light.

It took a minute for his eyes to adjust, but he soon started his search again. The backroom was filled with stacks of boxes and pallets. His father, whenever he could, would negotiate a substantial price break if he bought in quantity. Since they didn’t sell anything perishable, he could store product. The back room displayed no rhyme or reason to anyone but his father, who could always go directly to anything he needed. Though the area was much smaller than the front of the store, it took longer to search.

He found no sign of his father.

The last place to look was the office. It would really be the last place he would be, since his father didn’t like being there. He wanted to be out with the customers or in the back with his inventory. He hated the bookkeeping and the paperwork that came with running your own business and he would never spend a Sunday in this room.

The office was on the other side of the backroom. It was built into a corner, out of scrap lumber and plywood his father had found around the neighborhood and gotten from neighbors when they remodeled. The office wasn’t anything great but, it was functional. He pushed aside the door and peered in. His father wasn’t there and it didn’t seem like he’d been there in a while.

Aziz thought to check to see if the family’s car was in the garage. The garage was behind the store, in a separate building, on the alley. Aziz unlocked the rear door of the store and looked out. He couldn’t tell if the car were there or not.

He ventured out and walked back to the alley. He turned and saw that the garage door was down. His father tended to leave it up when he had the car. Aziz didn’t have the key, so he peered into the window. The car was gone.

He wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe his father had just gone out for a while. Usually, he would leave a note, but since Aziz’s mother passed away, his father seemed to not communicate as much and there had been other times when he’d left without letting him now.

Aziz headed back into the store and locked the door behind him. He went back to the office and closed it up and headed into the store itself. He made sure everything was back in place and then headed to the stairwell and closed the door behind him. He inserted the key and had as much of a challenge locking the door as he did getting it unlocked. At one point, he cursed and caught himself glancing over his shoulder, looking up the stairs, expecting his mother to be standing there with a disappointed look on her face.

He’d discussed it with Uncle Mustafa, who had assured him it was acceptable to mourn and he should miss his mother. Mustafa also instructed him on being strong and remembering his leadership role with his cousins. He should set an example on how to handle loss. Aziz tried his best to model the behavior his uncle wished him to have. He never showed his struggles when he was with his cousins.

Chapter Thirteen

FBI SAFE HOUSE

Akmed opened the door. Standing in front of him was the woman and one of the men he’d seen getting out of the car over an hour earlier. The man was carrying a tray of food.

“May we come in? My name is Maxine. You can call me Max.”

Akmed was somewhat taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting to be asked if they could come in. He’d anticipated they would just barge in and start asking him a series of questions.

He nodded and moved away from the door, so they could enter. They were differential to Akmed, acting like this was his house or, at least, his room, so different from how the other agents he’d met had been treating him since he first entered the FBI building.

They walked in and headed toward the middle of the room where there was a table. The man put down the tray and stuck his hand out.

“I’m Jordan,” he said as he grabbed Akmed’s hand in a friendly shake. “I know they are never as good as in Philly, but a place down the road here doesn’t do too bad a job on a cheese steak. Hope you’ll like it. It’s not Geno’s or Pat’s, but it’s as close as I’ve ever gotten outside of Philly.” Geno’s and Pat’s were two well known rivals in the on-going Philly cheese steak wars. Located almost across the street from each other in South Philly, nothing could cause bigger arguments than a debate of who made the better Philly cheese steak.

“You are from Philly?” Akmed found himself asking.

“Born and raised. Try to get back to the neighborhood whenever I can. Still have aunts, uncles and cousins there.”

Real ones, no doubt, thought Akmed, versus those I have in the city. As he took a seat at the table he grabbed a plate, just beginning to realize how famished he was. He’d refused earlier food and drink, fearing he might be poisoned; he didn’t know whom to trust. This woman and man seemed different and he found himself not as suspicious and, besides, the sandwich did smell good. He unwrapped his as the other two did the same. He’d grabbed the plate that wasn’t closest to him, so he would foil any attempt to poison him. He waited until the woman and man both took bites before he took his first, quickly followed by a second. The sandwich was good and the melted cheese and juice from the meat dribbled down his chin. He grabbed his napkin.

“Pretty good, huh?” Jordan chuckled as he noticed Akmed grabbing the nearby napkin,

Akmed smiled. He knew how he must look to them. “Yes, good. I’m partial to Tony Luke’s but, this is quite good.”

“Well here’s a Coke to wash it down with,” Akmed took the bottle Max handed to him and took a quick swig. It was ice cold and tasted great.

“Ah. Tony Luke’s! You are a connoisseur. I’m more partial to his roasted pork, but my assumption would be you haven’t had the pleasure.” Tony Luke’s was the new upstart in the sandwich scene and had gained a strong following and reputation.

Akmed didn’t respond, but gave Jordan a rather sheepish look.

“We’ve all broken the rules at some point. Your secret is safe with us,” Jordan stated with a big smile on his face, showing acknowledgement but not dissatisfaction.

“It was great,” Akmed admitted with a smile.

“Well, we need to talk. Maxine and I work for the US Government. We aren’t FBI or CIA. We’re with a group you’ve never heard of and our job is to help other governments fight terrorism in the hope we prevent it from coming into our country. We know you’ve told the FBI your story and why you are here. But Akmed, we need you to tell us. Can you?”

Akmed nodded, “I’ll start from the beginning.”

Over the next ninety minutes, Akmed went through his story. Being taken from his family and how his death was faked and the extensive training that had started immediately, which later resulted in Mahasin and he being put together. He went in detail about the day Aziz came into their lives and the early years of them becoming a family. He recounted the last year in Iran and their move out of their home country.

Chapter Fourteen

Mahasin and Akmed began to sense their time at the compound they had known for the past seven years was coming to an end. More and more of their days were being spent practicing mock interviews for asylum at the embassies they would be sent, filling out paper work for immigration and customs and, finally, practicing going through passport control at an airport. It was one of the most grueling aspects of the training and the instructors were ruthless in pointing out even the smallest mistake, since it was the most critical part of the mission and if they couldn’t get out of Iraq and to the host country, then the past years had been for nothing. They had to do this and it had to be done right.

It wasn’t until three days before they were to leave that they were told the initial country where they would be going. For Akmed and his family, it would be Denmark. This had been arranged through bribes paid on their behalf to staffers in the Danish Embassy in Tehran. As expected, their arrival in Denmark was uneventful. The family was taken to a small hostel for the night and was hosted by a local Iranian family for dinner.

In the morning, they left Copenhagen for the town of Odense, in central Denmark, on the Island of Fyn. It was known for being the childhood home of Hans Christian Andersen. The second floor of a converted home was rented for them at fifty-two Pjentedamsgade. Employment for Mahasin as a housekeeper had been arranged at the Hotel Ansgar near the Odense train station. Akmed would be hired at the port of Odense as an entry-level maintenance laborer. A neighbor who was Iranian would serve as a primary contact for them to their handlers in Iran and would also provide day care for Aziz.

After the first year, which had been a wonderful time, they received the first indication the mission would soon force them to enter the next chapter in their lives.

“They hired a new guy at work, today. He’s Iranian. I think it’s him.” Akmed informed his wife over dinner.

Mahasin didn’t need to hear anything else to know the next phase of their life in Denmark or, more realistically, the end of their life in Denmark was nearly upon them. She reached out to Akmed. “We knew it was only a matter of time. It’s what we must do.”

“I know. I was just hoping we could enjoy this part of our life a little longer”

The man, named Shamir, cornered Akmed during a break at work the next day. Loud enough for others to hear and with a finger poking in Akmed’s chest, shouting, “I know who you are and what you did to my people! I’ll get my revenge!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m like you. I escaped from those people to live in peace,” Akmed pleaded as he tried to get away.

Shamir kept his grip on him. “I’ll expose you for what you are. You worked for the Ayatollahs you carried out their wishes. You killed my brothers and uncles.”

With that, Shamir shoved Akmed against the wall and walked away. Several of Akmed’s co-workers came over to help him. The attacks and verbal insults continued.

Akmed found himself sitting alone at breaks and lunch. Fewer and fewer of his colleagues would engage him in conversation and some had even refused to acknowledge him when they passed each other. It had begun with the Iranians, but the Danes soon sensed an issue among the Iranians concerning Akmed and knew best to stay clear and not take any side.

On a cold November morning, Akmed awoke and began his daily routine, starting with unrolling his prayer rug and facing Mecca. Then he made coffee for Mahasin. He cooked a breakfast of fried eggs and fresh fruit, and then he took a quick shower and dressed for work. He came back into the kitchen finding Mahasin drinking her coffee and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, grabbed his lunch pail, headed down the stairs and opened the door to the outside. He was taken aback by what had happened to the door. Sometime during the night, someone had painted the word “traitor” in both Farsi and Danish, in red paint with an underlining in which the paint was allowed to run down the door to simulate blood dripping. As Akmed stared at the door, his eyes caught movement and he looked over to the street. People — their neighbors — were standing on the sidewalk, staring, commenting to one another. When Akmed turned and looked at them, they all looked away and continued on their way.