Inside Threat (18 page)

“That's how people get seen. That's how plans fall apart. All we need is one drive-by police cruiser, one helicopter flyover, one drunk bum looking for a reward, and our mission is done,”
the old man had chided them.

Alavi tucked himself into the blackness next to an empty Dumpster and sat on the ground. The metal was warm against his back, and an ancient sour smell lightly tainted the air. Even so, it was still better than being inside.

The night sky was clear and dark—no moon, and only the brightest of stars breaking through the ambient light of the city. He pulled an apple out of one pocket, pulled a knife out of the other, and sliced off a piece, which he ate off the side of the blade.

The darkness just before Ramadan,
he mused.
The blackest night of the year.

Alavi's father used to tell him how this particular night symbolized the darkness of the world prior to the first revelation to the prophet Muhammad. No one knew the truth. Sinfulness and idolatry filled the earth. It was a night to remember what we once were—and who we might still be without Allah's message to his creation.

But then, when the sun set the next evening, everything would change. The moon would begin to make its appearance again. Light would be restored to the darkness, because this was the day that the great angel Jibril gave the first words of the Koran to Muhammad.

“That is why Ramadan is the holiest of all the months, Majid,”
his father had said on one of the dark Mishawaka nights of Alavi's childhood.
“That is why we dedicate ourselves to prayer and fasting for that period. You see, tomorrow night the first crescent of the moon will show, reminding us that the true light of Allah's revelation has entered the world. That is why we hold the symbol of the crescent so dear. It is our reminder of Allah's wonderful gift to us.”

Alavi carved another piece of the apple and snapped a bite from it. His dad had seemed so strong back then—invincible. And he seemed to know everything. So many nights they would sit on the back porch with all the lights off. He would lean against his father's chest and listen to story after story. But then . . .

No, that's for another time. Now is the time to remember the good—to hold tight to the love and laughter of my family.

As Alavi turned the apple in his hand, he felt a soft spot just beneath the skin. With a quick pull of the blade, he removed it and flicked it to the pavement.

“Why is the Koran so special?”
he remembered asking. Then, trying to mask the hurt and shame in his voice, he added,
“My friend Mike from school says that his dad said that the Bible is God's only word, and that the Koran is just a bunch of nonsense.”

His dad's chest had tensed briefly, then eased back to its usual solid softness.

“Mike's dad is simply ignorant. Do you remember what I told you was the difference between ignorance and stupidity?”

“Ignorance means you don't know. Stupidity means you don't know and you don't care that you don't know.”

“Exactly. Mike's dad is probably not meaning to be cruel. He is just deceived—ignorant. The Bible is truly a good book full of God's revelation. It has the messages to Adam, the Suhuf Ibrahim, the Tawrat of Moses, the Zabur of David, and the Injil of Jesus. All full of wisdom. All useful tools in submission. But the revelation to Muhammad—oh, what a glorious gift it is! It is the culmination of all other revelations! It is Allah's perfect message!”

“And since it was first given in Ramadan, we give that month over to fasting and to prayer to better understand what Allah has told us,”
the young Majid had said, repeating what he'd learned at the mosque.

“You're a smart boy,”
his dad had responded, giving him a squeeze.
“So we can't get angry at Mike or his father. Instead, we should feel pity for them, since they don't know the wonderful gift Allah has given to the world.”

What warmth, what security Alavi had felt when that arm wrapped around him and held him tight. But those days were gone now. In the time leading up to the move to Dearborn, his dad had changed. He had become defeated. The man who had once stood proud and had walked with purpose now had shoulders that slumped as he shuffled around the house.

Why?
Alavi threw the apple across the wide parking lot. It skittered over the asphalt until, with a metallic shudder, it came to an abrupt stop against a chain-link fence. He wiped his knife on the leg of his pants, folded it up, and returned it to his pocket.
Why did you let them beat you, Dad? Why did you just take it? Why didn't you fight back?

Tears formed in his eyes, and his throat constricted. But just as quickly, he forced the emotions back down.

I understand. You couldn't. It just wasn't you. But don't worry; the next generation of Alavis has reached its time. I will avenge you and restore honor to our name. I will fight the war you couldn't fight. I will cause pride to well up in your heart, Dad, the way you once caused it to well up in mine.

He took one last look at the night sky, then stood, stretched, and began a slow walk to the door.

Tomorrow night the crescent will appear, and Ramadan will begin. Then, the next morning, after the
Suhoor
meal, the fasting will commence. Only this fast will be different from any other. This fast will not be spent in quiet study. No, this year I will fast with action. It will be a fast of service. It will be a fast of violence and vengeance. It will be a fast leading to death—most likely my own, but most definitely that of many others. It will be a fast of jihad.

Wednesday, September 14, 2:45 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Khadi Faroughi took a deep breath. She had no idea what to expect when the door opened. Had it been long enough that the welcome she received would be forced, with wide smiles, stiff hugs, and overblown greetings—
“Wow, Khadi, it's sooooo great to see you! You're looking sooooo good!”
—that would quickly fade into an awkward silence?

Who said, “You can never go home again”?
she asked herself.
Wasn't it Thomas Wolfe? I'll ask Scott, the human encyclopedia. Without a doubt, he'll know. Speaking of . . .

She looked at the familiar glossy black door again, one she was in the peculiar role of having to knock on, something she'd never done in the past. How many times had she barged through that door on some sort of mission—analysts or ops team in tow?

This is my element, my habitat. Now I'm standing on the outside looking in like an old man who desperately wants to walk through the house he grew up in but is too timid to leave the car.
She was tempted by a momentary impulse to punch her old code into the touch pad, just to see if it would work.

So much was riding on this moment—her future, her happiness, her life's purpose.
I honestly can't imagine spending the rest of my life protecting Mr. Opportunity and other amoral, self-important political hacks like him. That decision is already made. I'm out of there! But is this really the best alternative? Am I just running back to what's familiar?

Remember how much this job takes out of you. Remember the hours. This place takes over your whole life. That's one of the reasons I left to begin with. What will happen with Jonathan? I might as well say good-bye to any future with him if I return here.

But do I really care?

She stared at the door for a time, trying to keep back the name that was forcing itself into her thoughts. Finally, she gave in.
And what about Riley? What would he think? Would he see this as some feeble attempt to try to get closer to him?

Ultimately, though, does it really matter? After the way I treated him on Monday's call, the whole Riley issue is probably moot anyway.

She set her heavy shoulder bag on the floor and looked at it with a twinge of embarrassment. It was full of presents for the analysts who were waiting beyond the door in the Room of Understanding—little things from special moments or inside jokes. Suddenly, the goofs that seemed so fun at the store now seemed foolish, like she was trying too hard. Tears welled in her eyes as she pictured the fake smiles the trinkets would bring, the rolled eyes that would be exchanged as soon as she turned away.

What have I given up? What was I thinking? These people were my family! You can't just walk away from family! But that's exactly what I did. And now I want to come back like some prodigal who realized that life isn't all that good away from home.

What makes me think Scott will even take me? Sure, he's made lighthearted offers in the past, but was he just being nice, encouraging me? Like when you invite someone to come to a concert with you when you know full well they'll be out of town. The last thing you expect is for them to actually take you up on your offer.

She looked up at the door, then at the bag.
This is stupid! You can't go home again!

Picking up the bag, she turned to go. But the electronic sound of a bolt being drawn stopped her. The door flew open, and there stood Scott and the rest of the gang.

“What are you doing?” Scott cried out. “We've been standing here in an odorous cloud of Gooey's foot sweat watching you on the video monitor for five minutes.”

“Hey, my feet sweat,” Gooey protested. “I can't help it. It's what they do.”

“It's hard to get over it when the smell is still clinging to my clothes when I get home at night,” Virgil Hernandez said.

Khadi watched this exchange with an ever-increasing sense of relief. This was her family—her bizarre, irreverent, oftentimes dysfunctional family. And she loved them.

Suddenly, arms were all around her, hugging her, pulling her in, slipping down into her bag after she let the word
presents
slip out of her mouth.

“Back off, everyone. Give the girl some room,” Scott commanded. When no one listened, he added, “So she can pass out her gifts.”

Everyone obediently took two steps back.

Khadi started to say something, but emotion stole the words away.

“You okay?” Scott asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. But after examining it, he thought better of the gesture and tucked it away.

“Yeah,” Khadi answered, drawing in a deep breath, then slowly letting it out. “I was just wondering who the fool was that said you can never go home again.”

“I think that was Thomas Wolfe,” Evie Cline offered.

“That's what I—” Khadi said, before Scott interrupted, his head shaking.

“Actually, it was the Moody Blues. Side two, cut three of their
Every Good Boy Deserves Favour
album.”

“You're both wrong,” said Gooey. “It was from a
Ren & Stimpy
Christmas episode. Can't remember the name of it, though.”

Hernandez and Williamson quickly took sides, and a debate began to heat up. Khadi watched with wondered amusement until Scott noticed her smile.

“Hang on, gang! Am I to assume that was a rhetorical question, Miss Faroughi?”

“Nothing's rhetorical with this group,” she answered. Her eyes began to well up again. “It's just so good to see you all again.”

A second round of hugs ensued, and then Khadi passed out her presents. Evie received a long, slender box that held a single white rose to go in the bud vase of her VW Beetle. Hernandez and Williamson were given a new set of Stiga table tennis paddles to use when the long days ran into each other and they'd drop a net onto the conference table to hold Ping-Pong tournaments.

As she reached in for Gooey's present, she suddenly realized what had been bothering her. Everything had felt like coming home, but still there was something different about the place—something just off enough to be slightly unsettling. And now it hit her. It was the smell. Gone was the heavy, buttery air that usually filled the room—the pungent aroma that permeated the walls and ceiling, causing mooches from the other offices to come knocking on the door most afternoons looking for handouts. She turned to where Gooey's full-size carnival popcorn cart had stood for the last year and a half and saw that it was no longer there.

“It's gone. I'm sorry, Gooey, I didn't know,” she said as she handed him a popcorn-seasoning sampler that contained flavors like malt ball, gummi bear, and sardine-dill.

Ignoring her apology, Gooey's eyes lit up. “Sweet! These are awesome!”

“Don't worry; the cart's not gone, just temporarily incapacitated,” Scott said. “Gooey blew a heating element, so he traded the tech geeks in advanced weaponry a month's worth of free popcorn to repair it.”

With everyone focused on their gifts, Khadi gave a little nod toward Scott's office. Scott nodded back.