Quicksand (24 page)

John shook his head. “That could be the link. But why him—what he has that would concern either gang, I don't know.”

*   *   *

It was the
middle of the night when she got the call.

The shaykh's house had burned to the ground.

Nora was up and dressed in less than a minute.

“Where are you going?” her father asked as she came out into the kitchen. He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a sleeveless undershirt, and he was watching the Food Network. “It's one
A.M
.!”

She finished twisting her hair into its tight bun. “Work,” she said.

Her father pursed his lips, muting a rerun of
Chopped
. “I say again, it's
one in the morning
!”

“Well, you should let the criminals know, Baba, okay?” she snapped.

He watched as she stuck one arm into her jacket. Finally, reluctantly, he said, “Okay, you hungry?”

She shook her head. “John's on his way to pick me up—
salaam
.” She heard his response as she made her way out onto the street to wait. She couldn't wait inside; she wasn't in the mood to talk, and her heart was pounding against her chest; she felt sick. John had said the couple was in intensive care; the imam's wife was in critical condition, while the imam himself had suffered serious burns all across his body. Nora fought against the feeling that she was responsible.

When John Wansbrough drove up, she entered the mercifully warm car, then looked up and saw her father watching her from his bedroom window. She slammed the door, making John look at her as though she'd slapped him.

“Hey, now, we're just breaking in this beauty. Be gentle.”

She ignored him. “What do we know?”

He shook his head. “The fire department thinks it was a Molotov cocktail thrown through the front window. The first floor was nothing but old wood, and it went up fast. They pulled the Islahis out from a second floor window.”

“No witnesses?”

“Of course not. Are you new here?” he said.

She sighed. “I feel…”

John looked at her with a deep frown across his features. “This one isn't about feelings, Nora. This isn't our fault. The imam was scared, scared of maybe just this. If he had told us from the beginning who he was scared of, then maybe he wouldn't be in this position. You yourself told me that you thought his wife was lying to you. Honesty might have prevented this whole thing. Are we clear?”

Nora nodded. “So what's next?”

“We're going to the hospital. Watt's going to the scene to be our eyes and to see if he can assist.”

They passed swiftly through the empty streets and soon arrived at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Wansbrough left the SUV on a curb outside the emergency room, and they walked in. After flashing their badges at the desk, they were guided by an indifferent nurse to Anwar al-Islahi's room in intensive care.

“Can he talk to us?” John asked the nurse.

She nodded. “He's conscious. Might be a little loopy from the morphine, but conscious.”

The imam was, yet again, not happy to see them. His black eyes managed to produce a look of fury. They greeted him, and he turned his face away.

John circled to the other side of the bed. “Mr. al-Islahi, what's happened here is very alarming. Do you think you're ready to tell us the truth now about what's going on at your mosque?”

The imam's voice was a harsh whisper. “This is your fault. I told you to leave us alone…”

“With all due respect, sir, if you knew there was a threat, it was your obligation to inform us. Now, who is responsible for burning your home and putting you and your wife in the hospital?”

At mention of his wife, the imam's eyes filled with tears. “Khulood,” he murmured. “My wife is pregnant, you bastards. How could you do this to us?”

Nora felt sick, and she looked desperately at John before saying, “Shaykh Anwar, you must tell us who's responsible so we can prevent another attack on another family.
Please
.”

He turned on her, his eyes flashing. He spoke rapidly in Arabic. “You fools, do you think if they can do this just to scare us, they won't kill us if I tell you anything? I didn't come here to die. I didn't come to this country to die!” He broke down in tears then, and Nora watched in shock as the imam sobbed. “I will not speak to you. You cannot make me, you cannot!”

The nurse who had ushered them in returned, her shoes squeaking against the highly polished floor. “I said you could speak to him, not that you could give him a nervous breakdown,” she said angrily. She patted his hand and injected an extra shot into the dangling bag of saline.

As they watched Shaykh Anwar slide into unconsciousness, Nora asked about Khulood. The nurse shook her head. “She's in critical condition.”

“Outlook?”

“I couldn't say,” the nurse replied. But her eyes said enough.

*   *   *

The four of
them sat grimly at their desks, at an impasse, as Schacht stood looking from face to face.

Finally, Nora said, “Look, a price has been paid already for these names. Time is ticking. And I'm not seeing how these women should be considered armed and dangerous.” She did not bother to mask the frustration in her tone.

Burton said, “Let's think about that for one moment. Not armed and dangerous. Except, maybe they are the perfect killers.”

Nora listened intently, trying not to hate everything that came out of his mouth.

He leaned in, seeming to address her colleagues, in much the way the imam would only talk to Wansbrough. “A woman in full veil binds up her hair, covering it. So she's leaving nothing behind. And she's wearing gloves. No fingerprints. Plenty of immigrant women still know how to slaughter an animal using a simple kitchen knife.”

“Motive?” Nora demanded.

“You tell us,” Wansbrough countered.

She thought for a moment, trying to settle her brain into this theory. “He said ‘they.'
If they can do this just to scare us… …they can kill us for giving you information
. Or something like that.”

Ben offered, “So if it's not one of the gangs we already know and love, then it's a new gang or group.”

Nora said, “I don't think it's anything we can understand unless we talk to the women whose names Khulood gave me.”

Wansbrough said to the group, “I don't want to keep sending Nora into a situation alone simply based on her gender. I think we should request that these women report to the Bureau and answer questions.”

She could tell that Ben Calder had wanted to say exactly that; his features expressed vigorous assent. “Any interviews have to be done in pairs, and it would be way better to do them here,” he said.

Nora shook her head vehemently, directing her protest to Schacht. “Like the imam's wife, these women will never talk freely unless they're in their comfort zones.”

“But if the result of talking with the FBI is that their homes are burned, how can you put them in danger by entering their homes?” Burton countered. “Obviously the neighborhood is under close surveillance.”

SAC Schacht looked again from face to face, thinking. “How about if you hold the interviews in the mosque?”

Nora considered this, nodding slowly.

He continued. “Is it one of those mosques with a separate women's prayer section?”

Nora recalled the physical layout of the mosque from when they had visited after dawn prayer. Slowly, she nodded.

“Good,” he said. “You can interview them in the women's section. And there's no reason why you can't take another female agent with you.”

“From outside of the task force?” she demanded. “Seriously?”

But Schacht was nodding. “We can make a temporary appointment. There's strength in numbers. You have no idea what you might encounter. You need a partner for backup, and maybe to record the conversations.”

Nora sighed, hating the idea of working with someone new.

Ben said, “Ooh, you could take Libby. That would be fun!”

“I heard that,” Libby's voice pierced the divider.

Ben whispered to Schacht, “We need walls…”

Schacht ignored him. “And I think it's safe to say from your last experience that you have learned the value of wearing a vest.”

“We'll pick the right person together,” John said, as though to console Nora.

She sighed, nodding, unable to imagine who that might be.

*   *   *

The Philadelphia field
office had fifty-eight women agents. After sifting through their files, Nora and John selected and received Schacht's approval for the inclusion of Special Agent Laurie Cruz on their team. With her dark hair and chestnut-colored skin, Cruz looked slightly more Arab than Nora herself. She was about thirty-five, fighting her weight, and had distinguished herself tracking drug routes from the streets of South Philly deep into Mexico. She had initially trained Calder, helping him become the resident expert on domestic interstate drug trafficking issues. It had been with great reluctance that she had passed him off to Safe Streets.

Nora liked Laurie Cruz, and she knew the feeling was mutual. They had greeted each other amicably enough in the halls before, but now they spoke comfortably on the way to the mosque. Laurie, too, was the only woman on her team. She drove her Buick aggressively, bullying the other cars. Still, even as she was cutting people off and running red lights, Laurie chatted away. As unobtrusively as possible, Nora slipped her hand into what Wansbrough called the “
Oh Jesus!
handle” anchored above the window; she gripped it tightly.

Agent Cruz told Nora about the day that a rookie Ben Calder had been chasing a carrier who held a bag full of heroin; when Ben tackled him, the bag exploded and they both got noses full, making for a very affable Ben. Nora laughed out loud. “No wonder he just shoots the perps now.”

“John Wansbrough brags about you, you know. Says you're the fastest feet in the building.”

Nora flushed, pleased but flustered. “I—”

“And very modest,” Laurie added. “Listen, I don't know as much about the local gang scene as I do about their international suppliers, especially Los Zetas. Mixing in this whole religious and immigrant subculture introduces so many new variables to this puzzle. I'm curious what you expect to find today?”

“I don't know,” Nora responded honestly. “We had to work hard to get these names. We didn't send summonses, because we're sure the neighborhood is being watched. I'm hoping to catch some of them after the noon prayer, but it may be hard to get anyone to talk to me. That's if they're even attending prayers—probably recent events have them spooked.”

Laurie listened intently. “Sounds explosive. Look, I know it's awkward bringing in someone new. But I think they're right. You need someone to have your back.”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here, Laurie. I just don't think these women pose a threat, you know?”

“No, but it's not that. It's just that we have partners for a reason. One can sense something the other doesn't, can't … Can be aware of responses that the questioning partner can't perceive. It's not a perfect system, but it helps to have someone on your side. And to back you up in court, of course. But you know all that.”

Nora sighed. “Well, I guess the other thing is just that … I think that at least one or two of these women will be Arab immigrants with a deep, inbred fear of authorities.”

Laurie nodded. “I've seen that in Latino populations. The secret police are so brutal and so random down there that they expect the worst up here. And the African American population deals with similar issues in this country with our own police.” She glanced at Nora. “No offense.”

Nora shrugged. “My cohort at PPD has been made up of some really good people. I know not all cops are. I guess more than anything I'd like to gain trust today and see if it gets us anywhere.”

Laurie looked over at her and smiled. “Good luck with that.” She paid for her inattention to the road by having to swerve to miss sideswiping a poorly parked car. As they approached the mosque, Nora wrapped a cream-colored scarf around her hair, and handed a light blue one to Laurie. Nora had taken both scarves from a shoe box in her mother's closet, and she refused to dwell on the fact that her mother's scent was still infused in the silky fabric.

Unity Masjid was a revamped twin, with a tiny gravel parking lot behind it that seemed merely symbolic. Undaunted, Laurie Cruz wedged her Buick between two battered compact cars. “Did I do it right?” she asked Nora, pointing at the scarf. Nora tucked in the edge and added a straight pin, careful not to poke Laurie.

“Fabulous,” she said, and they got out.

The building was gasping for a new coat of paint, and parts of the roof looked to be worn through. Nora pushed open the door marked
SISTERS' ENTRANCE
. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and the first thing she saw was a child. The little girl had a crown of excited curls tamed by a Dora the Explorer headband.

Nora and Laurie removed their shoes and added them to the tall shoe rack by the door. Then Nora and Laurie took places on a long bench at the back of the prayer area.

Nora regarded the scene, trying to remember the last time she had prayed in a mosque. She had stopped praying altogether when her mother died.

It was not Friday, and so the noon prayer was sparsely attended. Less than a dozen women stood aligned with precision along the patterns traced in the carpet. Nora inhaled deeply; the bowing and prostrations of the praying women crashed and receded like waves on the shore of her own limbs. But she remained completely still as she watched them.

As the prayer ended, each woman uttered words of peace over her right and left shoulders. It was then that Nora walked over and knelt on the carpet next to the last woman in the row. “
As-salaam alaykum
,” she murmured, extending her hand. The woman looked Arab, and Nora hoped that she would return the greeting.