NanoStrike (12 page)

Abdul’s father still hadn’t spoken. Scott understood. He’d be shocked too if his child was snatched at work by a bunch of heavies.

“I’d like to give more details, but not on the phone. Will you be at home this evening?”

“Yes, of course, but what can we do? Where is he?”

“I’m going to give you the number of the paper’s attorney, Marcus Pearson. For Abdul’s sake, I advise you to speak to him before you talk to anyone else. Will you do that for me, Mr. Ahmed?”

Scott spent the rest of the day with Rafiq, preparing the lead for the morning edition. They polished Abdul’s Allah’s Revenge article from the thumb drive Amy had hidden, and Scott wrote an impassioned editorial vilifying the new British Police State. He argued that Abdul was more helpful to the nation as a free journalist, doing his job, than as an imprisoned innocent. He speculated that Abdul’s arrest was racial profiling. He took preprint copies with him and drove to the Ahmed’s home.

The narrow suburban road where Abdul lived with his family was crammed with police cars, TV news vans, dozens of reporters, photographers, and a sizable group of nosy neighbors. The TV cameramen were using the Ahmeds’ house as a backdrop for their talking-head shots. He pinned a press badge on his lapel and wandered through the crowd. A few reporters recognized him, most didn’t—TV news was a breed apart. He eavesdropped on a heavily-made-up blonde correspondent as she taped her segment.

“According to an anonymous source familiar with the case, this afternoon police apprehended the twenty-six-year-old son of Palestinian immigrants: Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-bin-Khalid-Ahmed.” She struggled theatrically as she read Abdul’s complicated family name from a slip of paper in her hand. “Mr. Ahmed has been detained in connection with Monday’s terrorist attack when more than two hundred people lost their lives after a deadly gas was released on a London Transport tube train. Mr. Ahmed’s parents are both medical doctors working at Guy’s Hospital, London. They moved to England from the Palestinian territories thirty years ago. We’ve reached out to the family, but the Ahmeds refuse to comment on their son’s detention, although we believe they are at home.”

The camera zoomed for a few seconds to the front window of the brick-built semi-detached home behind her before panning back to the reporter, who now stood next to a sixty-something man in an ill-fitting blue suit.

“This is Mr. Jackson, a neighbor of the Ahmeds’. Mr. Jackson, how well do you know the family?”

“They’ve lived here longer than us, and we’ve been here twelve years.” His voice was shaky. “We never suspected anything like this. They kept to themselves, but they were always polite. Abdul seemed such a nice boy, smart as a whip. When he was younger he used to mow our lawn . . . makes you wonder what gets into them.”

“Mr. Jackson, when was the last time you saw, Abdul?”

“This morning. I wave to him most mornings. He walks by our house on his way to the train station.”

“What about Monday, the day of the tube train attack?”

“You know, I was just saying to the wife, I don’t remember seeing him Monday. I might have done, but I don’t remember him going by.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

The camera started a slow pan of the street as the reporter closed out the segment in voice-over.

“Yesterday, this was a quiet suburban neighborhood. Today, police suspect it may have been home to a man linked with the largest mass murder in Britain’s history. This is Maria Enderhoster, live in Twickenham, West London, for News at Six.”

Scott walked past three other news crews shooting similar pieces. He pulled off his press badge before speaking to the policeman guarding the front gate of the Ahmeds’ home.

“Scott Shearer. They’re expecting me.”

“Wait here please, sir.” The policeman strode down the path. Cameras flashed and video lenses followed his every step. He knocked on the front door, which opened a crack. After a brief exchange, he signaled Scott, whose walk was also recorded. As the door opened to allow Scott to enter, the photographers all fired at once, and for a few seconds the front of the home was lit as bright as day.

“Ugly crowd,” Scott said as he shook hands with Abdul’s father in the hall.

“They’re your people, Mr. Shearer. You should know.”

Scott didn’t feel as though they were. Abdul’s father took him through the hallway to a small living room, made smaller by too much furniture. The sideboard, mantle, fireplace, and an oak display cabinet were crammed with brass figurines. The room was wallpapered in ornate gold-leaf flowers. Five porcelain ducks flew diagonally across the wall toward a single sash window.

Abdul’s mother and sister perched stiffly on a floral-patterned couch. His younger brother sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, tuned to the local news station with the sound muted.

“I’m Scott Shearer, Abdul’s boss at the paper. Abdul is a good person and a great reporter. He’s done nothing wrong.” He spoke to them all. The eyes that looked back at him were full of mistrust and disbelief.

“So why did they arrest him? Because he’s a Muslim?” Abdul’s mother said.

“Well . . . look, I’ve brought copies of tomorrow’s edition of
The Times
. I think it would be more expedient if you read Abdul’s article and my editorial to get us on the same page.” He handed them each a copy. He kept one for himself and read with them.

He left their home two hours later, exhausted but gratified. He’d provided a spark of hope to a good family. The press corps outside had thinned. A few hopeful reporters asked him what he had been doing in the house. He froze them with his most poisonous glare.

“You can read about it in
The
Times
tomorrow.”

Chapter 14

When Quinn got word Abdul was to be released, he called Scott. “I read yesterday’s
Times.
You didn’t pull any punches.”

“What did you expect? Anyway, what about Abdul?”

“He’ll be freed this afternoon. Can you pick him up?”

“Thank God.” Quinn heard the relief in Scott’s voice. “Is he all right?”

Quinn didn’t like the implication. “Why wouldn’t he be? Despite yesterday’s editorial tirade, I assure you London police are not
Stasi-like
brutes
.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? Where should I come?”

At 3:00 p.m., Scott waited in his car at the front entrance of a modern red brick building less than a mile from New Scotland Yard. Scott had never noticed the building. He had no idea the Metropolitan Police Service used it. He suspected not many people did.

At ten after, Quinn, bulky and disheveled, dressed in a camel raincoat, walked out of the front door, squinting against the bright sunlight. He held Abdul by the elbow and steered him into the back seat of Scott’s BMW. Quinn climbed in the passenger seat.

“Goddamn, Quinnborne!” Scott said, when he saw a yellowing bruise on Abdul’s right cheek.

“He slipped going up the stairs,” Quinn said.

“
Sure
.”

“Actually, I did, Mr. Shearer,” Abdul said. Scott looked into the boy’s eyes. He was telling the truth.

“Ha!”

“What’s so funny?” Quinn asked.

“No one’s going to believe it. Welcome back, Abdul. You okay?”

“I am now. Can we drive away from here, please, sir?”

Scott moved into traffic. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“No. We need to go to your office,” Quinn said.

Scott looked in the driver’s mirror. Quinn looked right back, his face set and serious.

“He’s right,” Abdul said. “Ghazi sent me an e-mail. I told the police I wouldn’t reply unless they released me. They don’t have the secret password he gave me, so they had no choice.”

Scott smiled.
Not so naive after all
. He reached into the back seat and passed his cell phone to Abdul. “Call your parents. They’re worried.”

Ten minutes later, they parked in
The Times’
underground lot and took the elevator to the sixth-floor.

Amy sat in Scott’s outer office. When they walked in, she beamed at Abdul.

“Amy, can you rustle up some tea, please?” Scott asked.

“Pleasure. Welcome home, Abdul.” Amy patted his arm as she passed.

Scott led them into his room and closed the door. “Now what?” he asked.

Quinn nodded to Abdul. “Abdul’s agreed to let me act as an intermediary with Special Branch.”

Scott could well imagine that, after two days of questioning, Abdul wouldn’t want any more to do with Special Branch; another intelligent move from the young man. “I’ll bet Frank Browning’s pissed off about that.”

Quinn said, “I’m working for Frank.”

Scott stared at Quinn, but the policeman’s face was a mask. He decided against commenting. Abdul sat in Scott’s chair, logged onto his e-mail, and opened the message Ghazi had sent while he was in custody. Scott and Quinn stood behind him and read the screen.

“We demand release of the following prisoners. They must be transported to The Dome of the Rock and released into the holy shrine. If you do not comply, we will use the Weapon of Allah to strike off the heads of the infidel regimes.”

Below the message was a list of thirty names.

Quinn said, “The Israelis confirm those named are known terrorists. We’ve passed on the release request, but they won’t say whether they are in custody.”

“And?” Scott asked.

Quinn upturned his hands and shrugged. “They don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“So what do the brainiacs at Special Branch plan to do?”

Quinn turned to his friend. “They want Abdul to arrange another meeting with Ghazi.”

“What! No way. You told me I should never have sent him to Israel!” Scott said. He matched Quinn’s stance and they faced off—two boxers waiting for the bell. “Last time we didn’t know who we were dealing with. Now we do. I can’t let Abdul do this. You’ll have to send a cop.”

Quinn’s tone became officious. “Special Branch thinks they’ll sever the link if we try to push a substitute.”

“And you agree with them?”

He nodded. “If Abdul will go, I’m detailed to accompany him. We’ll have Israeli ground support. Abdul won’t be involved.”

“No, he’s just the bait!” Scott said.

Abdul stood, placed a hand on each of their chests and pushed them apart. “I told them I would,” Abdul said.

Scott squeezed Abdul’s shoulder. “This isn’t your job. You’re a reporter. These guys are crazies. Just last week they murdered two hundred people with their ‘Weapon of Allah’.”

“That’s why I have to go, before they kill some more.”

Quinn took a step back, opening a space, reducing the tension. He softened his voice. “They may not agree to meet. Why not make the offer, see their response, then decide?”

“No harm in trying,” Abdul said. He turned to the keyboard and clicked
Reply
.

Scott pressed his lips together to stifle another protest. Quinn handed Abdul a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “Special Branch recommends this wording.”

“Your proposed release mechanism is not acceptable. I wish to meet in person to present an alternative.” Abdul typed the message and hit send.

“What about the password?” Quinn said.

Abdul turned to him and smiled.

“I see.” Quinn didn’t smile back.

“Can your people trace the e-mail?” Scott asked.

“They’ll try, but they weren’t able to locate the sender. I don’t understand this Internet stuff, but apparently Ghazi does.”

Amy brought tea. Scott handed Abdul a copy of yesterday’s
Times
. The Allah’s Revenge story was on the front page. Abdul grinned and began to read. Quinn nodded toward the door.

“Walk with me, Scott.”

“Just hang on here, Abdul,” Scott said. The young man was reading his first lead story; he nodded absently but didn’t lift his eyes from the newspaper as the two men left.

“Let’s take the stairs,” Quinn said.

They descended seven flights in silence. When they reached the parking garage and found no one there, Quinn faced his friend.

“Scott, I understand you want to protect Abdul, but give me some credit. No one’s going to get near him while I’m there. It wasn’t the password that got him released. Frank overstepped when he brought him in.”

“No shit. Legal went ballistic.”

“Doesn’t matter, he’s a marked man from here on in. Frank got his wrist slapped is all. Everyone’s paranoid about Muslim terrorists, and Frank’s convinced Abdul is his man. Every time Abdul farts, one of Frank’s people will be there to smell it. I can help him, Scott.”

“I’m not worried about you. Those Special Branch thugs will throw him under a bus if it helps them get Ghazi. And the Israelis . . . come on, Quinn. This stinks. No one knows who Allah’s Revenge is, where they are, or what they’re capable of. And let’s face facts, their first calling card indicates how they feel about murdering innocent people.”

Quinn held up both hands. “Okay . . . okay, but, like it or not, he’s involved. Don’t you think he’s safer with me than on his own, having e-mail conversations with a mass murderer?”