

Reprisal

Colin T. Nelson

Rumpole Press of Minneapolis, MN

Copyright @ 2010 by Colin T. Nelson

All rights reserved

ISBN: 13: 978-1987408959

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: June 2010

Second Edition: February 2017

Cover art by Jeff at Loose Paint

Rumpole Press of Minneapolis, MN

Dedication

For my wonderful wife, Pamela

Also by Colin Nelson

Flashover

Fallout

The Amygdala Hijack

Up Like Thunder

Short Stories

Taste of Temptation

# Acknowledgments

The creation of a story is always the result of a writer who is helped and supported by a number of others. In my case, I'm particularly thankful to my wife, Pam, for her ideas, editing, and encouragement. To Christopher Valen for his friendship and editing. Mary Logue gave her review and helpful comments. To Mary Stanton and Carol Epstein for the time they took to read and critique the manuscript. Finally, to my parents, Vern and Sherry Nelson, long gone but never forgotten, for their support of me and for always telling me to "just try it."

Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed.

—G.K. Chesterton

Reprisal

# Prologue

After making a cut from just above the left ear across the forehead to just above the right ear, she rolled the skin up over the top of his head to expose the skull. She smiled at the beautiful, glistening glow of young bone.

This was her favorite part.

The skull was such a distinct color and a Divine feat of perfect engineering. The pieces came together in thin, jagged lines as tightly as those of the ancient Greek architects who had sculpted the marble in the Parthenon. If her assistant wasn't standing next to her, she'd love to take off her glove and stroke the smooth, cool surface.

Although a small woman, Dr. Helen Wong was proud of her strength, particularly in her fingers. She reached for the Stryker saw and spoke into the microphone hanging above her head. "I am preparing to separate the skull laterally to expose the brain." On a boy this young, the skull should come apart easily; she could always resort to brute force if necessary.

She sighed. It was a pity to destroy the beauty before her. The saw whined and Dr. Wong started her cut.

Even though she had the most modern of tools, Dr. Wong knew that fingers were often just as effective. And what difference did it make to this lifeless body? Because murder was alleged, Dr. Wong, as the chief Hennepin County medical examiner, had to perform an autopsy. Her job was to determine the medical cause of death. She felt pressure from the local law enforcement, the FBI, and the prosecutor to expedite her findings.

She had read the police report summary and knew about the case from the media. More than a dozen young Somali men had disappeared without explanation from Minneapolis and St. Paul. A few had turned up in Somalia as "freedom fighters" and had been killed there. The rest were still missing. The victim in this case had returned for some unknown reason, only to end up dead in Minneapolis. At least the police had caught a suspect, who was in custody and had been charged with first-degree murder.

As to the body slanting down on the aluminum table before her, there wasn't any doubt, really, as to the cause of death. Anyone who had viewed the body could tell easily. The young man's throat gaped open like a quartered watermelon from a cut that started from below one ear and slashed across to a spot below the other ear. The laceration extended down through all the tissue and muscle in the throat to reach the spine. If not for the bone in the spine stopping the weapon, the killer might have severed the head.

Unusually deep, she pondered. Strange. Why? What kind of person would do that? Dr. Wong momentarily felt sorry for the lawyer who would have to defend someone capable of inflicting this kind of damage and destruction.

"Turn in the tox results yet?" she barked at her assistant and instantly regretted her tone. She'd ordered the minimum tests to be run. "The FBI has been hounding me to get the data." The assistant nodded in response. Dr. Wong hurried to finish, mindful of her appointment with the dean of the University of Minnesota Medical School later in the afternoon. That caused her to be impatient with her assistant.

Dr. Wong also felt she'd been cheated. Her male predecessor had filled the medical examiner's position for the county government and, at the same time, was a professor at the medical school. It meant a double salary and much more professional visibility. When first hired, she had not been offered the same arrangement. Dr. Wong was determined to change that at her appointment.

Prior to opening the skull, Dr. Wong had completed the external exam quickly and noted that she found no identifying marks on the body. No other trauma presented itself except for the lacerated neck. Since the cause of death was clear to her, she scanned the body quickly. She studied the young black boy's skin that had turned a shade of gray, like ashes.

The young man's feet were heavily calloused, unlike most other people who lived in Minnesota and wore shoes twelve months of the year—or at least until summer, when everyone switched to flip-flops. The feet seemed to be tinged the color of a rotten eggplant. Hard to tell what that meant since the blood had been drained from his body earlier. She preferred performing autopsies on lighter-skinned bodies since trauma to the underlying tissues was easier to spot.

One thing bothered her: the same eggplant discoloration covered both his palms. Unusual. What would cause that? she wondered.

Dr. Wong was in a hurry, and she decided they were simply abrasions, which she noted, speaking into the microphone hanging above her. She thought they could have been the result of a struggle. But it didn't matter much since it had nothing to do with the cause of death.

After the exterior exam, she hurried to perform the usual Y incision in the chest. To assist the team, the autopsy table had a body block, a plastic brick which rested under the body. It lifted the chest area in a high curved arc while the arms and neck fell away. The incision traveled down the length of the body. Dr. Wong preferred to use a good pair of garden pruning shears instead of the expensive autopsy equipment. The shears were stronger and cheaper. A small sheen of perspiration popped out from her forehead as she worked, since this aspect of the exam took simple, brute strength.

She measured the subcutaneous fat of the abdomen and looked at the peritoneal surface. She found both lungs adherent to their respective pleural cavities. After her visual check, Dr. Wong used her fingers to feel around inside the opened cavity. She began to remove the organs. They would be observed, weighed, and sometimes sliced thinly, like a loaf of bread, for further analysis. In this case, she saw no need for any further analysis beyond weighing.

The contents of the stomach revealed the remains of onions, tomatoes, meat, and what looked like pie crust. Dr. Wong and her assistant had become pretty good at guessing what the person had eaten prior to death. It was like a game to them.

"Gyro sandwich?" the assistant said.

Dr. Wong chuckled. "I don't know." She sifted through the contents with a scalpel. "There's no pita bread. This is a new one, I guess."

"Yeah. Not as easy as Big Macs that congeal into a glob of fat. You can tell right away."

She spoke into the microphone again while examining the heart. "The atria and auricular appendages appear normal. The valves appear normal in circumference and are thin." She droned on until the exam of each of the organs was completed, including the kidneys, prostate, coronary artery, spleen, liver, pancreas, and thyroid.

Dr. Wong could do this part in her sleep. While speaking, she thought ahead to the meeting with Dr. Johnson at the university. When Dr. Wong set her sights on a goal, she seldom missed. Still, her success wasn't guaranteed.

As she lifted the brain out of the skull, she said, "The vessels at the base of the brain appear to be intact. I detect a very subtle contusion of the right temporal tip in an area measuring one and a half centimeters."

Dr. Wong wondered which outfit she should wear for the meeting with Dr. Johnson. What color would be best? Something serious but not too formal. She glanced at the digital clock on the wall. "Come on, Henry. We've got to finish up here."

"If you have to run, I'll sew it up and clean things," he offered.

"Thanks." She raised up on her toes, spoke loudly, and indicated the time they'd finished the autopsy.

Outside the exam room, she stripped off the gown, face mask, protective glasses, and latex gloves, throwing them all in the cleaning receptacle. Into the bathroom for washing and a quick check on her hair and makeup; then she'd go home and change.

Dr. Wong climbed the stairs from the basement lab where the exam rooms were to the modern complex that housed her office. Outside, sunshine warmed her face. From the sun's heat, a layer of snow melted away on the ground to reveal secrets from underneath, abandoned there since last fall. Someone's worn sock, a crushed cigarette package, a broken pair of glasses with a missing lens—each looked lifeless and gray and carried a story that was now an old mystery.

Dr. Wong climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and scrunched over the gravel as she left. Like the dirty clothing she'd dumped in the cleaning bin, she left any thoughts of the routine autopsy behind.

Later, of course, she recognized her mistake.

But then, how could she be blamed? The year she started medical school, it didn't even exist.

# Chapter One

Although never convicted of a crime, Zehra Henning had to go to jail. One of dozens of public defenders in Minneapolis, she forced herself out of the office and down Fourth Avenue toward the concrete building known as the Public Service Facility. In spite of the benign title, it was still a jail. She never liked going there and, especially today, dreaded the first interview with her new client.

She'd been appointed to defend the terrorist accused of killing a missing Somali boy who'd returned to Minneapolis. Zehra remembered her first appearance with the defendant. One of the arresting cops, who was a friend of hers, approached her after the hearing. He said, "Watch this dude, Zehra. He's bad news." Though she was an experienced lawyer, she'd make this interview quick.

Hot sun pressed across her shoulders like a thick shawl. For May, this was unusually warm. Bright light glanced from the tall glass buildings surrounding her. Heat curled up from the sidewalk to clutch at Zehra's bare legs.

She opened the door to the PSF and thought of the air-conditioned reward on the other side. But once inside, she still felt clammy and hot. Zehra took a deep breath, patted her damp forehead, and headed for the elevator that would take her down two floors into the suffering and struggles of the inmates below. Tugging the sides of her suit coat over her hips, she waited for the elevator to open. When she'd first moved to Minnesota years ago, she thought of it as the tundra. "Siberia with family restaurants," one of the filmmaking Coen brothers had said after they left the city themselves.

Certainly, the first winter matched her expectations. Then she experienced spring with the warmth that grew stronger every day. When the temperature hit forty degrees, most Minnesotans started wearing shorts again. Hidden previously under snow banks were caches of unexpected discoveries. A variety of life was revealed in bright green colors and small animals roused from sleep—all greedy for renewed life. The spring thaw also uncovered other odd things: people's lost treasures, unexplained mysteries, and even a dead body on occasion.

The elevator came and Zehra rode alone as it descended. After graduating from law school, she'd been thrilled to get a job in the public defender's office in Hennepin County, the largest in Minnesota. She loved the courtroom, the "chess match" of trials, and felt a passion to defend the underdogs. But one of the necessary difficulties of the job involved representing clients who were dangerous enough to be held in custody.

When the elevator opened, Zehra rushed out into a small room with a beige tile floor. The bright fluorescent lights above reflected an image of herself on the thick windows. She liked her face, her large hazel eyes, and her complexion—darker than most of the Scandinavian people in the state. Thick black hair curled around the edges of her chin. Then there was her nose—too long. A remnant of the distant relatives on her mother's side from India. Her father was Caucasian.

Down here, she smelled metallic air. When she pressed the button on the intercom to ask for admission, a deputy looked up, recognized her, and waved. Zehra heard the loud metal clank in the door as the lock shot open. The handle was chilly. Presenting the admittance pass given to her by the security people on the main floor, Zehra asked to see her new client.

She'd grown up in Dallas but moved to Colorado for college, mostly because she loved to snowboard. After graduating, she moved to Minnesota for law school, followed by her parents after they wilted in the hot weather of Texas summers.

Zehra walked through the dead air of the jail toward an interview room. She missed the colors of her garden down here. Everything was beige and brown. She found an open room and stepped into it. In two steps she reached the table bolted to the wall, flanked by two plastic chairs. Zehra set her leather bag on the table. It had been a gift from her mother and could carry everything she might ever need during the day. Next to it was a red button about the size of her palm that protruded from the wall. In an emergency, if she hit it, three to four deputies would charge into the room. She'd never had to use it in the past, even with some sketchy characters.

Zehra pulled out the thin file she had on the client. It read State of Minnesota v. Ibrahim El-Amin. With the amount of publicity generated by the disappearance of so many young Somali men from the Twin Cities, the police and FBI had worked overtime to discover what happened. They'd caught and convicted a few and thought they'd solved the cases. So this murder had surprised everyone, since the victim had also disappeared earlier, like the others. No one knew why this young man had returned or what he'd been doing when he was killed.

Zehra stood—she never liked to meet new clients sitting down. She had to control the meeting. Not that she believed much of what defendants told her. Through many years of experience, she'd heard just about every story. So many of them lied, made excuses, denied, and minimized their behavior. The savvy ones threw in a few truths like glue, to try and hold together their preposterous stories.

Still, she believed in the work. Actually, most defendants were young boys, more stupid or chemically dependent than evil. They needed protection from the power of the government—even if many were guilty. As a public defender, she was appointed by the court to represent the poor people who qualified. Zehra didn't have any choice about taking a case or refusing it. Luckily, she'd only had to defend a handful of truly evil and dangerous people. She suspected this new client might fall into that category.

She watched two deputies escorting El-Amin toward her. He had closely cut, curly black hair and a short, flat nose, dark skin that shone under the LED lights, and a ragged beard. A short man, he walked slowly, erect and proud. He wore the jail's "private-label clothing line"—an orange jumpsuit with plastic slippers for shoes. One deputy pushed on his arm. El-Amin jerked it away and came through the door to meet Zehra.

He paused. His eyes rose slowly and traveled up and down across Zehra. They were black and focused, surrounded by deep cavities of smudged gray, making him look old. Even though his shoulders were narrow, Zehra could see wiry strength in them.

Behind El-Amin, the door closed and the lock scraped through metal against more metal. Zehra nodded. "Hi, Mr. El-Amin. I'm Zehra Henning, your lawyer." Usually, she shook the client's hand firmly. This time, she let her arm hang at her side.

He didn't respond but continued to stare at her. His eyes probed her face, shoulders, chest, then circled her hips and legs. It was creepy to the max, but she'd experienced it a few times with other clients—the Stare. Almost always, it came from young gangbangers who used it to great effect on the streets, just before they started shooting.

This defendant was different. He wasn't a gangster, and at thirty-four, was older than most criminals. She stared back for a minute, then broke it off. She nodded at one of the chairs and waited for him to sit first. He pushed back his chair from the table, and Zehra saw strong hands with thick calluses edging each finger.

Zehra took a deep breath. Considering that she had ambitions to be a judge in Minnesota, defending someone in a high-profile case might help her. But then, Muslim terrorists were not popular, and it was even less popular to defend one accused of murder. It would be a tough case, if even for those reasons alone.

"We met in court," Zehra began.

El-Amin bobbed his head.

"First, we should talk about bail. Is there anyone who could afford to come up with money—?"

"I demand a male lawyer."

She'd heard this one before, too. "Sorry, you get me."

"Are you Muslim?"

"That's irrelevant, but no."

"In my country women are not allowed to work like this. It is contrary to the Qur'an."

"Well, this isn't your country, and women do work like this here," Zehra said. "Do you want to talk about your case or religion? 'Cause if it's religion, I'm leaving."

El-Amin leaned back and refused to answer. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something.

Zehra was surprised. Most defendants were desperate to get out—but not this one. And the crap about Muslims really put her on edge. Be-cause she had a long nose and darker skin, occasionally she was mistaken for a Muslim. That didn't bother Zehra except for the negative responses she'd get as a result.

Now, she faced a radical Muslim who probably hated all women and had probably killed an innocent young man. Zehra felt herself losing control of the interview. That scared her. She wondered if there was someone in the office she could get to trade his case for any other one.

Clearing her throat, she started again. "Okay, let's look at the complaint." From the file, she pulled out the document written by the prosecutor. It alleged facts to make the defendant guilty of the charge of first-degree murder. "It says that on March 19th, a witness was standing on an open porch at the back end of the Horn of Africa deli on Cedar Avenue. The witness saw a young black man come out of a patio next to the deli through a wooden gate in the fence below the witness.

"Just as the boy got through the gate, another man, wearing a mask of some sort and identified as you, came up behind the younger man and grabbed his forehead with the left hand. With his right hand, he cut the boy's throat with a knife. Then the killer fled."

Zehra looked up at El-Amin. His expression remained frozen.

"A week later," she continued reading, "a confidential, reliable infor-mant, a CRI, reported to police that talk around the coffee shops near Augsburg College was that you were bragging about 'bringing a lamb to Allah.' Police had enough information to get a search warrant for your apartment. They found a knife and a shirt. Both had been cleaned, but forensic testing determined the victim's blood showed on both items."

Under his hooded forehead, his eyes moved from the paper on the table to Zehra's eyes again. He crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing.

A tingling feeling crabbed its way up her back. At this point, after reading all the damning evidence, most defendants raved about how the facts were "all lies" and insisted that they were innocent. But her training as a defense lawyer asserted itself, and she started to see some holes in the government's case against her client. "When the cops did that lineup with the witness and he picked you, that seems highly suggestive. The killing occurred in an area where the lighting was probably bad, so how reliable is the witness' ID of you?"

"It does not matter. There are more important things."

"What things? You don't think a murder case—against you—is important?"

"Besides, you are not qualified."

Zehra didn't get mad but remained patient.

"You are a woman and an infidel. I will not be associated with you."

She leaned back in her chair. "You know, I was just thinking the same thing. But see, the thing is, we're stuck with each other. The court ordered me to represent you."

El-Amin raised his arm with a finger pointed to heaven. "Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other. It is so written in the Qur'an."

Zehra scraped her chair backward. It was hard to breathe around him, as if there was a vacuum sucking the air out of the room. She felt split in half. On the one hand, her duty as his lawyer meant to defend him zealously. But what he had probably done sickened her, and now, his extremist talk of Islam angered her.

His body jerked forward. "I have a right to a trial, do I not?"

"Yes."

"Then I demand to have one now—with a new lawyer."

"Well, you can't have one immediately. There are procedures we have to go through, investigation, legal research—"

"I do not want to wait."

"You'll get your trial," she shouted.

"A woman does not talk to me in such a tone."

"This interview is over." Zehra stood and reached for her bag. She hoped he would agree and just leave with the deputies when they came back for him.

"I did it." He spoke softer.

She dropped the bag onto the table. "What?"

"It was necessary."

"You killed the boy?"

"It was not intended but had to be carried out."

Zehra stammered, "I could talk to the prosecutor about a deal for you. Something—"

"I told you I want a trial. Do not talk to them."

She'd never heard a defendant admit guilt but still demand a trial. Of course, it was his right and he could remain silent at the trial. What is wrong with this idiot? she wondered. She wanted out. Shoving her chair backward, she grabbed her bag and tried to squeeze past him to get into the hallway.

"If you will not replace yourself, I also know I have a right to represent myself."

As she jerked open the steel door, anger and frustration clouded her mind until a new thought struck her. He was right. There was a provision in the rules of procedure that allowed a defendant to represent himself under limited circumstances. Maybe there was a way for her to actually get out of the case. She'd never done that before. In fact, most public defenders prided themselves on their ability to work with even the most difficult clients. But El-Amin made her uneasy. This was one case to avoid for many reasons. "Yes. Yes, you can. The judge would have to approve it."

"I would prefer to have a male lawyer, but if it is to be you, I will defend myself."

It was hard to breathe. "I'll talk to the judge."

El-Amin stood and leaned toward her. He smelled of onions. Through gritted teeth, he said, "I cannot have anything to do with you. I will be disgraced." His eyes sparkled with fury. "You do not cover your head, you do not cover your legs, your breasts are revealed under your shirt—"

Zehra snapped. She pointed her finger into his chest. "Listen, I'd be happy to never talk with you again. And I don't follow your archaic rules." Her voice bounced off the hard walls.

"A woman cannot understand the words of the Prophet like a man."

Her face flushed hot. Sweat popped out across her forehead. Zehra knew better than to argue with him, but her anger overtook her. His hate was disgusting. "Get out of my way," she yelled.

"No woman will talk to me like this." He gripped the back of the chair and started to lift if off the ground.

The room went silent but crackled with tension. She heard the lights above humming. The chair scraped across the floor as he gripped it harder.

Zehra watched his eyes. She knew it was time to bail out. She slammed the red panic button with her fist.

El-Amin had the chair off the ground. He twisted his shoulders to get better leverage. It gave her a moment to edge closer to the door. He grunted with the effort of picking it up to swing at her.

Zehra backed into the corner and raised her arms. The concrete wall felt cool. Clanking sounds echoed around the room. El-Amin swore something in a different language.

Two deputies burst through the door and clamped their arms over El-Amin's shoulders. The chair clattered to the floor. One deputy seemed to enjoy the opportunity and twisted El-Amin's arm high behind his back. Something cracked and he screamed. El-Amin dropped to the floor, and the second deputy cuffed the defendant. A third deputy arrived to help drag him out of the interview room.

"You okay, Zehra?" the deputy asked. "Sorry. We didn't see anything until you hit the button."

She waved her hand at him. At least she wasn't hurt. Nothing this violent had ever happened to her before. "Don't worry. I gotta get out of here." Her blouse was drenched and stuck to her like cellophane.

Upstairs, she ran through the double glass doors to get back out into the sunshine. A linden tree arched over the entrance, protecting Zehra from the sun. The air smelled fresh. Like the branches above, her thoughts tangled around each other. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. Even though El-Amin had said he was guilty, Zehra's reading of the case told her there was a good chance he was innocent. If so, why did he insist on his guilt? Why would he demand a trial?

She shook out her hair as if to shake off the creepy feeling left from the interview. Above her a sparrow lifted off of the linden tree. It fluttered across the street to the hulking mass of City Hall, constructed over one hundred years earlier of gray granite. Along the wall of the building, the bird paddled upwards, unaware of the peregrine falcons who hid behind the top battlements. Sometimes they swooped down to grab prey like the sparrow.

Zehra took a deep breath, started for her cool office, and plotted how she might be able to get out of the case.

# Chapter Two

Mustafa Aadheen closed his leather-bound copy of the Qur'an. He rose from his knees, completed his prayers, and removed the worn, tan cotton robe. Underneath, he wore a blue Hugo Boss suit with a crisp white shirt open at the collar. He adjusted his shoulders and shot out his arms to bring the French cuffs out to the proper length beyond the arms of the suit.

Several years earlier, as part of the plan, he had successfully embedded himself in the Minnesota company called Health Technologies. He worked there as Michael Ammar, a genetic scientist—a perfect cover for his real work. After his prayers, he prepared to leave for that office and the company's labs.

Today, his immediate problem was lack of information. Since the launch date was set for two weeks from now, Mustafa worried about the last-minute details. Years of planning and struggle and establishing networks of believers would finally pay off. As Mustafa had anticipated, El-Amin had been arrested and accused of killing the young boy. Certainly, he wouldn't reveal anything, but Mustafa still worried. He needed information about the case. Would law enforcement uncover anything damaging to the cause?

As a boy in Egypt, Mustafa had been tapped early for his brilliant mind. Chosen to attend Cairo University two years before normal admissions, he'd graduated number two in his class in science. A graduate program that led to a doctorate in genetic molecular biology at Oxford in Great Britain completed his training—on the outside. Groups in Egypt

—some would call them extremist—had recruited him. They weren't extremist to Mustafa. Instead, they promised action in reprisal for what had happened to his grandparents and his people at the hands of oppressors.

Finally, Mustafa could take that action himself.

He'd come into the US years ago, in preparation for executing the plan. The United States wanted to attract highly-educated foreigners, so they allowed many in under H1-B visas for specialty occupations and advanced education. Mustafa laughed to himself at the stupid politicians who ranted about "building a wall." Here he was—the biggest threat ever to the country—admitted easily.

The scream of boiling water in the teapot startled him. He moved to the kitchen and poured hot water over loose black tea leaves. He watched them swirl in the water, coloring it immediately. He added two heaping scoops of sugar, stirred that, and sat back in a hard chair by the window. Mustafa had a few minutes before leaving for the labs.

He and his brotherhood saw the opportunity to strike at the West in a fashion more devastating than anything ever done before. Let others set off bombs in restaurants or subways. Some could open fire in a nightclub. None of these events were coordinated, and besides, what did they accomplish? A few kafirs died, but a week later everyone forgot about it. Instead, something bold, dangerous, must be done to really make a change.

The al-Qaeda attack on the World Trade Center had first given Mustafa and his brotherhood the inspiration of what could be done. Not the destruction itself, but the ensuing panic. What if he could do something even worse, more widespread, and unstoppable that would lead to panic on a nationwide scale? Americans had received a hint of what widespread panic was like after the attack on the towers. If that could be multiplied, it would grow like nuclear fission, propelled forward to a massive explosion in chaos and death.

Mustafa set down his cooling teacup and realized that he was breathing fast. The dreaming always made him excited. But now, the dreams were very close to happening. That was why he worried about all the details that must occur before the launch, and it was also why he needed to know what was going on in El-Amin's case.

Finishing the last of his tea, Mustafa cleaned up the few dishes in the kitchen and left for work. In Egypt, he had lived a frugal life. But here in America, he pampered himself. He slid into the new BMW 3 Series car. It was red to match the color of Egypt's flag. He justified the car as part of his cover. A scientist of his stature would not drive a used Kia.

He'd been blessed by Allah; certainly the mission would be a success for the glory of Allah and the Prophet.

Mustafa drove toward Health Tech and opened the windows to feel the cool damp air stream over him. The company had also, unwittingly, given him the location for the execution of the plot: Hiawatha Academy, the school where he volunteered as a science teacher to high school children. Health Tech supported many schools by encouraging its employees to volunteer their time. In two weeks, the state-wide Science Expo would occur, hosted by Mustafa's school in their giant fieldhouse, usually dedicated to the ridiculous sport of hockey. For the expo, it would be cleared out in order to accommodate thousands of students and their parents. They would become sacrificial lambs for Allah in order to spread His Will.

He had volunteered to help the students prepare their projects—giving him access to all areas of the school.

Mustafa weaved his way skillfully through heavy traffic on his way to the labs. All around him, drivers strained to go faster, most of them talking or texting on cell phones while they drove. Probably communicating about banal subjects like shopping or the insatiable lust for Americans to watch sports of any kind. Not that many of them participated. Most sat on couches before obscenely large TVs and drank beer. In his disgust, Mustafa forced himself to work hard in the gym to keep himself in good shape. He slipped through the traffic knots after a lifetime of driving in Cairo—one of the most crowded cities in the world.

As he neared the company, he marveled at how far he'd come in his life. After he was born in Alexandria, Egypt, his parents had tried to flee from the oppressive British to the Netherlands. They never made it. Instead, they tried to hide in the dense population of Cairo—something that was easy to do for the most part. But for Mustafa, the move left him without friends. He missed the dark blue of the Mediterranean Sea that he could see every day from his window in Alexandria. In Cairo, all he could see was brown sand of the deserts and yellow skies from the pollution that covered the city like an upside-down bowl. Mustafa then started university. Up to that point, he'd been lackadaisical about his Muslim faith. His one friend had encouraged him to attend mosque on Fridays. The community had reached out to Mustafa and relieved his loneliness. More than that, they'd challenged him to find a mission that pleased Allah. Something that would free him and his family from the yoke of the West.

The memory of his grandparents' deaths made that easy.

In an attempted uprising against the hated British after World War II, his family had gathered near the sea in Alexandria for a protest. As carelessly as brushing off the sand from their boots, the British soldiers had massacred hundreds of protesters. Most of Mustafa's family had escaped, except for his grandparents.

He pulled into the employee parking lot at Health Technologies. He circled to a side entrance, felt the warming air around him, and entered. He nodded to the stupid secretary he shared with another scientist before going into his office.

His desk was clear of everything except a laptop computer. The walls were bare. There were no personal mementos or photos. One plaque hung next to the door. It was an award from Health Tech for the successful development of a genome that had led to a lucrative patent for the company. They'd made millions off the patent; Mustafa had received a fake gold plaque.

He looked outside. In the middle of a sinfully huge expanse of grassy lawn, a fountain shot water high into the air. In the morning sun, it looked like thousands of sparkling diamonds. It reminded him of the photos he'd seen of his dead grandparents. Thousands of pieces of glass shone on the ground next to their bodies where plate glass windows had shattered under the hail of British bullets. Their blood—his blood—stained the gray dust beneath them.

He could never forgive.

Mustafa jerked around to a knock on the door behind him. Another scientist, John Posten, had the office next to his. He grinned at Mustafa. "Hey, Michael, you stud. How many women you score this weekend?" He waited and when Mustafa didn't respond, Posten continued, "You're so good looking and beefed up. What's your secret?"

"Lots of exercise. Good food, you know."

Posten looked down at the tub around his waist. "Yeah, gotta work on that myself. Get your prayers in this morning?"

A hot flush of blood shot into Mustafa's face. The rage always started with a shaking in his legs. Why didn't Allah strike these foolish kafirs dead on the spot? He hoped the fat one standing before him would be the first to die. Mustafa fought to appear calm. "Of course. Five times a day. You should try praying more yourself."

Posten's mouth curled down. "Yeah, s'pose it wouldn't hurt. 'Course, I'm a lapsed Catholic. My religion doesn't motivate me to do much of anything." He turned toward the hall. "Hey, got time for a muffin?"

"No, thanks. Too much work. I'm leaving for Egypt in a few days."

"Again? How come you get all the cool assignments? What're you doing this time?"

"Since I'm originally Egyptian and I speak Arabic, the company wants me to expand our contacts in the Middle East. I'm presenting another paper. It's called 'Use of the IL-4 Gene to Produce Interleukin-4.'"

"Cool stuff. You know it better than anyone. Okay, don't let your meat loaf, you stud." He laughed hard enough that his belly jiggled. Posten started out the door but stopped. He turned back to Mustafa. "Hey, you're going to the company party, right?"

"Of course."

Mustafa watched him waddle out the door. Sitting at his desk, he checked his corporate emails. Among the usual camel dung, he saw an invitation to employees from the supervisor of internal operations, Donald Henning. Mustafa had met him a few times. Bland, dull guy with unusually heavy eyebrows. Apparently, he was organizing the company party. Mustafa deleted it. Then a thought popped into his head. Wasn't that name the same as one of the lawyers in the El-Amin case?

He twisted around to his briefcase and grabbed the Star Tribune, the metro newspaper. There was a story about the El-Amin case. It told of the new lawyer, a public defender named Zehra Henning, who was representing the defendant. Mustafa looked at the photo in the paper. She was dark, even looked Semitic in a way. Heavy eyebrows? Could she be related to Donald? If so, was this a way for Mustafa to get information about the case?

It was worth the effort; he'd certainly go to the company party and seek out Donald Henning. If the lawyer was his daughter—Mustafa smiled at the serendipity of the situation. He knew his good looks attracted women. She'd be easy to fool.

Mustafa slapped his palm on the desk in triumph. Allah always provided a watering hole in the desert. The camels would never die. He retrieved the email and keyed a quick response to Donald: I'll be there.

# Chapter Three

Even though it was one of the biggest pleasures of his life, Paul Schmidt was afraid to tell anyone about it. In his two-bedroom house in St. Louis Park, a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis, he kept everything locked in the basement. In this densely urban setting, people didn't do his kind of hobby. People owned guns, but few treasured or collected weapons the way he did. Besides, it took his mind off the bigger problem he had—how to solve the mystery behind the young Somali boy's death. Why was he really killed?

Paul had grown up on the outskirts of St. Cloud, a town itself on the edge of a pine curtain in northern Minnesota. He missed the woods but realized there wasn't much work for people with his skills in St. Cloud. It had been settled by Germans, who had taken it from the indigenous Indian chief and left only the name of the city. Paul was one hundred percent German and proud of it. The order, competence, and duty to country that he'd learned from his family had helped Paul become successful.

Tonight, he walked through the living room, where he'd hung the heads of the big game he'd hunted. They'd become like friends, and occa-sionally he even talked to them. Paul stepped down the narrow wooden stairs to his basement in anticipation. A faintly musty smell met him. Paul flicked on the overhead lights.

He'd built a crude but serviceable workbench seven feet long across the wall in the largest room. He organized his tools in specific order. Some were hung on a pegboard mounted behind the low bench, and others were stored in the drawers of the file cabinets. Paul had found the cabinets at thrift shops and was proud to have never paid more than four dollars for one.

Tonight, he'd simply clean some rifles, not that they really needed it since he kept them spotless. The sweet, familiar smell of cleaning fluid and the gun oil comforted him. His passion was restoring older weapons.

Usually, they came to him covered in rust, thick oil, or even mud—hiding the beautiful craftsmanship underneath. He loved the process of cleaning and exposing the original features. Many weapons had mysteries about them that Paul discovered when he scraped away the outer layers of age and abuse. His friends would think his fixation was weird.

After high school, when the Army recruiter in St. Cloud had talked to his best friend, the midfielder on the high school soccer team, Paul became interested, too. He qualified for the Rangers and took to the training with enthusiasm. He loved the order, the mission, the clear rules, and the self-reliance he learned.

After his successful discharge from the Rangers, Paul knew he wanted to continue serving the country in some way. He returned to Minnesota, finished college, and then went to law school. With the help of his parents' friends, the local congressperson persuaded the FBI to hire him. Things had gone well in his career until the disaster in Milwaukee that almost cost him his job. Now, the recent killing of the Somali boy offered Paul a way to save his career, maybe even turn it around.

His biggest challenge would be the politics in the Bureau. Despite the passage of years since the problem in Milwaukee, the memory of his screw-up still caused Paul's shoulders to tighten. He felt immense guilt and, at the same time, furious anger at the FBI. It had been his fault, of course, but they'd hung everything on him as the sacrificial lamb with no more concern for him than someone might have in shaking out a wet rag before tossing it in a dryer.

After his demotion, he was the one who'd taken the call three years ago from a teacher at Hiawatha Academy in Minneapolis, overlooking the Mississippi River. He remembered her breathy voice.

"This is Gennifer Simmons. That's Gennifer with a 'G,' and I'm worried about something."

Demoted to answering the phone on the public tip line, Paul said, "What's the problem?"

"Our school has a big Somali population, and there's this boy—well, I should say he's a man, 'cause he seems much older than the other kids, and—"

"What about him?"

She paused. "I . . . I don't know if I should do this, because a teacher's first duty is to her students, but, well . . . I'm really worried." She gulped a deep breath. "We call him the 'Pied Piper' since he's always getting the younger boys to follow him. And he lectures them, talks about infidels."

"Yeah?" Paul tried to be patient.

"Well, the lecturing to the boys wasn't too bad, but then, one day he came to me with a map of the state and asked a lot of questions about how to get from Canada into Minnesota, and that's when I really got worried, 'cause it made me feel creepy. But I'm not sure I should be telling you—"

Paul's feet clumped to the floor as his brain raced. He turned his laptop around and started to key. "We're definitely interested. Who is this person, and where can I talk to him?" Was he being an alarmist? No—after 9/11 Paul knew to react to everything that even smelled funny.

"Well, that's just it. I don't think you can find him."

"This could be a matter of national security. Don't you understand that?" he shouted.

"But—he's gone."

"Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. He and three other young boys just disappeared."

The FBI response was instantaneous. Over a few months, many other Somali young men disappeared from their homes and schools. No one—friends, family, religious leaders—knew where they had gone or why. Then a few showed up, fighting in Somalia, and the FBI officially opened the investigation.

But now, Paul didn't think the Bureau was going far enough in their efforts to solve this latest, unexpected return of a boy, and it scared the hell out of him.

In his basement, Paul walked to the stand-up steel locker in the corner. He felt the damp coolness. He withdrew several of the weapons from the locker, both handguns and rifles. Paul laid some of his handguns on the table.

There was the cute little Glock 29, the subcompact with the powerful 10mm upgrade from the Glock 26. He held the grip in two fingers, as it was designed, and set it down. So light, it almost felt like a toy. Next to it, he put his larger Glock 21 that boasted a heavy .45 caliber shell. He marveled at the fact the Austrian Glock was made of high-strength nylon polymer, much more resilient than carbon steel.

His cell phone played a Prince song.

Usually, his friends texted him, so it was odd to get a call—no one actually talked anymore. Paul wiped his hands on a paper towel and walked over to answer it. He didn't recognize the number but clicked on Receive and said hello.

"Paul, sorry to bother you, but I've got some questions—maybe you could help me," Zehra Henning said.

His breath caught in his throat at the sound of her voice. He'd met her in law school, dated her for a short time, and then they'd drifted apart. He still remembered how attractive she was: flawless skin and almond-shaped eyes. "That's okay. What's the problem?"

He had initiated contact with her a few days earlier. She'd been surprised, but Paul insisted he'd called as a friend to see if he could help her with the El-Amin case in any way. She probably saw through that, but agreed. He told her of the difficulty the police and FBI had had in figuring out what had happened to the missing young men.

It had been a lucky break for law enforcement when a witness had come forward about the victim, Mohamoud Ahmed, and identified the suspect. The distrust of authorities in the Somali community made any investigation difficult. Their loyalty to their clans trumped all other duties.

Early on in the investigation, Paul had told his boss that he knew the suspect's defense lawyer from law school. He volunteered to make contact with her to see what she might be able to tell him—without violating the duties of confidentiality to her client. It might give the FBI an advantage. Zehra had agreed to talk with him.

Now Zehra continued on the phone, "I just met with my new client today, Ibrahim El-Amin. Since you've worked on the murder case, I wondered if I could talk with you. I mean, you said to call."

He sat down in the straight-backed chair at his bench. "Sure. What's he like?"

"I have to admit, for the first time I'm scared of a client."

"What happened?"

"Other than his trying to hit me with a chair, nothing," she sighed. "He stands for everything I hate, mostly intolerance. These kind of guys treat women like they're goats. Quoting me the Qur'an. It's pure crap."

"Can't help you with that." Paul chuckled, remembering how tough she was. If Zehra was this shaken up, the client must be bad news. "You know how badly we want to take this guy out." She didn't respond, and he knew why. She was walking a tightrope between her duty to defend the scumbag and her willingness to talk with him—law enforcement. She'd have to be careful, but so would he. Paul couldn't tell her everything right now. Although he liked making contact with her again, the successful prosecution of the case was the more important thing for him. It involved connections much larger than simply her case or that she could imagine. "What else?" he asked.

"Since I only watch gardening shows on TV and avoid the news, can you tell me any background about these cases of the missing boys?"

"The young Somali men disappeared from the city, and it remained a local police case until a few developments this year." Paul paused, careful how much to reveal. "One of the boys, Shirwa Ahmed, blew himself up in Somalia to become the first American suicide bomber. Recently, Burhan Hassan was found shot dead in Mogadishu."

"What ages?"

"Seventeen to twenties."

Zehra sighed. "Why in the hell would they want to go back? I thought most people wanted to get out."

"The Somali community has many ideas—"

"But Paul, what do you think?"

"The FBI's theory is they were recruited to fight in a group called El Shabaab militia. They're 'freedom fighters.' It's a militant Islamic troop aligned with al-Qaeda." Paul paused. "You can imagine that rang a few bells at the FBI in Washington."

"So, how does my victim fit into all this?"

"The FBI had actually captured a few of the boys when they returned to Minneapolis. We even got some convictions for aiding a foreign terrorist group. The top brass thought it was all wrapped up—until this last kid came back and got killed. The shit hit the fan, and now we're working overtime to contain the problem and solve the case."

"You mean convict El-Amin? That's the job of the county prosecutor."

"Uh, there's a lot more behind the killing than I can talk about right now."

"Stop the bullshit, Paul. We're talking here. I want to find out why he was murdered."

"You sound like a defense lawyer," he chuckled. "What's the motive, right? The simple answer could be that he didn't cooperate with the recruiters, so your client killed him. End of case."

Zehra didn't answer.

"Come on. You're too savvy to believe the bronco you're representing is innocent."

"I didn't say he was innocent. I just don't know at this point, and unless I can get out of the case, I have a duty to zealously defend him. After all, the ID isn't great, the line-up is tainted—"

Paul liked the lush resonance in her voice when it dipped into lower registers. Their affair had been pretty hot. They'd come close to having sex, but at the last minute, Zehra backed off, saying she wasn't ready. "Good luck with your defense—but I hope you don't win, if you know what I mean."

"Of course. I wonder if this Shabaab organization is strong enough here in the Twin Cities to have enforcers."

"They sure as hell do, and it's guys like your client who scare me. What if they start directing those kids to attack some target here instead of in Somalia? Go on some jihad?"

"Scary thought."

"Zehra, I know you have an ethical duty of confidentiality, but that doesn't apply if you learn of some potential criminal activity—"

"How stupid do you think I am? Just because I've been appointed to represent him doesn't mean I like him!" she snapped.

"Sorry," Paul said. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just be careful. That's all I can say now."

"I've got a lot of watering to do in my garden. When I bought this place, I looked for the biggest balcony I could find. I've got about a dozen pots out there with lettuce, flowers, French strawberries, and a few unidentifiable things. It's so crowded I can hardly get in to water, but I'd die without my garden."

Paul sensed they were done. "I want you to be careful with this case."

"What do you mean? The guy's in custody, and the deputies all love me."

After Paul clicked off, he went back to work. He lifted his most expensive prize onto the table, the Browning BAR rifle with the telescopic sights. He'd splurged to buy the most luxurious one, the Safari model, which had the engraved steel receiver and upgraded walnut stock. He ran his fingers down the slightly oily barrel to feel the smooth precision of the engineering.

He thought of Zehra. Sure, he could probably work the relationship to his, and the Bureau's, advantage. It could help him solve the mystery behind the boy's death—something that threatened to balloon into dangerous proportions. Now he realized how difficult it would be to accomplish—and how worried he was for Zehra.

# Chapter Four

Tension rumbled up through Carolyn Bechter, from her groin up to her stomach and into her chest. She took a deep breath to calm herself. As one of the "seasoned" reporters for TV Channel 6, she thought this was the story that would finally catapult her out of obscurity. Carolyn had missed breaking the story of the disappearance of the young Somali men. Of course, she'd covered the arrest of the terrorist, El-Amin, and would be assigned to cover the murder trial when it began. But she competed against all the other local and national journalists. After years of declining responsibilities, this story had to work magic for her.

She paused in the lobby of the Hiawatha Academy. It sprawled over some of the most expensive property in Minneapolis because of its location—on the high bluffs above the Mississippi River. West River Road curved along the top of the bluff to lead to the school campus. A private school, it resembled an English boarding school campus and offered every advanced course available. Mature trees shaded the property and were now leafing out in pale green colors. On the far side of the campus, an immense fieldhouse had been converted from a hockey rink into a convention arena in preparation for the statewide Science Expo, scheduled in about two weeks.

Protesters gathered on the outside of the fieldhouse. Carolyn knew other media people would be there soon, but she had beat all of them.

Carolyn entered the main administration building under a granite arch. Inside the carved door, a receptionist scanned Carolyn's ID and smiled. "Ms. Simmons will be out in a minute. Please have some coffee, a latte, tea, or orange-infused mineral water."

While Carolyn waited, she thanked the cheap-ass station owners for at least setting up the "Tip-Six" website. Corny as it sounded, it actually worked. When it was introduced four years ago, her producer had assured everyone that the tips coming in would be distributed equally. Not true.

As an older reporter, Carolyn fought a losing battle against the newer, blonder, and lower-paid reporters who caught the eye of the producer—pig that he was. The perky new reporters always got more choice assignments with more face time on the screen. The more they jiggled, the more stories they got. For years, Carolyn had struggled to make a name for herself. But now, even her producer told her she was "branding out," his term to describe the fatigue the viewers felt when they saw her yet again after fifteen years with Channel Six.

She'd show the self-centered prick.

When the tip came in about the protest, Carolyn happened to be there and had grabbed it and run with it.

"Hey," the receptionist said, "it's like, gonna happen over there." She pointed toward the fieldhouse. She looked at the lock on her phone. "Hey, I'm part time, so I gotta, like, boogie." She looked at Carolyn with stupid eyes, and Carolyn hoped this wasn't an example of the student body. "Sorry, but you're on your own."

Carolyn sighed. Years ago, her presence at a school like this would have brought out several people, all interested in seeing the face they watched nightly or trying to get on camera themselves. Not anymore. The twit of a receptionist didn't even recognize Carolyn. Of course, kids these days didn't watch the news—any news except comedy. Besides, the poor girl wasn't Carolyn's demographic. That was the over-forty-five crowd. Or was it over-eighty by now?

She felt the rumble in her lower body again. This story had to do it for her. She chewed a pink Pepto Bismol tab.

A middle-aged woman entered the lobby. She had short, curly brown hair and a frumpy brown outfit, sans makeup. Her smile was crooked and weak, and as she came closer, she said, "Are you—Carolyn Bechter?"

Of course I am, you idiot! Carolyn thought to herself. Don't you recognize me? She forced a smile. "I am. Who are you?"

"I'm Gennifer Simmons. Gennifer with a 'G.' I'm the one who called."

"Yes, of course. Thanks so much for taking the responsibility."

Simmons looked behind Carolyn. "You don't have a cameraman?"

"Uh, no. I mean, not right now. For these background stories we usually don't assign a camera until we need video." Carolyn stammered, "I can always use my phone." She switched the subject quickly. "So, why did you call, Gennifer?"

"I got involved a while ago, when I called in a tip to the FBI. This is not so big, but there is a protest scheduled, and I thought the media should be here."

"What's going to happen?"

Simmons shifted her weight onto the other hefty leg. "I guess the Muslims are protesting that they want more time set aside for prayers. They pray five times a day, you know. And since they wash before praying, they use all the lavatories."

Carolyn nodded.

"But I guess the Christian evangelical group is mad because they want prayer in the school and to be able to use the bathrooms anytime they want."

"Does this have anything to do with the Somali boys who've disappeared recently?"

Simmons looked at her without moving her head, just her eyes. "Uh, I don't think so."

Carolyn sighed, convinced this source wasn't a source at all. But she'd learned over the years to keep trolling until she hit something big. "Nice to talk with you. Can I have your phone number?" After getting the number, she moved outside.

Across a huge expanse of green lawn, several people—obviously Somali or Middle Eastern—gathered in a group. Most of the girls wore long dresses in spite of the warm weather. Most wore head coverings. They were tall and had beautiful, smooth skin. The boys stood separate from them and carried a few placards that asked for more prayer time. They dressed like Western teenagers.

From the other side of the field, another group of students walked forward slowly. This group looked all-American: short hair, long pants, tan t-shirts, and jeans. Boys and girls mingled together. They were chanting about more prayer time also. What an odd protest! It seemed that both sides wanted the same thing, but were not cooperating. So why the protest? Who had instigated it? As an investigative journalist, she questioned everything, looking for an angle she could exploit before any other media arrived.

When the second group got closer to the first, there were some shouts back and forth, but no violence. Nothing looked too coordinated, and Carolyn wondered if the tip and her trip out here had been a waste of time.

Then she saw a lone man, an adult, behind the Somali group. He moved among them quickly and spoke to various students. He was a tall man, dark-skinned, with a long white shirt buttoned to the neck. Don't these people ever get hot with all those clothes on? Carolyn wondered. Something about the man didn't look right. Odd.

She couldn't hear what he said, but the way he darted from one student to the next looked unusual. Carolyn knew her instincts were almost always right on. When the man left the group and headed for the fieldhouse, Carolyn followed him.

Catching him just before he entered a side door, she called out, "Excuse me, sir. Carolyn Bechter, TV Channel Six news. Can we talk?"

His head swiveled to see her, and his black eyes jerked back and forth as if he were lost and looking for something he recognized. He focused on her. "What do you want?"

"I just want to know what's going on here." Her high heels started to sink in the soft ground. She hurried over to him.

"Our students have rights that should be protected."

"Of course." Carolyn always agreed with an interviewee no matter how dumb they sounded. It softened them up for the hard-hitting questions later. "What do they want?"

His eyes darted back and forth again. "I must leave now." He ducked through the door.

Carolyn grabbed for the handle, but it had already closed and locked. When she turned around, two men in short-sleeved shirts passed by her. A logo on each breast pocket read Hiawatha Academy. "Excuse me, I'm Carolyn Bechter. TV Channel Six news. Do you work here?" They stopped and recognized her. Good. The power of celebrity always got her information.

"Yeah. Nice to meet you. I used to watch you a lot," the older man said. He hesitated to talk more. Finally, he stuck out his hand. "Jim Miller. I'm in charge of the entire physical plant here. How can we help?"

"Did you happen to notice the man I was just talking with?"

"Ben? Yeah, he's worked here for a short time."

"Who is he?"

"Ben Mohammad. 'Course, they're all named Mohammad. He was hired recently as our outreach coordinator. We've got a big Somali student population, as you can see, so they hired him. Doesn't make rat's ass sense to me, but then who am I? Lots of these parents are working too hard or don't understand how schools work here. So Ben reaches out."

"Do you know anything else about him?"

"Naw. He lives in South Minneapolis near Somali-land by Augsburg College. I think he works part time in a deli near there." Miller's brows furrowed. "Why are you interested? Big story, I suppose? Or do you call 'em 'scoops'?"

Easy . . . easy, Carolyn thought. All her experience had taught her not to raise suspicions or the information source would stop. "Yeah, scoops. You're right. We're covering the protest as a human interest story. 'Soft' news, we call it."

"Yeah. Sure."

"You know, make a story real by showing real people." Carolyn remembered this might be her last chance to pry into the Somali boys' disappearance. Was there any possible connection? Because of high-def TV, the lines on her face, even with makeup, couldn't be hidden anymore. She didn't have much more time to break out. She'd be out on the street. Where would she go? Print media? What a joke. They were dying so fast they didn't even have time to pull the plug on the coffee maker. "Tell me more about Ben."

Jim leaned on the other leg, which brought him closer to her. "Hey, where's your cameraman?"

"He's on his way," she lied. "Can you stick around long enough so we can get a shot of you?" That always worked. People would do anything for three seconds of airtime.

"Sure." Jim passed a look to the younger man. Apparently they agreed because Jim said, "Uh, I don't know if I should tell you this, but—" He leaned his face close to Carolyn's, and she could smell Old Spice aftershave. "Ben's one of them Eye-mans."

"Eye-mans?" Carolyn puzzled over the word. "Oh, you mean an imam."

"Yeah. I don't know their damn words. All I know is, he's some kind of a preacher or religious guy. Always talkin' to the boys, particularly."

In spite of the Pepto Bismol she'd popped earlier, her stomach rumbled again.

"He takes the boys on field trips. I don't know where the hell they go. Probably some mosque somewhere."

Her high heels sank lower, but Carolyn didn't move. There was something here. "Field trips? Any of the boys tell you what they do on those trips?"

"Naw. They're pretty closed mouth about 'em. Not that I blame 'em, I guess."

The young man shifted from one side to the other. He tugged on Miller's sleeve. "Come on, dude. We got work to do." He tugged again, and they left with a thank you.

The rumbling in Carolyn's stomach was proof she was onto something significant. She didn't know what. From all her years' experience, she could feel it, and she trusted her gut. She'd stick with this one until the story cracked open. She'd be a hero once again.

# Chapter Five

Monday morning in Courtroom Two, Zehra stood before the Honorable Mary Ann Gordon Smith, the "Hot Tub" judge, for the arraignment of her client, Mr. El-Amin. "My client doesn't want a female lawyer," Zehra said. "He wants to represent himself."

Prior to coming to court, Zehra had researched the issue of a client's representing himself. If this was an honorable way out of the case, she'd take it.

Judge Smith peered at El-Amin, standing behind the low wooden wall at the side of the courtroom. He crossed his hands in front of himself at his waist. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" the judge asked him.

He closed his eyes and spoke. "I will not disgrace myself by having a woman represent me, nor will I have a woman judge me."

The prosecutor, Steve Harmon, stood behind the table reserved for counsel. "I want the record to note the defendant wants to go pro se. He can't change his mind later."

"I want my trial as soon as possible," El-Amin shouted.

To make clear her disagreement, the judge twitched her head back and forth. "It is your right, but under these circumstances, in a murder case—" She looked back at Zehra and the lawyer who would second-chair Zehra, Jackie Nguyen. "I don't have time for this today. I'll take this issue under advisement. For now, you are still counsel of record, Ms. Henning."

"Wait," El-Amin called out.

The judge's face jerked up, annoyed. "What?"

"I insist this woman will not represent me."

Zehra jumped in. "That's his right, Judge. You could relieve me of the duty to represent him." Zehra knew the judge was too smart to fall for that but hoped it might work.

"I've made my decision. You will keep the case, Ms. Henning." She gathered the file together, closed the cover, and tossed it aside as if she were tired of a bad novel.

As they moved away from the bench, Jackie whispered, "Way to go, girl. What a bitch. And why do they call her the 'Hot Tub' judge?"

They moved into the hallway. Zehra sighed. "Several years ago, the governor worked with Smith in the state legislature. She was a successful lawyer and prominent in legal circles. The governor's wife and Smith became friends as Smith was always politically savvy. After legislative sessions, they'd go back to the governor's mansion to relax in the hot tub. When the next judicial opening occurred in this county, guess who got it?"

Jackie nodded. "You're kidding me. Is she smart?"

"Very. But Mary Ann uses every advantage she has. I'm sure the governor didn't miss those boobs on his new choice for the bench as she splashed in the tub with him."

After the court hearing, Zehra and Jackie walked two blocks down Fourth Avenue to the public defender's office, past a park ramp edged in flowers. They gloried in the morning light—purple, blue, and dark green leaves. A fresh breeze lifted them as if they were dancing.

Reaching the tall office building, they walked around the coffee shop on the main floor and rode the elevator to the seventh floor, all of it occupied by dozens of lawyers, law clerks, support staff, investigators, and the law library.

In the lobby, Jerry Zimmerman stalked around the room, telling everyone about his newest case. "In this crazy job, you think you've heard everything. No—they always throw you a curve." He jerked his head from one person to another but really just wanted their attention.

Jerry's squat body moved faster as he talked more. Black hair scrambled to cover the top of his head but failed. "So, I'm interviewing this new guy who's charged with burglary of a jewelry shop at the Mall of America. First of all—" He stopped and pointed at Jackie. "You'd pick a store in the busiest mall in America to rob, wouldn't you?"

Zehra laughed. There were so many of these stories. After a while as a public defender, you've heard so many you become numb to them. She'd found herself in Jerry's place many times.

"Get this. He plans to commit the 'perfect crime,' but he lacks a basic tool—the getaway car. That doesn't stop our Ph.D. candidate. He must have watched too many motivational shows that encouraged him to 'be all that he could be.' Which is a successful criminal. So he takes the bus out to the mall to begin his career." Jerry moved again, poking the air with an upraised finger. "Into the mall he goes, with no disguise, of course, and heads for the jewelry shop. He smashes open a case, shovels the stuff into a plastic garbage bag, and boogies. To his credit, he actually got outside."

"What happened then?" one of the secretaries asked.

Jerry stopped dead and hung his head. "Ah . . .you know how they caught him?" He waited to deliver the punch line. "The putz was standing outside waiting for his getaway car—the public bus." Everyone laughed. "They catch him with the jewelry in his bag. I should write sitcoms. You can't make this stuff up."

"You can do it, Jerry," Zehra called to him as she walked into her office. Jackie followed, and Zehra dropped her leather bag on the chair next to her desk. Her office occupied a corner, shaped like a badly designed triangle. Large windows opened onto the condo high rise next door.

As she settled into the chair, Zehra looked over at Jackie, glad to have her help. Jackie had started working as a public defender two years earlier. She'd come from a corporate law firm but found the work boring, even though it paid almost twice what she made as a government lawyer. She wanted the action of courtroom trial work.

Shiny dark hair curved around Jackie's round face. Large brown eyes almost distracted Zehra from the beautiful, flawless skin that made Zehra jealous since Jackie didn't have a wrinkle anywhere.

"Like those killer glasses, Jackie," Zehra said about the square Buddy Holly glasses she wore.

Jackie worked hard and was sharp and anxious to help. She asked what they needed to do on the El-Amin case.

"Bobby Joe Washington's coming in this morning," Zehra said.

"How'd you get him? I hear he's, like, one of the best."

"Right. Did you know he's one of the only investigators trained in the FACS, the Facial Action Coding System?"

Jackie frowned. "Is that like the TV show where the expert can tell if a person's lying just by looking at their face and watching them talk?"

"Yeah. It should be a big help for us. Plus, our chief assigned him, which didn't make BJ too happy. But, as usual, he'll do a great job. He already went to work as soon as we got the discovery evidence with the police reports, forensics, and witness statements. I hope he has some good news for us; otherwise, we're in deep shit."

"Why is he unhappy about working with us?"

"It's not us. It's because the chief figures that since Bobby Joe is black, he'll have a better chance of getting access to the black Somali community than a white investigator."

"I don't know about that—"

"Of course not. It's stupid. We're all stuck with this horrible case. The Somalis don't necessarily get along with American blacks. In the end, the chief is more worried about how this will look to the public and the media than anything else."

"Can you talk to him about reassigning the case since the client tried to hit you?" Jackie said.

Zehra shrugged her shoulders. "I'll try. He owes me some favors. It's not like we won't provide representation for the defendant—it's just that someone else will do it. Preferably a male public defender." She leaned forward in the chair. "We do this all the time: trade cases within the office for a variety of reasons. Why not this case?"

Jackie twisted her lips and thought for a while. "But Zehra, who else would volunteer to take a case this difficult?"

# Chapter Six

"Come on, Barry, you owe me one," Zehra pleaded with the lawyer whose office was across the hall from hers. "Think of all the crap I did for you on the robbery case—the one where the client called you four times a day to complain. Who took all those calls for you?"

"I know, I know. But not this case. I don't want to deal with a guy like him or get the media in my face."

"I'm not asking you to take it for free. I'll take those two sex assault cases you've got. Those aren't any fun to try."

"He's innocent," Barry joked.

"Get off it. This is your last chance to get out of defending someone like him."

"Well—"

"The El-Amin case has some interesting legal issues. Besides, the prosecutor is going to have some problems getting the line-up into evidence. There are things to work with for a defense."

"How good is the ID?"

"There's a witness, but the conditions were bad. It was night and he was far from the scene of the crime. DNA is still being tested. And, like I said, the line-up should be challenged."

"Maybe I'll take it. Let me think about it. Depends on the DNA. If that's inconclusive, I will take it. But if it comes back to nail this guy, I'm out."

"Fair enough. Thanks." She hung up the phone and leaned back in her broken chair. Her office contained a beige laminated desk, a tan bookshelf, two other chairs, and a low credenza.

To avoid the beige jail cell effect, Zehra had brought in a Persian wool rug that had belonged to her grandfather. Two large frames with colorful cloth stretched over them hung on the wall before her desk in her favorite color, red. Photos of her extended family lined up across the credenza in a variety of frames. Inside the door, she had hung a round mirror to check her hair before she left the office.

Zehra pulled open the bottom drawer on her desk and spied the secret she'd smuggled in: a Hostess cream-filled cupcake. Utterly horrible and disgusting, but she loved to nibble on one occasionally. If Jackie wasn't there, Zehra would have taken a bite. Thank goodness, Jackie prevented it. Zehra wondered if there was a twelve-step program for people like her who ate junk, especially things that had more chemicals than nutrition.

Jackie interrupted Zehra's thoughts. "So we're off the case?"

"Not quite. I don't trust Barry to take this until he actually appears in court and substitutes himself for us. We better keep working."

Zehra stood and walked to the door. She shut it, which caused the sheetrock around it to shiver. She turned to face Jackie and sighed. "Bobby Joe's supposed to stop by. I hope he comes to tell us he's cracked the case open and it's going to be a slam-dunk. We need a miracle."

Jackie nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

"We need to challenge the search of his apartment. Check out the search warrant and give me some research on the legality of it. After all, there were two other guys living there. How do we know which guy owned the knife and shirt?"

"Prints?"

"None. Then there's the line-up. Try to knock that out. I'm worried we're not going to get this all put together in time if El-Amin keeps demanding his speedy trial rights." She looked at Jackie. "We've got a trial date coming up fast. If we're not ready, I don't want any accusations of malpractice because we're not prepared."

"We should see the crime scene. Then there's the investigation of witnesses—"

"I've already got BJ working his butt off. The only problem with him is that he has adult ADD."

Jackie sat up. "Huh?"

"He starts off with great energy but then loses interest. The trick to working with him is to keep him focused. Like the DNA. I've been after him to get the test results." She swiped her cell phone and tapped into her schedule. "Oh, dammit! I forgot an appearance this afternoon with the hockey god."

"Hockey god?"

"Thinks he's a gift to all women."

"I've known a few of those types."

"He's a U of Minnesota hockey player who was filmed by a security camera having sex with a woman in the stairwell of a parking ramp. Indecent exposure is the charge. It's only a misdemeanor, but it will look terrible on his record. I told him to plead and we'll get it expunged later. Know what he tells me?"

"What?"

"He has a constitutional right to freedom of expression. Can you believe it? I'm going to have to give him a crash course in constitutional law this afternoon while I kick his expressive butt."

Jackie looked down at the El-Amin file on her laptop. "What about the autopsy of the victim? Still want to go over it? Seems pretty routine."

"We should still go over it," Zehra said.

Jackie tapped her laptop. She finished and looked up at Zehra. "I'm, like, amazed at you—you're so thorough. I really appreciate the chance to work with you. A lot of the newer women look up to you."

"Thanks, but I don't see myself that way." Her cell phone rang with an Adele song. It was her mother, Prisha.

"Zehra, you've got to come over for dinner tomorrow night. I'm fixing my favorite Indian dish, and just for you, I've included some lamb."

"Thanks, Mom. But I'm too busy with this new case."

"I won't take no for an answer. You need a break; you work too hard."

If she didn't love her mother so much, these conversations could become a pain in the neck. Zehra knew the real reason for the dinner invitation: Prisha had met some Indian man that she wanted Zehra to meet. Her mother was insistent that she marry an Indian, even though Zehra wasn't Hindu. She wasn't a strong Christian either. The conflict bothered her. Zehra had no interest in a Hindu faith like her mother's, but she didn't have a strong faith of her own either. She envied people who had a religion that comforted them. "I'm working hard because I was just assigned a murder case," Zehra answered.

"Well, you need to eat; you're too thin. Can you be here at six thirty?"

"Oh, Mom. I'm so busy—all right. But I can't stay long." She wanted to end the call.

"Okay, dear." A pause. "I almost forgot to tell you. I've invited a nice young friend to come over, too. I'm sure you'll like him. Good-bye."

Clicking off, Zehra shook her head. Probably another loser.

"Something wrong?" Jackie looked closely at Zehra.

"My mother. Still trying to set me up with a man. In her generation and in India, arranged marriages are common. She's adopted almost all American customs, except for a few. When it comes to her daughter, my mom is very protective. Of course, I'd like to get married someday. But marrying a Hindu man is probably not going to be in the cards."

A deep voice penetrated into the office from the hallway.

"That's BJ," Zehra told Jackie.

The resonant sound of singing was followed by a large black man. He turned sharply into the office and pulled up straight until he finished the song. "Jazz," he told them. "Beautiful music. Too bad the kids don't learn this stuff anymore. A lot better than gangsta rap for them." He nodded to each of them. "These black kids are losing their roots if they don't understand the blues and jazz."

Zehra looked up at him. He stood over six feet and had a shaved head, a gray goatee, and liquid brown eyes that never stopped moving. Zehra had noticed he over-enunciated his words when speaking, like Denzel Washington. Probably because BJ also had big teeth like the actor, which seemed to get in the way when he talked. Sometimes, to kid him, Zehra called him Denzel.

"BJ, I was telling Jackie about the FACS training you had."

"Yeah, cool stuff."

Jackie offered him her chair. "How's it work?"

"It's a system for breaking down human facial expressions into a series of muscle movements called action units."

"You mean, like every time I wrinkle my face or smile, you're checking me out?" Jackie said. "Wicked."

"Exactly," BJ said. "We memorize about seventy muscle and head movements, and the combination of those can tell us what a person is really thinking. It's not perfect, but it helps me when interviewing people to have a sense if they're lying to me or not."

"Is it something new?"

"Researchers developed it in the seventies, and law enforcement is starting to use it. There was a famous case of a woman in South Carolina who went on TV to plead for the return of her kidnapped kids. I saw the video in training. The woman's cheeks lifted in a smile while the corners of her mouth tried to suppress it. The disconnect between a smile and her pleading led investigators to question her further. Turns out, she killed her two kids and make up the kidnapping."

"What's up, Denzel?" Zehra asked.

His eyes darted from one to the other. "I warned them sons of bitches this wasn't gonna work. 'Oh no,' they said. 'You're black and all the witnesses will open doors for you.'" BJ waved his hands in the air. "May as well have been green for all the good black did for me."

"We all warned 'Mao.'" She referred to the chief, Bill Cleary. He was called Mao not because he was Asian, but because he'd gained so much weight his face looked like the round pumpkin face of Mao Zedong. At times, Cleary could be just as ruthless. "None of us wants this case. So, did you get to interview the main identification witness?" Zehra asked him.

He stopped talking and looked at her with large eyes that Zehra could look into for hours. "Z, we didn't score."

"What happened?" The muscles low in her body tightened. In her mind, she saw a digital clock ticking off the days and hours left before the trial must start.

"I found the dude, but he wouldn't talk. None of the other ones would either." His eyes dropped. "Sorry, this is a dead end for now."

Zehra took a deep breath. "We'll keep working—"

BJ cleared his throat. "I got more bad news." He paused as if to soften the blow. "I just got a message about the DNA testing. The lab checked the blood and saliva on the mask used by the killer. It matches our client exactly."

# Chapter Seven

At the seven o'clock Monday morning meeting in the FBI office high in the federal building, Paul refused the pastries everyone else ate. The open boxes circled the conference table twice while people sheepishly took seconds. Paul watched them stretch their mouths open to cram in dripping purple Bismarcks. People ate in silence.

They waited for Paul's boss, Bill Conway, to start the meeting. Paul hoped he would recognize the danger the murder of the young boy presented and take action.

"Hey, Jimmy," one of the agents called from across the table. "Don't forget that wellness seminar this afternoon for weight control. If you go through it, you get a reduction in your health plan co-pays."

"And a free doughnut," someone yelled from the back and laughed.

After allowing for a round of tea-colored, tepid government coffee, Conway cleared his throat. He had held the office of senior agent in charge of the Twin Cities for six years. "Folks, listen up," he started. "We've got a lot to cover." He brushed crumbs off his yellow necktie and tried to smooth it over the protruding belly below. Several people pushed back from the table and crossed their legs.

"I got off the phone with the director in Washington this morning." Conway paused for effect. "He called at five o'clock this time. That's damn early. Now, I don't like to get these calls 'cause they usually mean the director's unhappy." His gaze bounced from one face to another. In spite of the sugar surge, most of them looked half awake.

"The director's been getting calls from lots of big-shot politicians, including our own esteemed senators. They're worried. And you all know how things work in government—when the shit rolls downhill, in the end, we get it dumped on us."

Mavis Drews, the oldest female agent in the Minneapolis office, sat up. "I thought we got convictions out of three of these recruiters, Bill. What more do they want?"

Conway moved back to his edge of the table. He looked at his administrative assistant, who scrambled through a pile of files. She pushed one toward him.

"Yeah, we got convictions on all three." He raised the files in the air as if to demonstrate the truth of what he said. "What these terrorists are saying confirms our theory. These guys were recruiting for the freedom fighters with links to al-Qaeda." Conway had thick hair combed over his head, green-gray eyes, and a jowly face. It gave a level of seriousness to his words.

"But they didn't plead to that, did they?" Joe Fancher asked.

"We got one for lying to us during the investigation. But the other two pled to providing material support for terrorists. They admitted going to Yemen, then back to Somalia. They're called 'born-agains' 'cause they're true believers. Judge gave the last prick twenty-five years. Too bad the taxpayers have to pay for that." When he threw the files on the table, doughnut crumbs scattered.

Drews said, "So what does the director want now? We broke the case, arrested the suspects, and got convictions." She looked around the long table and pumped her fist into the air tentatively. "What the hell else do those idiot politicians want?"

"Oh, they're happy about all that. Congratulated us. No, the calls are coming about what happens now."

Drews pressed on. "What happens now?" she snorted. "What happens is that we busted 'em."

"I know, Mavis, but let's go down the road a little ways. If these slugs were recruiting for terrorist fighters in Somalia, how much does it take for them to turn these kids loose in the US?" Conway had a hoarse smoker's voice. "And what about the al-Qaeda ties? Is it a way for them to attack us?"

No one spoke for a while. Finally, Mavis said, "Guess you're right. It's the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. We didn't expect another kid to return and get killed here. We obviously didn't stop everything."

Conway was used to spending more time behind a desk and reading histories of the Second World War than running the streets and chasing bad guys. He looked forward to the opportunity to retire at full pension in two years.

Paul had mixed feelings toward the agent in charge. Although Conway had reluctantly taken Paul into the Minneapolis office after the mess Paul had made in Milwaukee, Conway had come to like Paul. The phone call from the teacher had worked as well as Paul hoped it would. It had opened the case of the Somalia recruiters and given Paul a chance to be assigned to the investigation, which he'd helped to solve.

But Paul knew Conway, near the end of his career, lacked the energy to fight anymore. He seemed out of touch, telling stories of his past that weren't exactly true. He spoke "fight," but he really meant "don't rock the boat." Paul suspected they had only uncovered the tip of an iceberg. From the public's viewpoint, the FBI looked in control of everything. From the inside, Paul knew they scrambled, dependent on the Somali informants—unreliable as they were—to help them, as well as simple telephone intercepts.

"So I'm getting calls from everyone," Conway repeated. "You wouldn't believe it. I get calls from agencies I've never even heard about. No wonder the government's all fucked up. Who's in charge of all these guys?" He leaned back against the table and sighed.

"Who are you talking about?" Paul said.

Conway looked down at his assistant again. She paged through more files, giving him one with a long handwritten list on it. He shifted his bulk to the other side. "Okay. Here goes." He glanced up over the top of his glasses, looked down, and started to read. "Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the Coast Guard Interdiction Team, Federal Protection Services, the Army Medical Research Institute, TRIPwire, Customs and Border Protection, Cyber Protection—and this frickin' list goes on. I got a congresswoman from Mississippi asking me if we got a fence on the northern border with Canada!"

Laughter lapped around the table like waves on a lake shore.

"And you all know how the agents at Immigration Customs and Enforcement have screwed us in the past," Conway shouted. "Early on in the case, we both had informants covering the same suspects. I argued with them to butt out, that their interference could blow the suspects. They made a premature takedown that almost destroyed the entire effort." He looked up at the ceiling as if asking for help from above.

"Turf wars," snorted Fancher. "They want the brass ring as much as we do."

"ICE thinks they've got the resources, but they don't," Conway said. He glared at the group. "I'm sure as hell not gonna be the one to tell the director we've lost the case to some dumb-ass border guard. You know what he'll do to me? To us? Which reminds me—no leaks about anything to anyone." He thumped the table with the thick file.

Mavis said, "So what do you want us to do, Bill?"

He screwed up his face and sighed. "Dammit, I wish I could smoke in here. For now, the plan is to hold steady. We're making progress, and the calls from Washington should finally slow down."

"I think that's right," said Fancher. He reached for another pastry, lifted it, and at the last moment, tore it in half. Powdered sugar fluffed into a cloud over the table.

"Yeah, keep the telephone intercepts in place," Mavis agreed. She puffed out her breath. "We're having better luck with the suburban Somali people. They're a little more integrated into the community. Guess I can't blame them for what they've been through."

Paul spoke. "I'm not sure staying the same course is the best strategy, Bill."

"What else do you think we should do?"

"As you know, I've got myself embedded in the murder case going on now. The defense lawyer is a friend of mine. Although she can't reveal confidential things, of course, I'll get information from their investigation that we can probably use to our advantage."

"To what end, Paul?" Mavis asked.

"I'm not sure where it will lead. But remember, I got the first call three years ago. This isn't something they jumped into quickly. The planning has obviously been careful and extensive over many years. What are they really going to do?"

"Laying the groundwork?" she said.

"That's what I'm worried about."

"Paul, you're a great agent, but you've just come off probation," Conway interrupted and embarrassed him. "In my experience, the simple explanation is usually the right one. We've got the explanation now. I used to tell that to Reagan when I was in the attorney general's office. He liked it simple." Conway looked back at the group.

"But Bill—"

"Back off." Conway spun around to face Paul. "Let me tell you something. You didn't get all the hell I've gotten about this case. We solved it and that's the end. You want us to start all over again, and for what—because you 'think there's something more'?" Conway imitated Paul's voice. "Until we know there's something absolutely solid, I don't want you stirring things up. Am I perfectly clear?" He poked his finger into Paul's chest.

Conway was so close to Paul, he could smell stale cigarettes on Bill's breath. Paul knew him well enough to understand the order and dismissal. Paul looked around the room at the agents. 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—in spite of the warning, he'd continue the investigation on his own. If Paul screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself from his past mistakes pushed him forward.

# Chapter 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 excuses to get out of the meeting she knew her mother had set up—with some nice, boring Indian guy. She wasn't opposed to Indian or even Hindu. She was upset at the way her mother pushed the issue.

Her parents lived in the western suburb of Minnetonka. Everything in this state carried the names of Native Americans from long ago. At least they were remembered in some fashion. Zehra had come to learn that Minnesota was misunderstood by most of the country. Though it was thought to be populated by either stoic Scandinavians or Mary Tyler Moore wannabes, Zehra had 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 the classrooms. After growing up in the heat and humidity of Texas, Zehra liked the change of seasons and the brittle winters.

She had dated a lot in college and, to some degree, in law school. No one ever seemed to grab her attention, at least enough to get serious. The affair with Paul Schmidt had come close but then dissolved. She couldn't even remember why. Since they'd made contact about the El-Amin murder case, Zehra had wondered what might happen between them.

She curved into her parents' 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, I'd never come back. Although Zehra had been raised as a Christian and an American, her mother still retained many of the ethnic practices of her culture, including the value of family above all else. Zehra appreciated that and was thankful for the close family she had.

She climbed out of the car slowly. Normally, she didn't drink much, but tonight Zehra had brought a large bottle of Chardonnay. She'd probably need it. Before going into the house, she stopped to savor the best part of coming home—her mother's gardens.

Zehra had 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. She loved the orderliness of her mother's plants, 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. The truth surfaced in the beauty of Nature's work—with Zehra's help.

She walked up the stone path that led to the front door. Wafting out through the screen door was the aroma of the spices her mother used for cooking. Zehra stopped at the door and looked sideways at the garden one last time before going into the torture chamber.

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. Beyond them, nodding white flowers hung from arching stems that resembled a row of nuns with white habits leaning forward to give thanks for the rain.

Prisha came out to meet her, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She wrapped Zehra in her small arms and hugged. "My little girl. So wonderful to see you," Prisha 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. Prisha set the pita bread on the counter while Zehra dipped a bread chip into the lemon hummus her mother had been mixing, tasted nothing but garlic, and put the wine bottle next to the bread. Like a lot of older Indian women, Prisha retained her "kingdom" in the kitchen, an entitlement that had been passed down for generations.

"How's work?" Prisha asked. "I don't know how you can defend those guilty criminals. Isn't it dangerous?" She kept the two of them in the kitchen.

"No. But sometimes it's very difficult."

"How can you represent this terrorist that killed that poor boy?"

"I don't want to, believe me."

The thought of El-Amin caused Zehra's lower body to tighten. She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the wonderful, comforting smells of her mother's cooking, something that had always been with Zehra since she could remember.

"Why don't you go back to medical school?" Prisha pulled a strand of gray hair from her face and tucked it behind her left ear. "How about engineering? There is a great need for engineers. Your uncle was an engineer—"

Zehra stopped her. "Okay, Mom. Let's go meet him."

"Huh? Oh, yes. He's such a nice man. And so handsome. He's the cousin of a lady I met at the Indian food market." Prisha's face glistened. "I just don't want you to have the difficult life I had—marrying outside my faith. Donald is a good man, but our marriage has been made harder because of the difference in our religions. You must remain Hindi."

"But I'm a Christian."

"You can change."

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 again. It was hard to turn down her parents; they had always been there for her. She returned the favor —even if it was unpleasant. Yesterday, her father had convinced Zehra to attend a company party with him. He'd told her there would be many young, eligible engineers there. Reluctantly, Zehra had agreed. And now she was about to be led to yet another slaughter . . .

In the living room, Prisha said, "Zehra, this is Robert Bandyopadhyay. 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 do research at 3M in post-post-it notes. You know, the cutting edge of a new generation of post-it notes."

She waited.

"I'm also interested in theatre."

"How interesting." She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. His dark face was surrounded by shiny black hair. He smelled faintly of curry.

"After your mother told me about you, I was anxious to meet you."

Zehra shot her mother a devastating look. "Oh, I'm sure she told you everything." She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert was inspecting for possible purchase.

"I've got a role in a play at the White Bear Lake community theatre."

"How interesting."

"How do you like your job?"

Zehra said, "Well, with the case I've just been assigned, I'd be happier teaching snowboarding."

"My role is to play Marc Antony in Julius Caesar. That's by Shakespeare, you know."

"I've heard of him."

"Do you like Indian food?"

"I have to. Whenever I come home, that is."

"The early reviews in the paper said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my outgoing personality and love of fun. You must come to our performance."

Zehra felt dizzy. "Mom, where's Dad?"

"He's still stuck in Arden Hills at the office. He said not to wait. The lamb is almost ready. Lamb is Robert's favorite meat." Prisha smiled at him. "Right?"

As they filed into the kitchen to check on the food, Zehra looked at her mother. She was pretty, in an old-world way: long nose; deep, expressive eyes with blue smudges around them; dark skin and hair that grew halfway down her back. The irony struck Zehra again. All the Americanized habits couldn't eliminate some of the old ones in her mother.

Her mother had fought her own battles to be accepted as a foreign woman in a country that at the time was mostly white and mostly Christian. Some of the remnants of her mother's Indian past provided strength for her now—like Hinduism. Zehra was envious of that rock in her mother's life.

Thank goodness things had progressed for Zehra, who lived in a much different world, though it presented its own new challenges. She had inherited her mother's drive and was grateful for that. The support of both parents comforted Zehra all the time—except for her mother's trying to arrange for men to marry her.

Prisha lifted a pot of water onto the stove to boil for rice. The lamb contained some of her early-season herbs from the garden. She spoke without looking at Zehra, which always meant her mother was bothered by something. "I still can't get over you defending that crazy man. Are you in trouble?"

"He always quotes the Qur'an to me."

"I have read it," Robert said. He had followed them into the kitchen. He stood straight with his hands cupped together in front of his waist. "I'm not sure the Qur'an is very relevant for us today in the US. Actually, Hinduism, with its many gods, is more flexible and matches our pluralistic society better."

He leaned closer to Zehra, and she smelled stale breath. She didn't want to talk about any of this.

He looked into her eyes with a basset hound's expression in his own. "You're so fascinating, Zehra." He paused for a second. "It reminds me of my passion for the theatre. I hope to have—well, I should have a leading role in a new production. I'll invite you."

"Uh, I'll check my schedule."

Her mother interrupted them. "You go on about that new stuff, Zehra. All those things you want to change. Don't you understand that as things change more, you must cling to the principles that have sustained us through so much? Like our religion."

"Your religion," Zehra reminded her and instantly regretted the tone of her voice. Her mother dropped her eyes and looked away. Zehra knew that the case, the setbacks in the investigation—they had all upset her. "Look, Mom, I'm sorry. It's not you."

Prisha didn't say anything and opened the lid of the simmering pot on the stove to check it. She stirred and added more spices.

They all moved into the living room, where Prisha had set the table. On the buffet next to the table was a shrine and a large statue of an elephant with four arms snaking out from behind the chubby body. Ganesha, the elephant god—one of thousands that Hindus revered, although he was one of the most important ones.

Zehra joked with her mother. "He reminds me of some of the guys I've dated—too many hands in the wrong places on me."

Prisha smiled, finally, and said, "You should consider asking him for help. He's the god who can place obstacles before us but also remove obstacles. Maybe you could use some help in removing some obstacles."

"Good idea. Maybe I'll give him a call."

Prisha lit a stick of incense behind the elephant and told everyone to sit at the table. She lit two candles, and they all took their places. In the golden glow, Prisha smiled at Zehra. All was forgiven.

Zehra relaxed, realized she could get rid of Robert easily, and appreciated her mother's support—even though her machinations drove Zehra nuts at times.

# Chapter Nine

Running late for a full morning of court appearances, Zehra grabbed her purse, stuffed it into the leather bag, and glanced at her desk to see if she'd forgotten anything. As she hurried out the door, her phone rang.

Caller ID showed it was from the chief public defender, Bill Cleary. "Get up here right now," he demanded.

"But Bill, I've got a full calendar this morning and I'm late."

But Zehra could tell from his tone of voice not to protest any more. In five minutes, she sat before him in his spacious office.

He'd been in the job forever and had gone from a crusading young lawyer to an overweight bureaucrat protecting his position. He popped open what was probably his tenth can of Coke for the day and leaned forward.

She still wanted off the case. There were almost a hundred other public defenders that El-Amin might be more comfortable working with.

Everyone called Cleary Chairman Mao behind his back for his round face and body. Too many hot dogs and fries eaten on the Government Center plaza from the food trucks.

The moon face clouded over. "I just got off the phone with Judge Gordon Smith." He scowled. "And I don't like these kinds of calls. Know what I'm talking about?"

"I can guess."

"Zehra, you're good, one of the best, but I'll get right to the damn point. I don't give a shit if you want off the case or not. You're on it, you're going to try it, and you'll do your usual great job. Got that?"

"Bill, don't you have any consideration of me? He tried to hit me with a chair."

Cleary blinked a few times. "I heard that. But public defenders face angry clients all the time. You have to be careful. I want a woman on the case, and you're good. I know it's window dressing, but it's important to me." His heavy cheeks quivered.

Zehra tried to remain calm, but her voice rose. "What the hell does that have to do with our mission to give the best possible defense to everyone? You don't give a damn about that anymore."

"Careful—"

"This bronco attacked me."

His head dropped. He must be thinking about that issue.

"So I'm off the case?"

"No. But I'll get you extra security. One of our investigators will be available if you need help." Mao's eyes glazed over to tell her he was done with the discussion.

Ten minutes later, Zehra carried a stack of files in her bag and struggled through the door into the courtroom on the sixteenth floor of the Government Center. Jackie had met her outside in the hallway.

Stuck with the El-Amin case, Zehra's instincts as a defense lawyer started to kick in. What kind of defense could they construct? She believed in a system where the defense had to be as strong as the prosecution. Even if guilty, the accused deserved to be defended to at least make sure he or she got a fair trial.

"Thanks for letting me come with you," Jackie said. She pushed her thick-framed glasses higher on her little nose.

"Oh, you'll have fun." Zehra raised her eyebrows to send the real message.

"How many cases have you got?"

"Let's see—" Zehra reached one of the low counsel tables in the middle of the courtroom and dropped her load. "Eleven this morning. Not too bad." She felt the energy surge in the courtroom: people moving in all directions at once, the constant buzz of negotiations, the public drifting in and out, and a clerk shouting out the names of cases to be heard before the judge. The only quiet bubble of space was directly before the judge, where lawyers and their clients made the formal appearances.

Most of the lawyers in the courtroom worked for the government, either assistant county attorneys or public defenders. A few private lawyers represented clients, but in reality, most criminals were poor and had appointed counsel. Since public defenders worked the courtrooms every day, they were some of the best criminal lawyers in the county.

When Jackie had asked her about a career as a public defender, Zehra told her not to expect big money. "Instead, you'll get lots of freedom, responsibility, and an opportunity to have tough cases dumped on you at an early stage in your career. Dealing with the clients we represent is a tough part of the job. And a lot of us stay because we believe it's an important part of what we call justice."

"That's what I want—the experience in the courtroom. It sounds like the most fun." Jackie dropped her shoulders. "I've put everything on hold in my life for the El-Amin case. My partner, Josh, is so great. He adores me and says whatever I need to do is cool with him."

"Let's look for our client. Name's 'World Premier.'"

"Huh?"

"That's his name." Zehra shrugged.

They walked to the public area of the courtroom and searched over the crowd. Outside in the hall, they called out his name. Zehra looked at her phone for the time. "He always runs twenty minutes late, so he should be here now."

"Miss Henning." The slim black man strode toward them. He tipped from side to side with an exaggerated roll of his shoulders that matched the rhythm of his walk. The baseball cap, red and white, was too large for his head and was turned at a precise angle to his face. He smiled at them, exposing a golden front tooth.

"World Premier." Zehra reached out her hand to shake. With some of the male public defenders, the black clients gave a "soul shake"—with a turn of the wrist and a bump of the fist. None of her clients ever shook that way.

"W'as happ'n here, man?"

"You've got a disorderly conduct case. Nothing too serious."

"Man—they should drop that. Jus' a bad communication. Tha's all."

"Could be, but the prosecutor won't drop it. Probably because it happened with an employee who works in the building. Prosecutors feel very protective of them."

"Aw—what I gotta do?" His red shorts and basketball shoes matched the colors of his tank top.

Zehra flipped open the file containing a complaint and a single-paged police report. "It says you wanted your free bus card. When the clerk wouldn't give you another one for the week, you went off on her, yelling, screaming, and threatening to 'kick her ass.'"

"Nah, nah. That ain't it. Man, she went off on me. Tha's the truth. Here, catch this: how could I go off on her if I jus' finished my last class in anger management? Twelve weeks in them classes. I graduated, man." He leaned back in stiff pride and jerked his head once to emphasize his success and the proof of his defense. He crossed his arms over his chest. Tattoos ran up the underside of his arms. Most were gang signs.

"And that proves it?"

"Yeah, it proves it." He jerked his head again.

"Look, World—or should I call you World Premier?"

"My mama named me World Premier; tha's my name."

"Okay. How about I get you ten days in the workhouse, stayed for six months?"

"I don't gotta go?" His soft eyes focused on Zehra.

"Not unless you violate our probation."

"Do it, man. I ain't got time for this shit. I got my bidness to take care of, and I gots to get back to the crib. My baby's mama's there."

After he'd pled guilty and was sentenced to probation, they all walked out to the hall again.

"Hey, thanks," World Premier told Zehra. "You're a good lawyer. I'll ask for you next time."

When he flashed the golden smile, Zehra saw a young boy trying to act tough but, in the end, a petty criminal. She liked him and hoped he could make something worthwhile out of himself before it was too late. "Yeah, do that. Good luck."

By noon Jackie and Zehra were relaxing in her office over two cups of herbal tea.

"Damn, that's draining." Jackie laughed. "Can you imagine what my former colleagues at the law firm would say if they knew what I was doing here?" She pumped both fists up and down. "But this is what I wanted."

"I don't know where some of these clients come from. Think about it—they're living among us." Zehra dropped her feet from the chair next to her onto the ground. She slid the drawer with the cupcake open to look at it, tempted. "Hey, Denzel's coming in. He texted me."

"You couldn't make a reality show about these cases. No one would believe them—they're too real. I can't wait to tell Josh."

In ten minutes, Bobby Joe walked into the office. "Hey, girls." He sat in the chair next to Jackie. He tried to keep his lips closed, but a wide grin cracked open to expose his teeth, white against his dark face. "I got something for you. I told you I wasn't getting anywhere with these Somalis. So I tried another idea. I'm tight with the security at Richardson High School, which has a high Somali population. I checked it out. One of the kids there has a parent who knows our boy, El-Amin." He looked from Jackie to Zehra. "And it gets better."

"Oh?" Zehra said.

"The friend was willing to talk to me. Got a part-time job in a hospital kitchen. He's also an imam, a religious leader, at the local mosque on the West Bank, near the murder scene. He's known our boy for a few months. Not close, but sees him every so often. He tells me on the night of the murder, he and El-Amin were chewing khat and drinking tea in the community room of the mosque."

Zehra slammed the drawer shut on her chocolate cupcake. "What? You think the witness is legit?"

"Seems to be. The details check out so far."

"This has got to be tight. You know that."

"Right."

"Why didn't the witness go to the cops?" Jackie asked.

"Scared. Plus, the coppers didn't have the connection like I got. They didn't even know the witness existed." BJ leaned back with a glow on his face.

Zehra ran both hands through her thick hair. For the first time, she felt a familiar tightening of excitement in her lower body. Maybe, just maybe, they had a defense to the charges. In spite of her contempt for El-Amin, her competitive instincts as a lawyer rose. "Damn, we've got ourselves an alibi," she shouted to the other two.

As the cheering died down, another thought poked through: if El-Amin was innocent, why had he told Zehra he was guilty?

# Chapter Ten

Frustrated to the point he couldn't sit still, Paul left the office for a long walk. He headed for a Caribou coffee shop on Washington Avenue, across the street from the MacPhail Center for Music. He liked to sit in the window and watch the variety of humanity outside.

He knew Conway's threat was real. Paul didn't want to give up. He was convinced something much larger lurked behind the murder. It could pose a danger unanticipated by the "experts" involved in the case.

Although the temperature had spiked unusually high throughout the month, this morning had opened crisp and cool. Paul walked the few blocks from his office to Caribou. He smelled the pungent aroma of damp air. It refreshed him. He ordered a dark roast and took a stool at the window.

Conway was a good man, but burned out. At the beginning of the crisis, when the young men started disappearing, Conway had worked his best—providing leadership and organization. He'd mastered the complexities in the political jungle of overlapping law enforcement people. Navigating the multiplicity of egos and ambitions took more time than actually solving the cases.

The disappearances had caused federal and local terrorism experts to rethink their assumptions about the vulnerability of the United States to Muslim immigrant terrorists. Even the director of the FBI had told the press the investigation might be the most significant since 9/11. That had unleashed all the pressure on Paul's office to find the answers.

It had taken months, money, struggle, and even some lives. Once the experts announced the solution, everyone relaxed, glad to be done with the case. That relief rippled up the line to the director in Washington and fanned out to other concerned people in the country.

The murder case of the Ahmed boy had given Paul a second reason to bow out. Now it was a local police matter that would be pursued by the local prosecutors. Conway was happy to wash his hands of things. Luckily for Paul, Zehra had been appointed to represent the defendant, allowing Paul some access to the details of the case.

He thought back to the list of federal agencies tied into the cases, overlapping in their jurisdiction and not always cooperating with each other. Paul didn't recognize the Army Medical Research agency. He decided to check on them. What the hell did they do?

He had a friend in ICE, the investigation arm of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement, named Joan Cortez. They had met while attending cross-training in Washington. He remembered Conway's order prohibiting cooperation with ICE, but if Joan could help Paul trace the background of El-Amin, it might be worth the risk. Maybe it would help Zehra also. He waited for her return call.

He remembered her from the training—fun, attractive, tough, and extremely ambitious. She'd demand an even trade of information if she had any herself.

The soft whirr of coffee grinders and the rich aroma from them lulled Paul to relax. Outside, people walked by with renewed vigor. The return of spring in Minnesota always brought out crazy behavior. After so many months of frigid gloom and gray, the arrival of warm weather released the manic aspects of everyone.

Paul had worn a sport coat, which he took off as the day warmed. Outside the window, he watched a young man in a hooded maroon sweatshirt with gold letters that said "University of Minnesota" on the front. He wore a baggy pair of shorts and flip-flops.

If Conway discovered what Paul was doing, Paul would be fired.

All the years he'd worked to get into the Bureau, all the sacrifices he'd made, and the effort to make up for the case in Milwaukee where he'd screwed up, would be lost. Paul had to admit the memory of that drove him now. He wanted to redeem his reputation, besides the gnawing worry he felt about the new murder case.

The government always talked about "national security." But to Paul, that was too large to comprehend. He had to think of it as the safety of his friends and family—that motivated him.

Reluctantly, he left the coffee shop and strolled back to the office. A spring breeze blew up between the office towers. Women, free of heavy coats, walked by in new short skirts and thin sweaters. In response to the warmer weather, trees had budded out earlier than usual in pale green dots that looked like Impressionist paintings.

Back at his office, he still didn't have a resolution that satisfied him. Maybe he should drop his crazy ideas. The rest of his colleagues might be right. What if his secret investigation backfired and got him fired? For what?

Music came from his phone. "Paul Schmidt, special agent, FBI."

"Sounds impressive." Joan Cortez chuckled. "Special, huh?"

"Hey, doesn't mean much. The government gives titles instead of more money."

"And you fell for it?"

"My mother's impressed."

"Listen, I got some—well, you could call it good news."

Paul sat up in his chair. "Yeah?"

"Good news for you; not so good for the local coppers."

"About El-Amin?"

"Yes. We can't find any criminal background on him in the US. Not even a parking ticket. But if we go international, you get a hell of a lot more gumballs for your money."

"What?"

"He's really dirty." Joan cleared her throat. "He's well-funded and linked into an international criminal net."

"What are you talking about?"

"You must know about these organizations, networks, which operate in all kinds of shit that has one thing in common: it's all illegal as hell. One day it's drugs, the next financial thefts, a little terrorism, and weapons smuggling thrown in when some customer pays enough."

"Sure. We're constantly fighting them."

"In addition to these disappearing young men, we—ICE—think there's a lot more going on under the surface. We don't know what, but the presence of a guy like El-Amin sure raises the odds it's serious and dangerous."

"Can I find out more?"

"Meet tomorrow in private?"

"Sure, but why can't you tell me?"

Joan waited for a few minutes. "I've got to be careful. This is much bigger than my pay grade allows me to tell you. And the shit'll hit the fan if anyone knows I'm cooperating with you." She paused. "Not a leak, and if we work together, I need a guarantee of reciprocal help."

"Joan, I'm thinking the same thing about this murder. It's the tip of an iceberg. You know me to keep quiet."

"Meet me at Mears Park in St. Paul tomorrow. One o'clock."

# Chapter Eleven

Vladimir Zagorsk hurried along the corridor inside the building known as Campus 6. On one side of him, glass windows looked into a giant steel room. The Model UKZD-25 dynamic test chamber, where small bomblets were detonated, was the largest and most sophisticated in the world.

In spite of the cool temperatures, sweat dampened his chest and back. Would he be able to do this one more time? If he were caught, he'd be executed. And although he had a plan to screw the hated Arab who'd buy the product, Vladimir's government wouldn't show him any mercy. A walk to the back of the facility where the trucks delivered supplies and a bullet to the head would drop him into the muddy earth. It was the extent of the "trial" he'd receive.

He carried a small briefcase with a laptop computer inside. He'd removed most of its interior in order to create a hidden space for the contraband. To cover his theft from the floor above and allow him to escape unimpeded, he'd stenciled the words "International Science and Technology Center, Moscow," on the side of the case.

How ironic, Vladimir thought. The center was partially funded by the US Department of Defense—just where this bundle would end up and cause a great deal of trouble.

He forced the thought out of his mind. He needed a great deal of money.

One of 150 scientists who still worked at Vector, Vladimir had easy access to almost all of the forty buildings in the complex. Like many of those others, he was underpaid, and the health risks associated with the complex jeopardized the survival of his family. They lived twenty-three kilometers away in Novosibirsk. They'd been offered government housing in Koltsovo, like the other scientists' families, next to Vector. His wife had refused, scared to live anywhere near it—he didn't blame her and never argued about it.

The Arab who'd contacted him seven months ago offered more cash for one shipment than Vladimir earned in five years. Normally, he'd never even consider stealing anything from the complex, but his family's struggle was more than he could bear.

Something had gone wrong with the first package for the Arab, which required another one.

As he rounded the corner in the hallway, Vladimir worried about the contents of the briefcase, glad he'd sealed the cargo in a protective container. Guilt hummed through his mind at the thought of how destructive it could be, until an image of his son replaced it. Nicky had a chance to get a US visa and get out of this hell. That took lots of extra money for the paperwork and even more for the requisite bribes. If he and his wife were stuck here, at least Nicky could get out.

Vladimir left the corridor and slowed down for the stairs. They had been constructed by gangs of prison laborers who intentionally made each step a different size. The rumors said they had built them in the hope some of the scientists from the state would fall and die. He smelled the metallic and chemical odors from the labs. At least he was getting outside.

He reached the bottom step and took a glance backward at the squat, ugly brick building with windows trimmed in concrete. Ahead, he had two outside security barriers to get through. The first would be easy —he'd paid Fedor enough to look the other way while Vladimir passed. The second checkpoint was the one that worried him. Although he worked as a scientist in the complex and left every day for home, leaving with a briefcase would certainly raise some concerns.

He looked off into the distance to the birch and silver pine forests at the edge of the facility. Too pretty, he thought, to surround something as sinister as what went on inside Vector. The tiny green leaves of the aspens popped out in profusion with the spring warmth. He smelled fresh air. It might hit thirty Celsius today, he'd heard. Of course, that also brought the mud and melting snow in Novosibirsk.

As Vladimir approached the final security checkpoint, he hoped the guard would be lackadaisical. Vladimir stopped at a small office. He didn't recognize the man behind the desk. Vladimir's insides tightened. He breathed slowly to calm down.

"Papers," the guard ordered.

Vladimir set down the briefcase. He made sure it didn't drop and bump against the side of the table in front of the guard. Vladimir pulled out his identification card and the fake authorization he'd prepared earlier, signed by his supervisor and the political officer.

The guard ran his eyes over the papers. Then he stopped on the second page. "Hmmm." Without moving, he looked up at Vladimir, and then his eyes fell to the briefcase. "ISTC out of Moscow, huh?"

Vladimir could tell the truth for this question, making it easier. "It is the special packing materials. You can imagine how careful I must be."

"Of course, but I wasn't notified about this."

Vladimir thought his bowels would go right there. Now was the point of no return. If it worked, he'd save his family. It not, he'd never see his family again.

"I will have to call the party headquarters before I can pass you," the guard said.

Vladimir reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a leather wallet filled with rubles. He handed it to the guard. "Here is the phone number."

"I don't—" He cracked open the wallet, but his expression didn't change. Setting down his pencil, he tilted his head sideways. He folded the wallet and stuffed it inside his coat. His eyes rose to meet Vladimir's. Without saying a word, the guard waved him through.

Vladimir jumped through the door.

Outside, he gulped clean air and hurried past the razor wire surrounding the complex. Above him, sandhill cranes on their migration to North America swam high in the warm spring air, happy to be free of the long winter. They stopped momentarily in the field just long enough to rest and peck for corn.

When he arrived in Lenin Square, the main center of Novosibirsk, he took a cab to the train station. He walked across a large plaza. Ahead of him rose the imposing station. Square, painted turquoise, the columns and arches shone bright white. He entered under the largest arch.

He boarded the Turkistan-Siberian train that would carry him to the south and ultimately to the Caspian Sea, where he'd hand off the cargo. Unlike the airport with its strict security, the train station offered an easier way to escape from the town. No one stopped Vladimir as he found an empty seat. Under Communism, there were no assigned seats —all comrades were equal. He tucked the briefcase next to him. It would not leave his possession for a minute. He sat and grunted from the extra weight he'd added around his waist. He blamed it on all the bad, cheap food they'd been eating. With the new money, they'd eat better also.

The train pulled out late and crossed the new bridge over the Ob River. Vladimir looked out the window at the expanse of the west Siberian plain. He rested his hand on the smooth, polished frame that surrounded the window. The spring sun poured through the window, warming the wood under his fingers. The plain stretched next to forests, fields, and factories. The city still ranked as the largest industrial center in Siberia.

He arrived in Turkmenbashi, on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea, late in the afternoon. As he left the train car, he cradled the briefcase with both arms. He reviewed the instructions once again. He was to meet the Arab at the New Independence Monument right at sunset. Vladimir pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch. An hour to go.

He'd have just enough time to make the transfer and get back on the train to return home—good, as he was still trembling with nervousness. Not only was he anxious to get back, but he wanted to dispose of the briefcase as soon as possible. Besides, the city looked tired and made him feel sad.

The first president after independence from the Soviet Union, Saparmurad Niyaso, had relied upon a personality cult to rule with absolute authority. Huge photos of his face covered billboards, buildings, and posters everywhere. Many streets carried his name. And the crazy civic statue he'd built! It was a low, squat, dun-colored block building topped by a giant bull. Balanced on the bull's horns floated an immense globe. It boasted the name, "Turkmenbashi on Top of the World."

Vladimir walked directly toward the port. He didn't want to look suspicious, but he couldn't help glancing to his left and right. The sun had already dropped over the sea to the west to color the water blue and gray. A milky light shone around him, illuminating buildings in an eerie glow. He smelled moist, salty air and fish from the quiet water. A lonely bell clanged. It signaled sunset.

When Vladimir arrived at the Independence Monument, shadows reached out like fingers toward him from the low building. The monument consisted of an egg-shaped mound on the ground, covered in gold ornamentation and topped by an immense spire. He would meet the Arab in front of the tall statue that stood in front.

Vladimir reached the point and looked up at the statue. Carved from dark stone, it looked like a fierce Tartar warrior with a full hat, full beard hanging down his chest, and a long coat that dropped to the statue's feet. Around the coat, a black cape billowed as if the wind were blowing the man into the future. In the statue's hands he held a curved golden scimitar.

Vladimir watched as three crows landed on the scimitar. They cawed their annoyance at his presence.

When he turned around, the Arab stood before him.

Without smiling, the man greeted Vladimir and reached for the briefcase. For a moment, he hung on. "The money," he demanded. His voice cracked, but he stood still and waited.

"Of course. I will do it now." The Arab reached into his pocket for a cell phone. He made a few taps on the keypad and looked back at Vladimir. "Done. Transferred to your account."

Vladimir waited a few minutes, then keyed in his own cell phone to check the transaction. He didn't trust the Arab and despised everything about him—all Arabs, for that matter. If it weren't for the money, Vladimir wished they would all rot in hell with their terrorists.

Satisfied the money had been moved, Vladimir handed the case to the Arab. He grabbed for it and slammed it against his leg.

"Be careful," Vladimir hissed.

"Thank you, Mr. Zagorsk. You have done a great thing for Allah. It will help bring His order to this depraved world. Especially to our enemies in the West."

Vladimir felt guilty again.

The Arab peered into his eyes. "You do not look well. Do not worry. It is part of something much bigger than you and me. Allah's will for that nation of sex-crazed infidels will finally be accomplished."

Vladimir hoped the Arab would never be able to find him afterward. But that was a risk Vladimir was willing to take for the sake of Nicky.

"What will you do with this?"

From behind him, the crows suddenly rose from the scimitar in a cawing clatter and circled twice before heading over the sea to the west.

# Chapter Twelve

Zehra and Bobby Joe stopped before the security checkpoint at the Hennepin County Government Center in Minneapolis. The courtrooms and the prosecutor's office occupied most of the space above them.

"Why are you working so hard on this one?" BJ asked. "This guy's a scumbag."

"I know, and I hate the things he stands for. If we slack and he's convicted, he will appeal and allege inadequacy of counsel—something I certainly don't want. Also—" Zehra stopped walking while the flow of people continued around them, going toward the elevators. "I guess . . . well, I guess it's my sense of justice. What if he's really innocent?"

"But he confessed to you."

"I've got reasons to think he's lying for some reason. Besides, every case is a chance to ensure the system is just and fair." She looked at the African-American standing next to her and knew he understood.

They arrived at the county attorney's floor and asked to see Steve Harmon, the assistant county attorney prosecuting the Ibrahim El-Amin case.

He came into the lobby and shook both their hands. "Zehra, BJ, two of my favorite people from the wrong side," he joked. He invited them in. "Can't talk you two into coming back to work for the good guys?"

"Well—there are days," Zehra said and looked back at Bobby Joe, who laughed with her.

After filing into his small office, they sat. "Coffee? H2O?" His blue eyes sparkled with energy.

Zehra shook her head. "You should drink tea, Steve. Better for your health. How are things going with the crime fighters here?"

Harmon, jacketless, leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands behind his head, where he locked his fingers. Harmon was in his mid-forties—the hardest kind of prosecutor to work against, because he was very experienced and clever, but young enough to still have the drive to win. Dark hair thinned over his head, which was balanced by a close-clipped beard. The silver flecks throughout shone against his tan skin. His nickname was "Hardball Harmon," and he wouldn't offer any help now.

She looked behind his shoulder and saw a family photo with his teenaged kids—a boy and a girl. His boy wore a sweatshirt that said "St. Thomas University." Her eyes lingered for a moment because he looked about the age of the victim in the murder case.

Harmon interrupted her thoughts. "You know how things are around here. Between the boss, the cops, the victims, and the press, I don't have much time to prosecute crime."

"Both sides have their issues," Bobby Joe said.

"And my problem is," Zehra started, "El-Amin hates women, and particularly me. I'm going to have to see this case all the way through."

"The hardest for me are the 'not-so-innocent' victims. Know what I mean?"

BJ chuckled in recognition of the problem. "I remember when I was a cop, we'd arrive at the scene of a shooting. Two coked-up dudes fighting over a woman. The first one to pull the gun became the defendant. They're both strapped, so it could've just as easily been the other way around. So who's the real victim?"

Steve dropped his arms and leaned forward over his desk. "The truly innocent victims—the kids, the rape victims, the old people who get mugged—those are the ones that bother me and keep me on this damn treadmill of a job."

Zehra shifted in her seat. This talk could go on all afternoon. Better to save it for a happy hour later. "Steve, we're here to give you notice of an alibi witness Denzel found. We'll file the formal notice and give you the whole statement when our secretary finishes the transcript, but we wanted to talk about it with you first."

Harmon's eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. The light stuff was over. This was business, and he changed completely. "What alibi?"

BJ started, "I've been checking and found a guy who says that during the time of the murder, he was with El-Amin at a mosque. He's an imam and knows the defendant well."

Harmon gulped a big breath of air. "Yeah, yeah, have you checked this guy out? He's probably a cousin to El-Amin, lying for him."

"I know, but in the end, Steve, he's gonna alibi our client," Zehra said.

"Details, man."

Bobby Joe stretched his long body out on the chair. "I'll give you the whole Q and A, but the short answer is the imam knows our guy, met him often at the mosque, and was drinking tea—oolong China—at the time of the murder."

"Sounds like a drug deal to me—oolong China." Harmon laughed at his own joke.

"He remembers the time, place, and all the details."

"I've seen this a hundred times. How do we know your guy didn't put up the imam to say this? Paid him off?"

"The witness says no," BJ answered.

"Bullshit."

Zehra said, "I don't think you can say that in front of a jury. What if he happens to believe this guy?"

"Bullshit. I'm not afraid of some crackpot camel-driver."

"Look, Steve," Zehra continued, "I'm not sure what our client wants, but it's part of my job to at least talk to you about a possible settlement in light of our new witness. What would you offer short of going to trial?"

"I got a great offer for this animal—plead guilty and be damn glad he's in a state that doesn't have capital punishment. That's what he'd get in his own country. He butchered a young boy. Wait 'til the jury sees the photos of the kid." He looked from one to the other as if to try and convince them and laughed again in a nervous, forced manner.

Zehra knew the laugh offered a peek into Harmon's occasional lack of confidence that he tried hard to cover up. "Maybe so, but you have to admit, an alibi witness is strong mojo for us. Can't you agree to at least let him plead guilty to something less serious? How about murder in the second degree?" She knew his answer before he said anything and didn't blame him for hanging tight on this case.

Harmon shook his head. "No, thanks."

"Remember, dude, the killer was wearing a mask. Added to an alibi witness, think you can still prove it beyond a reasonable doubt?"

"So what? I've also got the DNA. You see that? Small problem for your bronco."

"Okay," Zehra agreed.

"It's a match—which is a conviction in my book. In spite of all the witnesses you want to parade in there, I got the DNA. The jurors all watch TV—so they know DNA's airtight proof."

"Maybe I could sell him on pleading to second degree," Zehra said.

"Even if I wanted to, do you think the elected county attorney wants to go before the public and tell them he let the most ruthless killer of the year off with second degree? He'd be out of office so fast, he'd be out before El-Amin even got to prison. No way, guys."

He was right. Zehra knew a prosecutor only dropped the charges for two reasons: either the evidence was so weak they couldn't prove their allegations, or they knew they couldn't prove it because of unusual sympathy for the defendant. Neither applied to this case.

The meeting was over. Zehra stood. "Okay, Steve." She reached across the desk and shook his hand firmly.

BJ bumped fists with him. "Dude," he said.

Back on the public service level of the Government Center, Zehra turned to Bobby Joe. "I've got an appointment at the BCA lab in forty minutes. Want to come with? I have to hurry because when I get back, I've got to finish my closing argument for a rape case I tried last week."

His thick eyebrows pinched over his eyes. "What case is that?"

"I got a guy who sexually assaulted his teenage cousin—allegedly. He waived a jury, so the judge ordered us back tomorrow to make the final arguments. He's already heard all the evidence."

"How can you keep these cases straight?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Sometimes they blend together, and I worry whether I can give adequate time to each case. Every public defender has the same problem—too many cases." She looked up into the air above them. The Government Center had two parallel towers with an open atrium in the middle that rose twenty-four floors. "The rapist is even creepier than El-Amin." Zehra shrugged her shoulders and asked him, "How can you keep so calm all the time?"

He smiled. "Faith, baby. Most old cops are angry or screwed up. That almost caught me too, until I found my faith again. That and my music. Maybe I should talk to you about it sometime."

She paused for a moment. In an odd way, he sounded similar to Prisha—both of them so confident about their faith and how it directed their lives daily. Zehra envied them.

Forty minutes later they squealed into the parking lot before the sprawling Bureau of Criminal Apprehension forensic lab on Maryland Avenue in St. Paul. They rocked to a stop. Built in 2003, the complex boasted mostly glass walls surrounded by red brick and stood three stories tall. By going directly to the scientist who had done the testing on the mask found at the crime scene, Zehra hoped to find a sliver of something she could use in her defense.

They gathered bags and notes and walked to the entrance. Beside the double glass doors stood stone sculptures that resembled ancient Mayan art. A warm breeze blew Zehra's hair over her face and lifted her spirits. She always got a jolt of Denzel's peace when she was with him. She was grateful for his presence.

He checked his watch. "Chill, Z. We've got time."

They were directed to wait in a large, glass-enclosed atrium that climbed two stories and was capped by a glass roof. Sun flooded around them and lit up the space. When Zehra sat, the room darkened. She looked up to see puffy, thick clouds moving across the sky. The atrium darkened to a dull gray.

Of course, every time she was in this room, Zehra stared at the sculpture on the second floor level at the end. It was titled Exquisite Corpse. Zehra had seen it before but was always amused at the sense of humor the artist had expressed. A line of about twenty large aluminum frames, looking like magnifying glasses, balanced on their handles. Inside the row of empty glasses, a long model of a human body stretched the full length. It was sliced into thin sections from foot to head as if it were awaiting scientific analysis. The slices were colorful, full of blue, green, brown, and blood red sections. Holding the slices of the body inside the round frame was a spider web of metal filaments. The most creative part, she thought, was that each slice showed the different types of testing the lab performed: molecular models of heroin, bullet holes, blunt object traumas, gas chromatography, and two DNA double-helix models.

The artwork made her feel reverent. She turned to BJ. "Does your jazz group play anywhere I can hear you?"

"Sure. The Dakota next month. I'll let you know." He paused to smile. "'Course, we got a slow night and the nine o'clock time slot, but hey—I'll blow anytime I can."

In ten minutes, Dr. Betty McWhorter approached them from across the room. Zehra and BJ rose to shake her hand. She said, "Bobby Joe, I haven't seen you since you left the police force. So you want to see the respirator from the Ahmed murder case?"

"Yes. Thanks for taking your time," Zehra said.

They trailed behind her to a desk in the corner, where they received temporary security badges. Through two locked doors and down a long hallway, Dr. McWhorter led them to a small room. Inside, it was empty except for a white table, three chairs, and a sealed box on the table.

"Take those seats," McWhorter said.

Shiny metal trim surrounded the door and the edges of the table. Zehra shivered in the cool air. She asked, "What can you tell us about the testing you did on the face mask?"

Dr. McWhorter shrugged. A tall woman with bleached-blonde hair, cut short to barely cover her ears, she moved her eyes from one to the other. "As you probably know, in the biology section we conduct several types of serological examinations on evidentiary materials. That includes blood, seminal fluid, saliva, and urine, along with immunological tests and microscopic exams. For instance, hair, tissue, skin cells, blood, semen, and other bodily samples." She lifted her chin and sniffed.

"What about the DNA testing?" Zehra said.

McWhorter turned her large body in the chair to face Zehra. "Once we obtain the samples, we perform nuclear autosomal and Y-chromosome STR DNA tests. We compare the DNA types obtained from the questioned materials with DNA types obtained from known sources. In this case, we extracted samples of the saliva from inside the respirator. There was also a small quantity of blood; probably the perp bit his lip." She marked the date and time on the outside of the sealed box with a felt tip pen, initialed it, and finally opened the covers. "We swabbed the inside cheek of the defendant, Mr. El-Amin, for a sample. Our testing uses capillary electrophoresis to check the match. After you've done a few hundred of these, it's really pretty simple. The technology does most of the work." She sat up in the chair and nodded her head.

"Bottom line, does the saliva inside the mask match the DNA of Mr. El-Amin?" Zehra asked.

"Respirator," McWhorter corrected her. "But you're right. Here—you can take it out."

Zehra reached into the box and lifted out the small object. "This isn't a mask? Sure looks like one."

"A layman would call it that. But this is better, more effective than a mask."

Zehra turned it over in her hands. The white cup had "3M 8000" stamped across the top and to the side, as well as "N95." A pliable metal strap curved inside the cotton cup, designed to cover the nose and act like a nose clip. The mask could be held in place on the face with four yellow elastic straps around the edges. It looked like a typical face mask. She handed it to Denzel.

"What would this be used for?" she asked.

"Oh, if you were doing a home project, like sanding, and wanted the best filtering protection, this is it. Maybe a hospital worker or a dentist would use one. It's designed to fit tightly around the face and has an electronic charge in the micro fibers to enhance the filtration."

"Wow. This is top drawer material," BJ said.

McWhorter agreed. "This is the best you can get without using a full head mask."

"Plus, it fits tightly around the face, so it won't fall off when you're killing someone violently," BJ said. "And it covers up almost everything. Look—" He held it in front of his face without touching his skin.

Zehra agreed that it hid most of his face—perfect for a disguise. "But Denzel, you'll have to shave your goatee before you become a serial killer." She laughed and then turned back to the doctor. "I know this is a crazy question, but are you certain about your test results?"

McWhorter smiled and dropped her eyes for a moment. "DNA identification is the gold standard, my dear."

"I know, but do you think the criminal justice system is relying on this testing too much? For instance, what if there's contradictory evidence?"

McWhorter stood. "That's not my job." She placed the mask back into the box, closed it, and sealed it again by taping it shut. She cradled it in her arm as she moved toward the door. "When it comes to identification, in my opinion, we should rely on it—it's foolproof."

# Chapter Thirteen

The day rains, called gu rains, had started early this year in March.

The plains to the west of Mogadishu had burned to dark brown over the winter. The driest season had been December, when a shepherd's goats often starved to death. The new shoots struggled to break through the dried earth to erupt into a carpet of green.

In the past months, the herders had been forced to work their goats farther and farther from the camps. The trick was to feed them as much as possible to get the through the drought. As the spring came on, the shepherds could return closer to the camps and graze their stock. As the land became green and fertile again, the people celebrated as they had for thousands of years.

The two young shepherds were wrapped in long cloth robes to protect themselves from the sun and the fierce winds that could blow from all the way across Africa, sometimes even carrying the smell of the Indian Ocean. Most of their days were boring and monotonous. The shepherds didn't mind because tending the goats was their work, as it had been for their fathers and grandfathers for generations. At least they could provide for their clan.

The ground rolled off in flat scrubland for as far as they could see. Flowers that only a few weeks earlier had disappeared now stood proudly to unfurl small but colorful petals. Seen from a distance, they looked like a yellow or purple carpet. The goats had spread out so far the two boys had lost sight of some of them. That was all right because there was nowhere for the goats to get lost, anyway.

Ismir, the younger herder, had volunteered this afternoon to round up the stragglers before they made their camp for the evening. In the desert, night fell quickly, often bringing cold winds. If they weren't prepared, it was difficult in the dark to account for the goats and get dinner ready.

Ismir scuffed over the worn paths that led to the west. The first of the rain clouds scudded toward them, reminding them to hurry and set up camp. He searched in the direction of the setting sun on the horizon for the small clumps in the distance that would be the remains of the herd.

Far off to his left, he noticed a bright flash. The desert had all kinds of optical illusions not seen elsewhere, but this one looked unusual in Ismir's experience. Besides, he knew there was nothing out there, no camps and no herds.

He climbed up the sand incline until he reached a point of high ground covered with gray-green bushes. Ismir finally saw the stragglers from the herd. But to his astonishment, just beyond them, he spied a series of low mud huts. Surrounded by a wire fence, it was a compound of some sort. There were even permanent buildings—something very odd this far out. The fact they were made of wood really piqued his curiosity. Wood was so scarce that the compound must be owned by someone very wealthy, since no one could afford to use wood for something as mundane as shelter.

He saw the flash of light again and realized it came from the setting sun blazing in a golden burst off the side of a metal bus, the kind that was used for school in the big cities. Dust curled around the back end of it as the bus slowed to enter the compound. Where could it possibly have come from? There were no roads from Mogadishu to here.

Ismir continued toward his herd and the low group of buildings. They nestled in a low point in the land, hidden by hills on all sides. He kneeled down and crawled closer. Something told him to be careful, so he hid behind the bushes on the ridge. Who would be out here and why? he wondered.

He sprawled onto his stomach to avoid being seen and wiggled even closer. He could hear indistinct voices coming from the buildings. The bus stopped in a trailing cloud of dust. It settled, and two men stepped from the door of the bus.

They stood aside as several young men followed them out of the bus. The men staggered as if very tired. There were about ten of them. Ismir didn't recognize any of the people, which was odd. He knew every-one in the clan that occupied this area of Somalia. These were strangers.

He inched closer in the long shadows of evening that stretched from the hills to his left. Ismir could hear better as one of the men talked. The cooling wind blew the words off into the desert. It appeared they were ordering the boys off the bus.

Ismir felt sad. The boys were dark-skinned, like himself, and Somalis, but he could tell they weren't local. They looked foreign, as if they had lived somewhere else for a while. Maybe from Europe? Many Somalis had fled there to escape the civil wars. The boys looked tired, dropping like flowers during a drought. What was wrong with them?

Peering closely, Ismir was startled. In spite of the rising chill in the wind, many of the young men were sweating. They looked sick.

# Chapter Fourteen

Mears Park in Lowertown St. Paul is one of the most beautiful urban parks in the country. It occupies an entire city block and is surrounded by restaurants, jazz clubs, and theatres. The buildings above the sidewalks date back to the turn of the century, updated with modern touches and facilities.

Through the middle of the park, a stream of fresh water bounces over small waterfalls, twisting its way down under the streets to empty into the Mississippi River at the foot of the bluffs below St. Paul. On that same water, black and white tugboats groan to push heavy barges south on their journey to New Orleans.

When Paul got there, a gray bank of rain clouds hovered above the park, and the air smelled metallic with ozone. A storm was coming for sure. He'd remembered to bring an umbrella, because a May rain in Minnesota could be a gusher, as the locals called them. He cut across the park to find the coffee shop Joan had recommended.

He needed her help badly, as well as any information she could give him. Considering the intense competition that existed between government agencies, he was sure any work or investigation he did with Joan would never get back to Conway. Whichever agency figured out what was behind the Ahmed murder would reap the rewards: bigger budgets, promotions, and higher salaries for everyone.

Paul realized he'd have to be careful. Just that morning, he had walked by his secretary's vacant desk. He'd glanced at her computer to find his emails reproduced on the screen. Conway must have ordered her to shadow his mail. That scared Paul.

Ten minutes later Joan interrupted his thoughts as she walked in the door, blinked at the bright lights, and spotted him. Although she had a Latin name, she was pure Scandinavian all the way. A tight red dress clung to her shapely body as she wobbled toward him on high heels.

"I'm, like, never getting used to these damn things," Joan complained. "Gotta wear 'em for the office. 'Look professional,' they always say."

"You look great, Joan." Paul stood and hugged her a little too long. She didn't seem to mind and even pecked him on the cheek before breaking away.

"I need something stronger than coffee." She plopped into the chair next to him. "Talk about pressure! These disappearing kids have got all of us on high alert."

"I know."

"Immigration and Customs Enforcement is the first line of defense. The boss is whipping us day and night, and since I'm second in command, you can imagine the shit I'm getting." She squinted up at the menu, written in chalk on the wall. "They write too small to see from here. Maybe they should have fewer choices so they don't have to squish every word on the board."

Paul smiled, knowing the real problem was that she was just too vain. "Wear your glasses. You look good in them."

She huffed but dug in her purse for the glasses case. "Well, listen." She glanced from right to left. "You gotta keep quiet about this case. If our meeting ever gets back to the boss, I'm toast."

In the background, Paul heard the grinding of coffee beans. Their scent was rich and heavy. "Same here. I think Conway hates everyone at ICE."

"Screw him! Most of your agents think they're on TV all the time." Joan bounced up and headed for the counter. She came back with a skim-milk latte. "Here's the skinny. I told you El-Amin is connected."

Paul nodded.

"Well, he's part of a large criminal network." Her arms swung wide. "We think he's a 'snakehead.'"

"A what?"

"Snakehead. It's a term that means—like we used to use the term 'coyotes'—the guys who do the dirty work. Recruiting, transporting, stuff like that. But now, they're a lot more sophisticated. A dude like El-Amin is trained and well-financed."

"Who do you think he works for?"

Joan shrugged, and tightly bound breasts rose and fell with her shoulders. She sipped her latte and licked a strip of foam off her upper lip. "Who the hell knows? These are international networks, kind of like on the Web. They plug in people as they need them from overseas. Let's say you need financing to transport kidneys into the US. If you know where to look, you offer the deal to a select group of money guys. They bid on the job. When you've got the money lined up, you offer jobs to others for procurement, warehousing, labor, and bribes to get by customs in the countries where you're going to deliver the kidneys to buyers."

"How can they trust each other?"

"Shit! They don't trust anyone. If you take a job and rip off the dude who gave you the job, everyone finds out quickly, and you'll never get another offer—if you can even keep your life. The guy who offered will also offer a contract to get you killed. It's a pure form of capitalism."

"They didn't teach that in my Econ class in college," Paul said.

"You're too old already." When Joan laughed, it crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I guess a better example is Facebook. Criminals anywhere in the world can 'invite friends' to join their network. Each of them brings a different skill set to the group."

"So, unlike the old criminal organizations that were in physical proximity to each other, these guys can hook up, do the job, split, and disappear forever." He leaned forward and smelled her musky perfume. "And from what I've seen, these new guys are really smart."

Joan raised her shoulders. "We've got some pretty bright bulbs, too."

"How does El-Amin fit into this?"

She paused and moved her eyes over him. "Like I said, he's a snakehead—grunt labor. Today they may smuggle stolen human organs, tomorrow drugs, artwork, or even Somali boys." She sighed and looked at him closely.

"I get it."

"We have to trade intel or this won't work, Paul."

He nodded. "But why did he kill the Ahmed boy?"

She took another sip of latte. Another slow lick of her lips. "Don't know for sure, but here's what concerns ICE. The network behind him must be bigger than we thought originally, highly organized, and full of loyal people. To 'disappear' these young men and never bring them back is complicated and risky. How and why did they do it?"

"Of course, the FBI thinks it's all recruiting for El-Shabaab in Somalia. I thought so too, until the Ahmed boy came back."

Neither spoke for a few minutes. Paul said, "Have you ever heard of something called the Army Medical Research Agency? Give me something worthwhile."

"Don't know what you're talking about. Now, give me more, buddy."

"Look, Joan. I'm risking my career—"

"Bullshit. I've kissed you; kiss me back."

"Well, El-Amin's defense team has found an alibi witness."

"How do you know?"

"I've got a contact with the defense team."

"Who's this witness? ICE should check him out."

"Sorry, Joan. If I have to, I'll invoke the Patriot Act and get the guy off the radar." He opened his palms toward her. "Best thing to happen to the Bureau."

"The Patriot Act?"

"Gave us new tools for investigation and interrogation."

She looked closely at him. "Can't see you waterboarding anyone. Let's go back to this witness. If El-Amin's got an alibi, have you thought about the possibility he's innocent? If so, what a fuckin' Pandora's box that would open."

Exactly the same fear Paul had.

"Anything else?"

"We've got an asset in the Somali community. Guy works at a local deli. He's given us solid stuff."

"Who is he?"

Paul smiled and remained silent.

Joan sighed and sat back in her chair. "So, you're putting your neck on the line for this one." She leaned forward, close to his face. "It's because of the crap in Milwaukee, isn't it? You're trying to make up for that."

"Could be."

"I remember when we met at the training at Quantico. How about the automatic rifle training? And oh, don't forget the self-defense course." A smile squirreled across her mouth.

Paul laughed at the memory. "Your fingernails were so long they just about recycled you because you wouldn't trim them."

"They thought I couldn't get my finger into the trigger guard of the nine-millimeter fast enough. And then—" Her arms flew out to the side like an umbrella popping open. "The vest, the damn Kevlar vest. It was so bulky, I couldn't fasten it over my boobs. I'm like, tryin' to tell those old instructors with the crew-cuts what it's like."

"I suppose they wanted you to demonstrate the problem."

"No shit. I could almost hear them grunting while they drooled."

They both laughed hard. Joan wiped her eyes. "That was before your case in Milwaukee."

"I was on the fast track. Two years later, I got a career break and was ordered out on a case for investigation of a serial killer. Really stinky case, a load of a human being. I worked my ass off on that one. Felt sorry for the families."

"Did you bust the dirtbag?"

"Damn right. With help from the local PD, we got the son of a bitch. I was told to hold him until the big shots from Washington got there to interrogate the prisoner."

"But—" She drew out the word. "You didn't."

Paul shook his head and felt the shudder in his chest even after all these years. "No, I was going to do a General George Custer—wrap it all up before the rest of the army got there. So I talked to him and got a few facts. When the big shots arrived, they finished the job and got a confession to everything. Two months later, the asshole comes up for trial and the judge tossed the confession—and the entire case—because of the way I'd 'coerced' the statement from him."

Joan rested her hand on Paul's arm. She squeezed softly.

Paul took a deep breath. "I ended up here, answering tip-lines on Sunday afternoons."

She felt for his hand and probed with her fingers. They felt warm and slightly moist. "Be careful, Paul. ICE is all over this. I'm going to blow the lid off this and expose whatever is rotting underneath. Let us take the shots. We've been using some private contractors—don't breathe a word—that have been productive. How about this murder case? Will El-Amin be convicted?"

"There's a DNA match. We want him taken out."

"If Conway's already after your ass, don't serve it to him."

He looked at her face, her hair and the brown color of the roots peeking out from underneath the blonde. "It's personal, Joan."

"You want to prove yourself. We all do; that's why we went into this crazy business."

"It's more than that. It's the families in Milwaukee that I let down. The kid killed here, and his family. I want to, somehow, make it up to all of them." He changed the subject. "How are your kids?"

"Kid. Mark is ten. He's great. Can't say that for his 'bio-dad,' who's never around. He never works on the hard stuff, like when Mark's sick and failing at school. Dad just shows up for the fun things like birthdays." Joan stopped, blinked, and said, "Sorry, they don't let me out much anymore. I hardly even date now. No time, and there's a lot of losers out there."

"I know what you're saying."

She cleared her throat. "If we weren't friends, this wouldn't be happening. Be careful. El-Amin may be in custody, but we don't know how many others are out there with an interest in the case. I'm talking about the people higher up. Who are they, and what will they do next?"

"Right. I'll keep in touch. If I get anything on this alibi witness, I'll pass it on. He's an imam. Most are legit, of course, but this one smells to me."

"Oh?"

"We're getting a lot more traffic all of a sudden. Phone intercepts, Internet data, informants jumping around like popcorn. Something big is going to happen." His eyes dropped to the table, to their empty cups and Joan's crumpled napkin stained with her ruby lipstick. "I'm being extra careful; you should, too," he told her.

It wasn't himself he worried about the most. He thought of Zehra Henning.

# Chapter Fifteen

At eight-thirty, Zehra sat at the edge of the counsel table in Judge Palmer's courtroom, as far from her client as possible. Jackie had agreed to come for support—for Zehra. On the other end of the table, their client, Bernard Felton, sat with his shoulders hunched forward.

Zehra prayed this client wouldn't freak out and cause her more trouble. She had enough stress from the murder case. But knowing Judge Palmer, she was certain something would blow up.

Jackie looked at Felton. "Did the trial go well?"

Zehra's face squeezed tightly. Wrong question, Jackie. Well, she'll learn the hard way.

Felton complained, "No. I never got a chance to really explain to the judge what really happened. My lawyer told me to keep it short."

"But you testified—" Jackie reminded him. She put on her big glasses that almost hid her nose.

"My daughter is makin' this all up because my former wife told her to blame me for touching her. I asked Henning to investigate that, but she didn't do much."

Zehra held out her hand, palm down. "Quiet. Here comes the judge."

They all rose and sat to the rhythm of the judge's coming and going. Judge Palmer wore a black robe, but Zehra could see the lavender collar of a cotton golf shirt peeking out from the top. He looked amused and smiled at things no one else thought funny.

Felton had been charged with sexually assaulting his teenage daughter. Considering the sickening nature of the evidence, Zehra had encouraged him to avoid a jury and instead have the judge hear the case without one. Judges were used to hearing the worst facts imaginable.

At the counsel table, Zehra looked at Felton. He was white, thin, and had skin so pale she could see blue veins streaked down his arms. He twitched constantly. During the hearings, he insisted on sucking throat lozenges because he had a cough. During the trial, she'd had to put up with the sound of Felton sucking on the lozenges. Then he coughed on her shoulder.

Judge Palmer reviewed the file and the evidence he'd heard, then looked up, prepared to give his verdict. The prosecutor sat quietly at the other table.

"Call the case," he said. After it was read aloud, Judge Palmer ducked down behind the bench and disappeared. He remained submerged for a while. Then two arms popped up. On each hand, he had a puppet, a green one and a red one. They wiggled back and forth over the top of the bench.

Zehra had seen this show before and looked at Felton to get his reaction. How much calming down would he need?

Judge Palmer finally came up and spoke to Felton. "See these, sir?"

Felton nodded and gulped the lozenge down his throat.

"These will tell you how I've decided your case. This one—" He lifted the red puppet. "—is Guilty. The other one is Not Guilty." The judge wiggled his hand with the green puppet. He dropped down beneath the bench again. In a few minutes, the right hand puppet, the red one, came up over the top of the bench. From below, a high-pitched voice said, "Guilty."

Zehra turned to Felton. He looked sick to his stomach. She wasn't sure whether it was the verdict or the bizarre proceedings. "Get used to it," she whispered. "We always appeal this guy. Don't worry, I'll file it for you tomorrow, before he can sentence you."

"But, but—"

"I said, don't worry. We'll get it straightened out." She sighed at the extra work the judge had created for her. Even though the client was clearly guilty, it was humiliating.

Felton staggered to his feet. He flapped his arms and jumped up and down like a chicken. He gurgled something unintelligible. The deputies had to lead him out of the courtroom.

Outside, by themselves, Zehra and Jackie laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Just another day in the courtroom," Zehra said.

"Can't you do something about that judge?"

Zehra shrugged. "He's a little crazy, but is otherwise a good judge."

They took the elevator down to the street level, crossed over the plaza on the south side of the Government Center, and circled around the expanse of green lawn that grew over the square. Several birch trees shaded the middle of the lawn with tiny new leaves Although the temperature wasn't high, the sun felt warm on Zehra's shoulders.

At times, she thought perhaps her parents were right—why didn't she have a job like an engineer? A doctor? Certainly, they had their problems and stress, but the world Zehra worked in was not normal. In some ways, that was what attracted her, but it could be draining, and sometimes dangerous.

"Are you going to interview the alibi witness soon?" Jackie asked.

"Denzel's getting an appointment set up."

"But Zehra, if the DNA is a match and it's foolproof, how can an alibi help?"

"I know. Our job is to try and build a defense, any way we can. These cases all take turns during the process that can't be predicted, so we have to try everything we can."

They reached the corner across the street from their office. It was the intersection of three office buildings and the Government Center. People moved in every direction across the sidewalks. Zehra's phone rang. It was her father.

"Hey, Zehra. Hope I'm not bothering you. I know you're busy."

"I've always got time to talk with you."

"Yeah, well, don't forget the company party at Health Tech. It's this afternoon. I know you're not too excited, but I think you'd like some of the people. Chance to get away from the difficult work you've got and do something fun. Okay?"

Zehra almost said no. She'd promised her father earlier, but she was so busy. And Zehra didn't need to meet anyone new. "I know. I'm kind of busy—"

"This is like a happy hour. After work. There's always good food." Her father paused. "Besides, I really think you need a break. I promise not to force anyone on you. You can sit in a corner by yourself." He laughed.

Zehra melted, as usual. How could she say no to her father? "Okay. I'll be there. But only for a short time. Still got lots to do on my murder case."

She and Jackie were about to cross the street when Zehra noticed the car again. It was a gold minivan—both the color and the type of car were unusual. She noticed it today because two days earlier, the same car had been parked outside her condo near the Mississippi River. The sun poured straight down from the sky, leaving the interior of the van in darkness. Probably nothing.

The light changed and they crossed the street.

# Chapter Sixteen

Michael Ammar declined a glass of wine for the sixth time. He weaved his way among the guests at the Health Technology party. Ostensibly held to celebrate the breakthrough in genetic engineering they'd made to combat the cold virus, it was really an excuse for the employees to get drunk at company expense. Why couldn't these fools understand that a Muslim does not drink?

He hoped that Zehra Henning would be there and he could meet her. Once Michael had made the connection between Donald Henning and the possibility the prosecutor was his daughter, Michael had approached Don. Michael's guess had been right. He'd even persuaded Don to invite his daughter to the party.

Michael tried to avoid running into Posten, but it was difficult at a company party. Posten bumped into him at the food buffet—or trough.

"Mikey-boy." Posten lurched to the side. He balanced three small plates heaped with fried chicken wings and mini-hot dogs in his hands. One almost flipped over onto Michael's Armani sweater. "How ya doin'?"

"Fine, John." Michael glanced at his Patek Phillipe watch. He'd suffered through enough times with Posten in the office to still be polite. "Look, I have to run. Keep eating."

Posten's smile opened between reddened cheeks. He didn't realize Michael was mocking him. "Great wings." He smiled again to show greasy teeth from too many wings.

"Are you getting enough to eat?"

"Hey, if the company's payin', I'm here. Know what I mean? And the booze. Four kinds of beer, including two micro-brews. I feel like I'm in fuckin' heaven." He straightened his back and looked at Michael. "I mean, do you guys believe in heaven?"

Disgusted, Michael nodded and turned away. He looked for the CEO and the vice president of his division. He wanted to make certain the funding for his upcoming trip to Egypt was secure. The social aspect of the party appealed to him, like the big family that he'd once had in his childhood. But he detested the drunken, gorging excesses. These Americans couldn't seem to get enough. Especially if it was free. It was like they actually enjoyed celebrating things like the Super Bowl.

The chatter in the room rose to a constant hum, glasses clinked, and spots of sharp laughter punctuated the crowd. The room warmed with the crush of people, and someone turned on music in the corner. Some kind of crap they called "disco."

Michael paused for a moment, sheltered beside a heavy chair. He looked at all the white skin, dotted here and there with darker people—mostly Indians from Bangalore who were tech wizards. The white people were flushed and smiling. He saw his secretary, a young and stupid woman. She was single and had one thought in her mind: to find a husband. Michael spotted her next to the long table used as a bar. She had her arms draped over the shoulders of a man while she leaned her body into his. Behavior like that would get her in trouble in a Muslim world. These Americans were so loose and sex-crazed. No wonder so many people the world over hated their immoral arrogance.

Michael shook his head. He couldn't give his true feelings away. He'd come so far, accomplished so much, and had so many people depending on him, that he couldn't fail now. Just a couple more weeks. The Science Expo would start it all and change these fools forever.

Instead, Michael searched the room for Donald Henning.

If Michael could manage to befriend the daughter, maybe he could get the information he needed about El-Amin and the case. Michael was certain the man would not break and reveal anything, but Michael still worried—as he did about all aspects of the plan. Don's daughter was probably dumpy and dull, like most lawyers Michael had met. It didn't matter. He knew that his charm and good looks could win over any woman.

"Here he is." Donald Henning tapped Michael on the arm.

He turned to see Henning and a young woman next to him. A beautiful woman. Dark, slim, smiling, with a head of thick, black hair. Michael was momentarily stunned.

"Hey, Michael. Meet my daughter, Zehra."

She reached out her hand and grasped Michael's in a shake as firm as a man's shake.

"Nice to meet you." He nodded once and opened his mouth to give her the killer smile. "Your father told me you might be here. I hope our gathering isn't too overwhelming."

"No. Actually, I probably need to have a little fun. I haven't been at a party in a long time." She raised a glass of pale yellow wine and sipped.

Michael watched and noticed her full lips that left a faint impression on the rim of the glass. She lowered the wine and looked up at him. Like most American women, she was bold and looked directly into his eyes. Zehra half-smiled, probably nervous.

"Where do you work?" he asked.

"I'm a public defender in Hennepin County."

"Do you help the bad guys?"

"Well, I represent them in their criminal charges. I really believe in our constitutional duty to give everyone a fair trial. In the end, that's what I try to do."

"How fascinating."

She blushed a faint red. "Oh, it's a lot of hard work, but I like it. Gives me a sense of doing something important for the community." She shifted her weight to the other leg and propped her arm on her waist. "How about you? What kind of work do you do here?"

"Research scientist. I have a PhD in molecular biology and work on something called the IL-4 gene. I know, really exciting, isn't it?" He laughed. He saw her glass was empty. "Would you like more?"

They moved around to the front of the bar. She ordered another Chardonnay, and he asked for Diet Coke. Turning to her, he said, "I don't drink alcohol. I'm Muslim."

Zehra's eyes darted toward him. "I think people drink too much anyway."

Michael could tell she was interested in him. "Are you working on any interesting cases?"

She frowned. "I've got this murder case. There was a young Somali man who came back, after disappearing from the Twin Cities, and was killed. I've been appointed to defend the accused person."

"I'm sure the case is all around the Somali community. Is it hard work?"

"This case is really difficult because—well, the defendant is a terrorist with an extreme interpretation of Islam. I hope that doesn't offend you."

"Of course not. These kinds of people do great harm to the rest of us Muslims by giving us all a bad name. I find it difficult to live in America. So many people don't know anything about moderate, progressive Muslims. All people know is what they see in the biased media."

Zehra stopped talking and looked at him. Her eyes searched over his face, and he could tell she liked what she saw. "So, you aren't making bombs in your kitchen?"

Michael laughed so hard he bent over forward. "No. I'm far too busy with my work. I'm trying to alter the genetic makeup of viruses. When I have time, I do volunteer work in the schools."

"Like what?"

"I try to give my time to the poor people in the Somali community, even though they don't often accept help from someone like me. I'm Egyptian. I also volunteer in a high school by helping in the science classes. For instance, we have a huge science expo coming up in a couple weeks. I have been working with the students to prepare their projects."

Zehra nodded and smiled. It usually worked this way for him. He could smell her perfume. Thank Allah it wasn't floral like so many American women's. It smelled like sandalwood. She had a full figure, and he loved her thick hair. What a stroke of providence—Allah be praised —she was the defense lawyer in the murder case. Michael was certain he could get the information he needed from her.

The noise from the party rose, and they squeezed together into a corner to be able to hear each other. They shifted to one side to avoid some wild dancers who careened off other partygoers. It became difficult to talk. Michael had to leave soon.

He asked her, "May I see you again?"

Her eyes softened. "Yes. I'd like that."

# Chapter Seventeen

On Tuesday, Zehra trudged into the courtroom on the eighteenth floor of the Government Center for the pretrial conference for Ibrahim El-Amin. She dreaded the confrontation that was sure to come. Why couldn't I have a simple job like writing wills? she thought.

When she arrived, Steve Harmon was already there. He nodded at Zehra as he unpacked several files from a rolling metal cart on wheels.

Zehra walked down the middle aisle and pushed through the swinging gate that separated the public area from the judge's bench and the lawyers' area. Sitting on the high bench, Judge Gordon Smith listened to another case. She looked distracted. To her left was the secured area where prisoners stood. A low wooden wall surrounded it, topped by a thick glass wall.

Jackie came down the main aisle and followed Zehra into the lawyers' area. Zehra envied Jackie's beautiful hair; straight and shiny, it always looked good. In contrast, Zehra's hair was thick and often tangled by its own devious will.

"Josh made me breakfast today, 'cause he knows how hard we're working on the case. I'm, like, so impressed with the dude. I'm worried it might turn out to be permanent." Jackie laughed. "What will I tell all the others?"

What you can tell them is you're self-absorbed was all Zehra could think in return. Jackie rarely asked Zehra about the guys she was with—not that there were many. Jackie's full relationship contrasted with the lack of romantic attention in Zehra's life.

Although, Zehra had to admit, the guy she'd met at the Health Tech party was a possibility. Michael. Dark, handsome, intelligent, and charming. What more could she ask for? He was a Muslim, but that didn't bother Zehra—not at this point, anyway. If he didn't call, she would follow up with him. He seemed so different from most of the men she met. He was more worldly and had traveled extensively.

"Which judge did we get for the trial?" Jackie said.

"Don't know yet. Hot-Tub is too lazy to actually try the case, so I'm sure she'll pass it on to another judge. Besides, I'm so damn mad at her for calling Mao behind my back."

In ten minutes, the deputies had brought El-Amin into the courtroom holding area. He stopped and stood ramrod straight. Without moving his head, his eyes traveled over the entire courtroom. He spied Zehra and glared at her.

It always bothered Zehra that defendants took out their wrath on the defense lawyers instead of the judges or the prosecutors, who were the ones actually trying to put them in prison.

"State of Minnesota versus Ibrahim El-Amin," the clerk announced from the far corner of the courtroom where she sat with a massive pile of files before her.

The defendant swiveled his head toward the judge.

Both Zehra and Harmon stepped up to a wooden podium directly before the raised bench. The judge asked if the case had been settled.

"I can't offer much. With a crime this serious and the nature of it," Steve said, "I can only offer a straight plea of guilty to murder in the first degree."

Zehra started to speak. "My client has—"

"I am not her client and she does not speak for me," El-Amin thundered from his side. "I represent myself. I will not accept the work of a woman, including the judge of this courtroom."

"Is that so?" Gordon Smith responded. Her eyes became small.

"I am in charge of my case. This infidel will not speak for me."

The judge turned toward him. "I want Ms. Henning as backup counsel in case you have questions during the trial."

El-Amin closed his eyes and swayed back on his legs.

"Ms. Henning, I still expect you to fully prepare for trial. If, at any time, the defendant changes his mind about you, I want you ready to jump in."

"Yes, Your Honor." Zehra could feel warm anger tinting her face and hoped it showed to the judge.

Gordon Smith flipped a few pages, leaned over to whisper to the clerk next to her, and straightened up again. "I'll block this case to Judge Goldberg for a trial date certain in two weeks."

El-Amin exploded. "What? A Jew? I refuse. My fate will not be in the hands of a Jew." He pounded his fist on the wooden railing before him.

"Quiet, or I'll have the deputies remove you."

Zehra and Jackie loaded up their files and left the courtroom.

"I think I really, like, hate that son-of-a-bitch," Jackie said.

"And everything he stands for. He's the reason Islam has such a bad rep."

"So now what?"

"You heard the judge." She shot the words at Jackie. "We prepare the case as if we're going to try it."

She started to walk away. Her cell phone played music. It was Paul Schmidt—a welcome change.

"I'm glad I caught you," he said. "Have you got a minute to talk?" He sounded out of breath.

"Sure. Just got done with our bronco. He threatened me again." Zehra shifted her heavy bag onto the other shoulder.

"Don't trust him an inch."

Zehra laughed. "Paul, it's safe to say that we hate each other. Trust isn't even a word associated with this guy."

Paul explained El-Amin's role in the criminal networks that Joan had revealed. "Your case is part of something a lot bigger than we expected."

"What?"

"I don't know. Are you investigating the alibi witness?"

Zehra stopped. Her brain twitched. Had she told him about the alibi witness? Except for Harmon and the announcement in court today, she hadn't told anyone. "How do you know about that?"

"Uh . . . I happened to talk with BJ Washington."

"He and I are going to shake down the witness this afternoon."

Paul took a deep breath. "I think I should help you."

"How can you help? The FBI helping a murder suspect? Know how odd that sounds?"

"No, I mean help you personally. Your client is financed and controlled by people we don't know who are probably here right now. I'm worried about you."

Zehra found a bench in the hall and sat down. She waved Jackie next to her. "What are you talking about?"

Paul coughed. "You still there?"

The tone of his voice caused her stomach to tighten. The gold car she'd seen several times popped into her mind.

"We can't find out anything about your client's background. People always leave some trail, but not this dude. He's probably a puppet for someone more powerful."

She didn't answer as the words tumbled through her mind.

"Here's what really worries me. Your client couldn't have done this alone. It's too complicated. Why didn't the boy call his parents when he got back here? If someone went to all the work to get him back from Somalia, why turn around and kill him?"

"I see what you mean."

"And what if the murder is not the end of whatever this network is planning?"

Zehra took a deep breath and shifted to the edge of the bench. "I'll be careful. But what could they possibly want with me? I'm just the defense lawyer doing my job."

"Don't you understand? Anyone associated with the case, me included, could be a target for them. Who knows what they'll do to keep their secrets?"

She thought briefly of telling Paul about the gold car, then changed her mind as it was probably nothing to worry about. "Thanks for the warning, Paul. I guess I could use your help."

By that afternoon, BJ, Jackie, and Zehra stopped in front of the mosque on Riverside Avenue, near the University of Minnesota's complex of buildings on the west bank of the Mississippi River.

Zehra answered her cell phone. "Hi, Dad."

"I know you don't want us to interfere, but I wondered how you got along with Michael. I don't know him, but I hear he's a real star in the company. Could go a long ways."

She laughed to herself at the soft sell. "Don't worry; he seemed nice. I may even get together with him if I can find a free night."

"He's not Hindu."

"Oh, I know. You and I will have to face Prisha in the future, but right now I'm concentrating on winning this trial."

As they approached the front door of the mosque, several men sat around it, dressed in colorful African clothing. They wore tops of red, green, purple, and gold. Three women walked by, covered from head to toe—even in the warmth of the afternoon—in long maroon skirts that ended by swishing across their sandaled feet. Their heads were covered fully, with only their faces showing. As they crossed the street in a line, the wind blew their robes out at an angle. Zehra could imagine them plodding through the sand of a desert, leaning into the wind.

Across the street was a bar named The Nomad Bar. How appropriate, Zehra thought.

At the door of the mosque, she remembered to remove her shoes and set them next to a pile of over twenty other shoes, mostly sandals. As they moved into the mosque, it opened into a large, quiet room that soared up to a rounded dome above.

Zehra had brought a scarf with her and, out of respect, she covered her head. Jackie flipped up the back of her sweater. She glanced at Zehra and BJ. "How do I look?"

As they started into the open center of the space, a man in a long tan robe came from the left and stepped in front of them. "I am sorry, but it is not permitted to have women in the main prayer area." He nodded at a small balcony on the second floor to the right. "That is reserved for women."

Zehra bristled. On one hand, she wanted to remain respectful and get the trust of the local imam, but this discrimination made her furious. Thoughts of El-Amin yelling at her crowded into her mind. She tried to ignore them and remain calm. She said to the man in the robe, "We have an appointment with the imam, Hussein Moalim."

The man searched Zehra's face without looking at the others. "Wait near the front door," he instructed them.

They moved back to the door. Zehra looked around the interior. Persian rugs covered most of the floor. It was designed for prayer, and all faithful Muslims prayed from their knees on the floor. BJ and Jackie moved to either side of her.

"I've never been in a mosque," Jackie whispered. "Who are those guys in the corner? They look like they're sleeping."

Zehra had been in a mosque before with a friend in Texas, who had explained the various aspects of the building. "They're praying or meditating. This is a place of worship, of course, but also for learning. The back side of this part is probably a community center and school for religious instruction, like a Christian Sunday school." She pointed to an ornamental niche set in the wall on the eastern end of the big room. "That reminds the faithful of the direction of Mecca, and see how it resembles a door?"

The others nodded.

"It's symbolic as a door to Allah and their faith. That wooden structure at the top of the staircase? That's the pulpit for sermons. The imam will give them on Fridays, the holy day for Muslims."

"Is that water over there for baptism?" BJ asked.

"No. It's for the ritual washing everyone does before praying to Allah."

"Not a bad idea," he said. "Come to God in a state of cleanliness." BJ's shoulders dropped, and he said in a hushed voice, "It's so peaceful. Tranquil. I can understand why people like it here."

Zehra turned to him. "That's great, but remember why we're here."

Jackie said, "I've been in a Jewish synagogue before, and it's funny, but a mosque looks a lot like a synagogue." She laughed. "My Catholic church looks like a circus in comparison to this plain, simple interior." She asked Zehra, "Is an imam a priest?"

"No. Islam doesn't have a priestly class. Every believer has direct access to Allah and doesn't need anyone to intercede for them. An imam is a learned person who can direct the faithful."

"Welcome to our mosque," said a voice from behind them.

They all spun around to see a man standing there. He must have been there for a while. He wore a white robe from his shoulders to the floor. A gray beard hung over his chest, and he wore a pair of modern, stylish glasses. He smiled to show huge, white teeth.

"I am Imam Hussein Moalim." He bowed slightly. In automatic response, they bowed also. "Let us go outside. It is a glorious day." He led them out of the front door and down the sidewalk to a small patch of grass. "What may I help you with?"

BJ said, "We talked on the phone. Ms. Henning is representing Mr. El-Amin. You told me you're acquainted with him and were with him the night of the murder."

Moalim bowed his head to reveal a small red skullcap perched on the back of his head. "That is true. As you know, our mosque also serves as a community center, and Ibrahim came here often. I did not know him well but saw him here on occasion." His black face glistened in the sun.

Zehra asked, "You definitely remember that on March nineteenth —a Thursday—he was with you?" She smelled the fragrance of lilac bushes in the air.

The imam looked at her with his soft eyes for a long time. He said, "Yes. He arrived shortly after sunset, and we had tea in the community room. We talked of many things until late into the evening."

"You understand the murder occurred just around the corner from here?" BJ said.

"Unfortunately, yes. But El-Amin was here."

"He never left until late at night?" Zehra thought of the DNA tests. "Because there is evidence that points to him as the murderer."

"He never left," he said in a gentle voice.

They talked for ten minutes more, but the imam never wavered in his insistence of El-Amin's presence at the mosque. Later, he told them about the community he served. "We are poor, as you can see. Most are from Somalia and have suffered unbelievably. We offer religious training for everyone, especially the children, to keep them law abiding and faithful. We provide food, money, and homes for new people. So many Muslims are misunderstood in this country. The majority of us want only peace, jobs, and to take care of our families."

He raised his arm and swept it over the street before them. "Look at these people. They only want to live in peace. They love America and everything it offers. This is our new homeland." He smiled and turned toward the mosque.

Back at his car BJ said, "Seems believable to me. I watched his facial movements, and this guy seems like he's not bullshitting or covering for our boy."

"I know, but what about the DNA? And the fact the murder was a few blocks away. El-Amin could've slipped away for a short time without the imam knowing it," Zehra said.

"If he did, he'd have come back covered in blood. The killer hit both arteries in the boy's neck. Even if the killer jumped back at the right instant, there'd still be a hell of a lot of blood flyin' all over." BJ shook his head.

Zehra's training as a trial lawyer came forward. "He'll make a great witness for the defense. I think the jury would believe him." She let BJ open the door of his Chevy Bronco for her. Jackie squeezed into the back seat.

When BJ pulled away from the curb, he popped his jazz group's CD into the player. "I got a friend hooked up with a company in Israel. They do testing on DNA, check the results for accuracy. Maybe we should do our own, independent test."

"Why?" Jackie asked. "I thought our BCA lab was one of the best in the country."

"I know, but what would it hurt?" He turned to Zehra. "Can you get some funding for the retest?" He smiled the smile that always caused Zehra to melt.

"Aw . . . Denzel, for you, anything. How soon can your friend do it?"

"As soon as we get a sample from the BCA, he can start. Shouldn't take more than a few days. I'll tell him to rush it."

"Good idea." She thought of Paul. "Denzel, did you ever tell Paul Schmidt, from the FBI, about the alibi witness?"

"Huh? About Imam Moalim? No, why would I talk to them about anything?"

# Chapter Eighteen

Carolyn Bechter cruised the Seward neighborhood of Minneapolis in her Mercedes, feeling completely out of place. Although the area showed many signs of revitalization, it wasn't rich by any means, and her car attracted way too much attention. She turned a corner, parked it and got out, careful to make sure it was locked.

A warm breeze blew up the street, carrying the smells of spices and cooking meats. Dressed in a baseball cap, loose sweater, and running shoes, Carolyn wished she'd changed the tight jeans for something more modest. She put on a pair of sunglasses and started up the street.

Carolyn had purposely come alone. If her instincts were right, this story was big enough to save her career, and she didn't want to share it with anyone else. Her editor thought she was at the Government Center, covering the court appearance of a guy charged with the murder, Mr. El-Amin. Carolyn knew she could get that information from any of the other media sources and feed it back to her editor. He'd never know. In the meantime, she could pursue this lead.

When she saw the Johnson Deli on the corner, it made her laugh. The Scandinavian name didn't fit anymore, because now it served Somalis and other immigrants in the neighborhood. Probably owned by new people, too. Ben Mohammad worked part time there, and Carolyn meant to finally catch and interview him.

She stood across the street for a long time, looking at the people passing by—a mixture of white and colored. The whites looked poor, and the colored looked Middle Eastern or African. Carolyn marveled at the differences in clothing. The whites dressed in faded blue jeans and gray or tan sweatshirts. The other people looked like walking rainbows. Every imaginable color of cloth covered them. The women, especially, reveled in bright greens, yellow, blue, deep purple. Most wore the head covering, but not the young girls. Many of the men had beards and wore small white skullcaps.

Carolyn crossed the busy street and walked to the deli. She looked through the large plate-glass windows. A sign inside offered halal meat —whatever that meant. She didn't like spicy food much, but the scents coming from the store drew her inside the door.

Carolyn didn't understand any of the babbling people at the counter. The deli sold an interesting collection of American junk food, organic food, and foreign things she didn't recognize.

Several women stood at the counter arguing with one of the clerks. A few glanced over their shoulders at Carolyn. Some white women came in and ordered sliced beef from the second clerk.

Where was Ben Mohammad?

Carolyn waited until the American women left. She approached the clerk and removed her sunglasses. "Hi, I'm looking for Ben Mohammad. Is he here?"

The clerk frowned. "Ben? No one here named—"

"That's probably the name he uses at school."

"Oh, you mean Moses Mohammad. Yeah, he works at a school, I think."

"Is he here?"

"He'll be back in a minute."

Forty minutes later, Carolyn still waited. Most of the white people had left. More Somalis crowded into the deli, shouting, arguing, and waving their arms. Their voices sounded like the rattle of a baby's toy. She looked at her watch, put her shades back on, and pulled the strap of her purse tighter around her shoulders.

Ben came in through the front door.

Carolyn intended to cut him off before he had a chance to get to the back and avoid her. She stepped into his path. His head jerked up when he saw her. "Hi, Ben. I'd like to talk with you some more." Carolyn spread her legs the width of her shoulders and stared at him. That usually worked with most people. Surprise was a good weapon also.

"Uh, what do you want?" he stammered.

"Just to talk. The people at the school speak highly about you."

He didn't seem to understand what she'd said. "I don't have anything—"

"This won't take long. If you talk to me now, I'll go away."

"What do you want?" He had a puffy black face that looked soft, unlike his eyes that were hard.

Carolyn heard shuffling behind her. "I want to know what you do with the young Somali boys at the school. What's your job there?"

His eyes darted back and forth like they had when she'd met him at the school. "I am an outreach worker."

"But you take these boys on trips, don't you?" Carolyn noticed the store had gone quiet. She sensed more movement behind her and saw the reaction in Ben's face. Then the clerk was at her back, shoving her toward the door.

"You're not welcome in our store," he shouted.

Carolyn jerked away. No one treated her like this. "You don't know who I am, do you? I'm from Channel Six TV, and I could have twenty cameras and reporters down here in ten seconds to investigate your shitty little dump."

"You will leave now." A second clerk moved to the other side of Carolyn. Two of the African women shoved Carolyn forward toward the door.

She realized the odds were bad, maybe even dangerous. She wasn't scared and knew she wouldn't get any more information. With a small jerk of her head to dismiss them, Carolyn left the store.

She took her time walking back to the Benz, laughing by the time she clicked the locks open. That little scene proved that her instincts were right. There was something going on with Ben and the school. Otherwise, why would he and his pals react the way they did? She tingled with excitement.

She thought of texting her contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles to check on the driver's license for Moses Mohammad, but decided he was probably an illegal and didn't have a legit ID anyway. Instead, she'd follow him, like she had when she was a new reporter on a beat.

Her cell rang. Carolyn saw it was her producer and answered. "Reggie, how wonderful to hear from you," she said with faked enthusiasm.

"Cut the bullshit. If you never heard from me again, you'd be happier than a whore at the end of the night. Where the fuck are you?"

"Covering the murder case."

"You're lying."

"To you? Never."

"What've you got?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it'll be good. Trust me; I can feel it." She saw Ben hurry out of the store and run to an older car. "Hey, Reggie. Gotta run, sweetheart. Keep it in your pants." She clicked off.

Ben pulled away from the curb and headed north. Carolyn threw the phone on the seat next to her and swerved away from the curb to follow him.

He meandered through the neighborhood until he came to the Riverside Avenue bridge over I-94. He crossed it and followed Riverside west. Near Augsburg College, he turned onto Cushing Street and parked near the end of the block under a linden tree.

Carolyn slowed at the opposite end of the block so he wouldn't become suspicious. She watched him get out and go up the steps into a small frame house with an open porch. Dozens of identical houses lined the street—early century, inexpensive urban expansion.

She felt uneasy, but not from fear. What did she know about this street? Had she ever been here before? Carolyn tried to remember. After Ben went into the house, she pulled up beside his car and read the number of the house—657.

Carolyn backed up, parked, and waited. An hour later, Ben still had not come out. Even with the car windows open, the sun baked her inside. Sweat threatened to smear her makeup. Then it struck her.

Six-fifty-seven Cushing Street was the same address where the murderer, Ibrahim El-Amin, had been living when he was arrested.

The clues started to coalesce and made sense to her. Mohammad worked with young Somali men, the young men disappeared, the FBI thought they had left to become freedom fighters, and then one came back to be killed by a guy named El-Amin—who lived with Mohammad.

Another thought caused her back to twitch: Paul Schmidt.

Several years ago, they'd had a wild two-night affair when she had covered one of his cases. A cold, introverted pig, Carolyn remembered. Now he was working on the case of the disappearing boys. If she could break this story, maybe she could embarrass the hell out of him. He deserved it.

# Chapter Nineteen

Nervous about her meeting with Michael, Zehra treated herself to a latte. Normally, the calorie count deterred her, but tonight, Friday, Zehra waited at the Caribou coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis for him. She had to admit he'd impressed her at the party, but she was still cautious. After all, this was another combination engineered by her parents. Would this one actually work out?

But the caution came from the left side of her brain, calculated from past experience. The right side instead longed for a relationship. Someone to have fun with, talk about her work, hold her, and ease the loneliness.

Northeast Minneapolis, one of the earliest areas to be settled in the city, rose up from the banks of the Mississippi River. At the highest point above the river stood the old church of Our Lady of Lourdes, topped by a steeple visible from the entire neighborhood. Jackie attended Mass there. She said the church still had a hint of its old French heritage, which reminded her of services in Vietnam.

Zehra glanced at her watch. She thought of the mountains of work waiting for her. They had less than two weeks to pull together the defense. Unfortunately, if Michael didn't show in five minutes, she'd have to bail.

She took a deep, calming breath. At least she had a small table outside on the sidewalk of the shop. To Zehra's left stretched a garden of peonies—red, yellow, almost purple, and shades of colors she couldn't even name. Hanging beside her, almost touching her hair, was a pot of begonias, one of her favorite plants because they were easy to grow and produced big flowers of such lush intensity.

When she turned her head, Michael walked up to the door of the shop.

Zehra remembered dark skin, the tall, thin, athletic body that moved with an unusual grace compared to most American men. He looked European. She noticed the long nose—like hers—and the deep-set eyes that searched for her. She ran both hands through her hair to arrange it, then stood and waved. He smiled immediately and came to her.

Zehra shook his outstretched hand. It felt strong and warm.

"Hi." He started to sit.

"Michael. Nice to see you again." She noticed his eyes moving over her face and saw the most beautiful eyelashes she'd ever seen. Zehra felt jealous.

"Your father told me how attractive you are. He was right."

Phony, but it was still nice to hear. "Thanks. You work with him?"

"No, but we see each other occasionally." He wore a black cotton t-shirt made of expensive material. When he twisted around to see the menu board, the muscles in his chest bunched. "I'll be right back. Want anything?"

After he left, Zehra thought of her "checklist" for all dates, especially those set up by her parents. Let's see—no bad breath, good looking, not grossly overweight, seems intelligent, but is he full of himself? Check that out.

Michael returned in five minutes. "Busy tonight. Guess it's the nice weather." He rocked back in the chair, propping it against the brick wall behind them. "Smells good." He turned to her. "Your work sounds interesting. Tell me about it."

"I'm a lawyer. A public defender."

"What do you like about it?"

"I like the courtroom. I don't have to sit at a desk all day and read boring contracts. I work on real-life problems that affect people, like their freedom. It's meaningful, and I feel like I do some good." Zehra caught herself and stopped. Why was she blabbering like this?

"I don't know much about these things. Do you have any interesting cases?" He sipped his tea.

"I told you I'm working on the murder case. The Somali boy who had his throat cut open." She purposely emphasized the details because people seemed most interested in that part. "Maybe you saw it on the news? I'm defending the man accused of the murder. Trial is coming up soon. The FBI is also investigating. I have a contact with them and am hoping to get more info." Zehra lowered her head and looked to the sides as if someone might hear her.

Michael frowned. "During my volunteer work, I have heard a little about the case. I don't pay attention to the news. How can you do such difficult work?"

Her cheeks bulged, and Zehra blew out a puff of air. "It's really tough sometimes."

"I am curious. You said you can do some good, but how can you do good to defend a murderer?"

"Yeah, I know. I believe in the integrity of the justice system—everyone deserves a fair trial, even the guilty ones." She drained her latte and asked him, "What volunteer work are you doing in the Somali community?"

He smiled. "It took a long time. Even though I'm Muslim, they didn't accept me quickly. I am educated and Egyptian. Most of them are poor and are simply trying to survive in this country. I've gotten to know some of the leaders, and I help raise money for projects."

"If you're Muslim, why aren't you at the mosque tonight?"

Michael dropped his head for a moment. "I suppose I should be, but I thought our meeting was more important."

Unlike most of the men she'd met, this one sounded genuine and seemed really interested in something other than himself. "I want to talk about your work."

"Not much to talk about in comparison to yours. I work in genetic engineering research. For you, it would be boring."

"No, really, I'm interested."

"I'm working with viruses now. Trying to see if we can find a cure for the common cold." He laughed a little and showed pretty teeth. "It is, how do you say, 'a long shot,' but can you imagine the profits if we could actually figure it out? We try a variety of things, like manipulating the genes, enhancing them. And then we expose them to various antibiotics to 'heat them up,' to see how they react." He paused. "That is what I'm trying to do for the good of the world." He pronounced "s" like "sh." His voice sounded lush to Zehra.

She shook her head. "Wow."

"I travel a lot—too much. It seems like I'm always gone."

Zehra stole a glance at him sideways as he leaned back. He curved into the metal chair and, although relaxed, she could sense coiled energy resting in his body. She shook out her hair again. This "date" wasn't going as planned. Zehra looked down at her watch and knew she should get back to the office. But she couldn't move.

Michael interrupted her thoughts. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"You know I am Muslim. Do you have any trouble being with me?"

This guy looks so good to me, I wouldn't care if he was a Confucian monk, Zehra thought. "No, it doesn't make a difference to me. I'm half East Indian. I'm Christian, but I have a sense of what it's like to be a little different. Even though I was born in the US, I've always felt just a little different from other people."

"Yes. It is hard to explain to most Americans."

"But things are getting better."

"For me, one of the hardest aspects is culture. I come from Egypt, which certainly has its problems, but the American culture, with its emphasis on consuming and blatant sex, bothers me. In my culture, family and community meant everything—even if we were poor."

Zehra nodded. "I also like to garden. It's a passion for me. I got it from my mother—who is much better than me. Especially in Minnesota with our long winters, a garden is such a treasure."

"Gardening? Then I have a wonderful poem for you. It is from the old mystic and poet, Rumi. I'll quote a short part of it." He started,

"You rave about the holy place

and say you've visited God's garden

but where is your bunch of flowers?

. . . There is some merit

in the suffering you have endured

but what a pity you have not discovered

the Mecca that's inside."

Zehra tried to stop it, but her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't believe this guy. Was he for real? Quoting poetry about gardens? She said, "That was beautiful. It combines gardens with God and how they can both be inside of us—even here in Minnesota in the winter. Thanks." They both laughed. "My garden is my sanctuary, my refuge. I love to watch the plants come up in the spring."

"Then I should buy you a gift."

"Huh?"

"Around the corner there is a garden store. You know of it?"

"Never noticed it."

"Come with me. I will buy you something special."

They stood. As she passed in front of him, he rested his hand on the bare skin of her forearm. She couldn't miss it. On the sidewalk, they turned left and walked a little too closely, side by side, around the corner.

Nestled into a restored brick building stood a narrow garden store. The front door was propped open with a copper watering can. The scent of new flowers and damp earth drew them inside. Zehra loved the cute tools and unusual collection of plants they offered, all of it very expensive.

"Do you like orchids?" Michael asked.

"Sure. I've wintered over a few in my condo."

"Come here." He guided her as if he'd been in the store before.

Near the back of the shop was a partially-enclosed area devoted entirely to orchids. When they stepped into the cramped space, Zehra felt moist warmth. A mister wheezed clouds in the corner behind the various pots. Other than that noise, it was quiet.

They stood before a display of the most unique orchids she'd ever seen. But then, there were probably hundreds she'd never seen. For a long time, they studied each plant, looked at it from different angles, and leaned back to get perspective. They were works of art. Finally, Michael pointed. "This one. I want you to have this one."

Zehra moved closer to study it. She gasped.

From the clay pot, a long, narrow green stalk rose as if it were a cobra swaying to the piping rhythm of a snake charmer. At the top, it tipped over to explode into several leaves, open and vulnerable. The inner leaves formed little openings like mouths. On the bottom were blood-red "slippers." She could almost imagine the plant breathing.

Zehra loved orchids, but at the same time, they were so creepy. She didn't even know this man, and already he offered her a beautiful, if creepy, plant. Zehra felt dizzy, and the more she stared at the flowers, the more they seemed to sway to the sound of silent piping.

She pushed out of the room. Took a deep breath of cool air. Smelled the familiar roses next to the checkout counter.

Michael followed behind her. "I noticed you seemed to favor this one." He set the orchid on the counter and paid quickly.

Zehra mumbled her thanks and carried it outside. She didn't know what to think. It was different and kind of weird compared to the few $3.99 clumps of carnations other men had given her—usually as an afterthought. After all, there were roses and then there were orchids, a whole different level, if you knew anything about flowers. She decided to accept it.

"I would love to see your garden sometime," Michael said.

"Sure . . . sure." This was moving way out of control, too fast.

Her cell rang. It was BJ, and the other world jarred her awake.

"Hey, Z. Trying to get ahold of you for an hour."

"I've been busy. What's up?"

"I told you about that scientist that tests DNA samples? I got him to ask for the sample at the BCA and to retest it. He told me the tests run by the BCA are faked."

"What?" She clung to the orchid, afraid she might drop it.

"Someone doctored the sample, so the BCA got a false reading."

"So that—"

"El-Amin. They got the wrong guy."

# Chapter Twenty

The Yemeni left Turkmenbashi by ship with the briefcase. It didn't rain, but heavy winds heaved the ship up and down as it plowed westward into the storm. He hated traveling by ship, but in this case, the route across the Caspian Sea was the quickest. He'd secured the case under a bunk below deck. Whenever he moved, it came with him.

All he had to do now was get to Cairo. He'd get his money when he handed over the package. He grinned when he thought of how he'd squeeze the courier for a little more money.

He thought briefly of the stupid Russian. All these Christian kafirs were so willing to endanger their people for the gain of a little money. He thought of them as being lower than dogs.

Once on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Yemeni would transfer to a train and continue his journey. The train system, some of it left from the European construction in the late nineteenth century, was patchwork and worn out. Riding it required patience for the constant breakdowns and transfers. Flying would be easier, of course, but the security on the train system was lax. He could move around with fewer questions. By early morning, they approached the rich city of Baku on the western shore.

Before the American crusaders had invaded Iraq, the Yemeni would have turned south in his journey to Tehran, then crossed into Baghdad for the final leg to Cairo. Now he had to take the longer northern route through Baku and across Syria. He'd travel in Muslim countries to make it easier and safer.

The sun rose behind the Yemeni while he stood on deck and watched the city come closer. Before World War II, the Baku oilfields had been among the largest in the world. The city boasted many rich cultural adornments. He could see the minarets of mosques built in the old Walled City by the harbor. The dawning sun lit them up in coral and orange colors. He felt the hot wind off the shore. The ship passed next to the yacht club, then turned to the north for its own berth. Baku huddled under the southern side of a peninsula that jutted into the sea.

He was off the ship quickly and walked down the pier to a clump of palm trees. Several taxis waited in the shade under them. He called for one, and when the driver went to put the briefcase in the trunk, the Yemeni refused. When he climbed in, he clutched it next to himself. They left for the train station.

The journey to Cairo exhausted him. Though a young man, the Yemeni struggled through endless waiting, transfers, currency exchanges, different languages, and old train cars that stopped often for no reason. He had many hours to go before reaching Cairo. He'd been in such a hurry that he'd forgotten to bring food with him. Luckily, in Damascus, there'd been a long delay, so he was able to get off, find a market, and buy food and water before continuing on his journey.

Before eating, he boarded the train and washed thoroughly. Along with dozens of other passengers, he knelt on the floor as the train rocked along on its way out of Damascus. He prayed, facing south toward Mecca. After his prayers were finished, he ate slowly and read sections of the Qur'an. The lovely words of the Prophet strengthened him, reminding him of why he was making this arduous effort for the great glory of Allah.

From Damascus, he was forced to turn west again toward the sea. The direct route would go south through Israel, but security in that country was the toughest in the region. The Yemeni would have to travel through Lebanon and once again board a ship for Alexandria, Egypt. From there he'd make his way to Cairo to meet the agent planted in America who would take the transfer from him. They had scheduled a time to meet in one of the Cities of the Dead—a cemetery—in the city. The Yemeni wasn't sure of all the details of the plan and really didn't care, so long as he was paid and the work was for Allah.

And he'd be happy to get rid of the briefcase, turning it over to the other man's care. It made him uneasy to handle it. They'd emphasized again and again to carry it carefully, not to drop it or let it be slammed around. And he was never to open it. He didn't know what the contents were but had been assured he'd be okay if he followed the instructions exactly.

It didn't weigh much, and many times his curiosity almost overwhelmed him. Two locks—with two different keys, he'd been told—prevented access. What the hell was in it? He longed to find out, as a child wanted to open a secret gift. But the fear of what would happen should he open the case stopped him. It was obviously valuable. The Yemeni thought he could squeeze the American for a little more payment.

He reached Cairo in the evening, feeling tired and dirty. Long before they stopped at the station, the train trundled through the outskirts of the city, miles of small, drab huts and houses. For as far as the Yemeni could see in the dusky light, the city stretched in all directions. Even inside the train, he could feel the pulsing lives of millions of people around him.

He heard the chanting call to prayer from loudspeakers in the minarets, the bawl of donkeys, and the horns of hundreds of cars. He smelled the dust and heat. Groups of well-dressed school children walked together a few feet from the swaying train, going home probably. Women grilled fish for dinner in the narrow alleys. Bearded men huddled in small clots, talking and gesturing wildly. A few young men squatted in the dust and pondered over chess moves.

The eruption of life around the Yemeni made him proud. Let the imperialists in Europe and America have their luxuries, he thought. And considering his role as a warrior for Allah, he felt even more proud.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Zehra and BJ waited to interview the man who had done the retesting on the DNA, Dr. Malcolm Stein, in his office.

The previous night, after Denzel's call, Zehra had told Michael and what that meant for her case. They had hurried to her car. After putting the orchid on the floor of the back seat to make sure it couldn't fall over, she turned to him to say good night. "Thanks so much for the great time. And thanks for the beautiful plant. No one has ever—"

"You're welcome. I enjoy you, so the orchid is a natural thing to do to show my appreciation." He smiled. "May I see you again?"

Every nerve in her brain told her to be careful, go slowly. This was too good to be true. She hardly knew him. As the thoughts ran through her mind, her mouth opened and words came from somewhere inside her. "Sure. I'm going to be swamped with the trial, especially with this new development. Let's try to fit some time in." She looked into his face. His skin seemed flawless.

"Well, thank you." He twisted from left to right. "You better get to work on your trial." He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek. When she didn't move, he held her face in one hand as he kissed her deeply on the lips.

She could feel the warmth of his skin close to hers, and she felt herself blush like a teenage girl.

"Yo, Z—you still here?" Denzel's voice boomed around the conference room of Dr. Stein's office. His big hand rested on her shoulder and calmed her.

"Yeah . . ."

"Where were you? Dr. Stein works on Saturday mornings, so he agreed to meet us. I want to get this directly from him to make sure he didn't screw up."

In ten minutes, a large man with a moustache and a halo of curly gray hair came into the conference room. He wore a gold shirt and khaki pants. "Hello, folks," he said. "I'm glad we could meet in person."

BJ introduced Zehra and said about Dr. Stein, "Dude's not all that bad—he's a fan of jazz."

"Even more, a fan of yours," the doctor said.

"Can you tell us what you found with the sample?" Zehra asked.

"Of course. Want some coffee, water?" He sat awkwardly at the head of the table. A huge gold watch dangled from his wrist and tapped on the table when he gestured with his hand. "My brother in Tel Aviv has a company that developed a test that can distinguish real DNA samples from fake ones. I've started the US outpost of his company. We hope to sell the test to labs all over the country." He leaned back in the chair.

"Is it complicated?" Zehra asked.

"You have to know the techniques of DNA sampling and how to run the tests. Once trained, anyone could do this, I suppose. Probably the average criminal doesn't have the brains or training, but an undergrad biology major might be able to pull it off."

"So the DNA sample tested by the BCA for the El-Amin murder case is fake? What does that mean?"

"It means someone planted false evidence at the crime scene. It's really easier than planting false fingerprints. When the BCA took their samples of saliva from the face mask, they did all the correct tests and determined the donor was Ibrahim El-Amin, but we discovered it's all faked. The sample doesn't correlate with his DNA."

"Who does it identify?"

"Can't say unless we had a sample from the true donor. All I can tell you that is scientifically certain is that El-Amin is not the true donor."

"How does your testing work?" BJ asked. He rested his big arms across the table.

"You start with a real DNA sample from the suspect. It could be a strand of hair or saliva off a drinking cup. It doesn't need to be large. Then you amplify the sample into a larger quantity of DNA using a standard technique called whole genome amplification. Of course, you could use a strand of hair, but blood or saliva left at a crime scene is more convincing—which is what they did here."

"Anything else needed to fake it?" Zehra asked.

"You could also take a small blood sample and centrifuge it to remove the white cells, which contain DNA. Then we'd take those remaining red cells and add DNA that's been amplified from the person you want to falsely identify. Since red cells don't contain DNA, all the genetic material in the 'new' blood sample would be from the other person."

"And the real person's white cells, with the true DNA, are thrown out?"

"Yes." Dr. Stein removed his glasses and cleaned them with the end of his shirt.

Zehra said, "They used saliva and a little blood in the face mask here?"

"Right. The BCA did nothing wrong. In fact, they're one of the best labs in the country. But if you give them a phony sample, they're going to come up with a phony result."

"You can prove this?" Zehra looked at Dr. Stein.

"It's easy. Our test is accepted by many scientists and has been reviewed in scientific journals."

"Why doesn't the BCA do this test?"

"They don't have it. And why should they? Ninety-nine point nine percent of their samples are legit. We're working with a pretty sophisticated group of criminals in this case. Highly unusual."

Zehra sat back and looked up at the ceiling. Now what? She turned back to Dr. Stein. "I thought DNA was so reliable."

He smiled through gray teeth. "Oh, it is. But what's happened is that DNA testing is so good, everyone depends entirely on it. We're creating a criminal justice system that increasingly relies on this technology. It was only a matter of time before smart criminals figured out a way to beat it."

BJ drummed his fingers on the table in a syncopated rhythm. "You gotta keep one step ahead of them all the time."

Dr. Stein looked at his big watch. "Have to run, guys. Anything else I can help with? I'm available to testify at trial with advance notice. I charge mileage and courtroom time from the minute I walk out of this building. That okay?"

"Sure," said Zehra. She stood with BJ. They both shook the doctor's hand.

After they left the office, riding in BJ's Bronco, she sighed and slumped into the seat.

"Wha's up, girl? We caught a home run."

"I don't know. With a case this big, publicity . . . even after we tell Harmon, he won't dismiss it."

"But if it's not El-Amin, who did it?"

They drove to her condo, and she invited him in for coffee. In her third-floor unit that overlooked the Mississippi River in Minneapolis, she pushed aside her bike at the front door and led him inside. As she ground coffee beans, BJ walked to the deck and admired her plants. "The Garden of Eden," he called back to her.

In a few minutes, the coffee was ready. He came back in, sat at the small table and sipped. His cell phone rang. His expression crashed as he talked.

"It's my momma in Chicago. She's on dialysis twice a week. She's having troubles. I may have to go visit her since I'm the only family close by."

"Of course. Let's move outside; it's such a beautiful day."

On the spacious deck, BJ spotted the new orchid. "Hey, what's this?"

"Don't you even know what an orchid is? A friend of mine, Michael, gave it to me."

BJ studied it. "I know what he's got on his mind." His eyes darted up to her. "You tight with this dude?"

"None of your snoopy business. But the answer is, no. A friend."

"I could check him out."

"Butt out, Denzel." She wagged her finger in his face. "Let's talk about something important. Now what do we do? Who really killed the boy?"

"Remember Dr. McWhorter said the mask was commonly used in hospitals? Maybe the real killer worked in a hospital. The mask is unusual; I've never seen one before."

"Trouble is, we don't have the time or resources." She looked off at the new bridge that spanned the river downstream. "Wait a minute. My friend Paul. I'll check with him. Maybe he'd be willing to run this down. The FBI has got lots of money." She stopped talking and remembered that Paul had known about the alibi witness before she told him. Could she trust Paul?

A few minutes after BJ left, Jackie called. She sounded out of breath. "Hey, Z, I think we got something good."

"What?"

"I was going over the autopsy reports line by line." She paused. "Gruesome stuff. Those photos . . . Anyway, there's a note from Dr. Wong in the report about something odd she found but couldn't explain."

"I don't remember anything."

"The victim had red blotches on his palms and the bottom of his feet. There's also photos in the file."

"That is odd. Wonder why she didn't analyze them?" Zehra thought for a moment. "We could get a second opinion from the Ramsey County medical examiner. We'll have to email all the autopsy reports to him."

"I'll get on it."

It was late in the afternoon, but Zehra thought Steven Harmon was probably still in his office. She called him.

When he answered, he sounded out of breath. "I started doing push-ups in the office every day." He paused. "Trying to stay in better shape. I spend too much time chained to this damn desk. How are you?"

"Are you familiar with a test done to determine if the original DNA testing is accurate?"

"Never heard of it."

She explained what Dr. Stein had taught her and how he had retested the DNA sample from the BCA. "He said it's not hard to plant phony DNA evidence at a crime scene if you know how to do it."

"I know this is part of your job, but I'm not going to throw out the case. Reason one is I think your guy is guilty. Reason two is my elected boss. How do you think he'd look to the public if we dumped this horrible murder case? The voters would kill him."

"I understand, and it's not because I feel sorry for my client—just the opposite. But what if you've really got the wrong guy? This new testing procedure looks impressive. And you combine that with the alibi witness we found—don't you see? You have an ethical duty to let him go."

"If you were any one of a dozen other defense lawyers, I'd hang up on you now. But here's what I can do. Give me all the info you've go on this new test. If it's legit, I will review the case, but I have to warn you: it will take a bulldozer to get my boss to back down on this case, so don't get your hopes up."

"Tell him to think about justice. You can't prosecute an innocent man." Her voice rose more than she expected.

Harmon didn't respond for a few minutes. "Look, Zehra, don't give me that crap. I know it. But I've got my boss, the FBI, the media, and the victim's family all breathing down my neck. Everyone's looking to wrap this whole mess up with a conviction." He changed to a softer voice. "I said I'll look at this DNA stuff. If it was faked, we'll deal with it. But for now, I say your client is guilty."

She sputtered some more but knew it was hopeless. Hanging up, she looked outside over the deck. It wasn't like her to blow up and yell at a prosecutor, but the pressure on her had exploded out of control for a moment. She was normally very disciplined, so to have that occur was scary.

The hardest part would be when Zehra told her client. What would he do? She smelled an electric freshness in the air from the open door to the deck. Good—her oasis on the deck needed rain badly. She shook out her hair, trying to shake out all the conflicting problems facing her.

The orchid caught her attention, and Zehra thought of Michael. It caused her to feel lighter. Of course, it was too early to say, but compared to all the other guys she'd met lately, he shone like a prize. Like the breeze from outside, he was a fresh and electric presence in the midst of the problems that pressed on her. With him, her loneliness lifted a little bit.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

At Hiawatha Academy, Dr. Michael Ammar met with the principal, Rodney Sandin, who was in his office, squeezing a tennis ball rhythmically in his left hand. His feet rested on the desk before him. "The left hand's the most important, because you grab the shaft of the golf club with that one. The left has to be the strongest."

Michael nodded, bored and anxious to see the students. With the launch of the plot coming in a few days, he didn't have time for this wasted conversation. Michael felt a dribble of sweat work its way down the side of his chest. There were so many details left to be accomplished. In spite of all his meticulous planning, certain events threatened the entire launch. He'd have to protect the network. Take care of loose ends. Make sure people didn't talk. And, of course, there was the fieldhouse that must be prepared for the Science Expo. That was where the jihad would begin.

"Thanks so much for your help with the students' projects for the Expo, Dr. Ammar," Sandin said. "As you know, we've had a longstanding agreement with Health Technologies to send their scientists out to help us. We really appreciate it, and it's good practical experience for our students."

"I enjoy it, and I want to help these young people understand the importance and the excitement of science." He looked at his watch. "I should get over to the fieldhouse now. We're setting up the actual labs inside today. Lots of heavy carrying."

"Sure. Well, thanks again, Dr. Ammar."

Michael left and hurried across the grass lawn, heading for the fieldhouse. It took him ten minutes to reach it. At the corner of the building, he ran into Jim Miller, the head engineer who ran the physical plant. They almost collided when Michael rounded the corner.

"Hey, Doc. What's the rush?"

"I'm late for the work. And I've got a class here today."

"I suppose with the Expo coming up, you're working overtime."

"Right. So I have to get in there." The staff liked Michael and appreciated his work, but he didn't want to get too friendly with any of them. Besides, he had lots of work for both the Expo and his own preparations that would be done in secret.

When he got inside, the space stretched far off to the point he could hardly see people at the other end. The fieldhouse was large enough to host hockey games and a separate event within the same building at the same time. A temporary lab had been set up on the west side of the building. He ran over and found his class. Ms. Hall, the permanent teacher, was wrapping up the lessons. She brightened when she saw Michael. "Here he is now," she told the students.

All twenty-two students turned and applauded for Michael. He half raised his hand and felt slightly embarrassed.

Hall said, "I want the four chapters ready for next week. I know many of you are presenting for the Expo, so I'll give you more time. Dr. Ammar." She looked up at him. "Are you ready for this crew?"

"I'll take them all," Michael said with a laugh.

After she left, he assigned each student who was participating in the Expo to demonstrate their progress. The students scraped out of the chairs, pushed and shoved each other in fun, and went to the tables set up for the lab. They started to work on the projects.

One of the most intense kids, Sergio, came up to Michael. "Do you want to see the heart sections I've displayed?"

"Sure. Where are you?"

Sergio pulled him to a lab table in the corner. "Here at 5-B." Lifting a box off the floor, Sergio removed a remarkably lifelike model of the human heart. "It's plastic material I can mold by hand. When it sets, it looks pretty real, doesn't it?"

Michael marveled at the model. All the chambers, muscled walls, and arteries looked accurate.

Sergio explained, "This first model shows the heart with the arteries blocked." He pointed to an area in the upper chamber. Turning around, Sergio lifted another model out of the box. "This one's been surgically repaired. And in between each model, I'm gonna put up the videos I got off the Internet that show the actual surgery. Lots of blood and guts." He laughed.

"That should cause people to stop smoking," Michael said. He pulled back his cuff to see the time. There was so much work left to do, particularly downstairs under the fieldhouse. He couldn't spend a lot of time with the students today.

One by one, he hurried around the lab to attend to each of the students. He offered advice, congratulated others, and pointed out problems in projects that didn't look complete. He'd come to like the young people —to a degree. But they all had been corrupted by the materialistic culture around them. None of them understood how privileged they were. Although he suspected they professed a number of different religions, none of them took any of that seriously. They were spoiled and selfish.

He told the last student, "I have something to do. In the meantime, keep working. I'll be back soon." He left them in the corner and hurried across the expanse of concrete floor. His shoes clopped over it, causing Michael to worry he'd be noticed. He found the metal door to the basement. He glanced behind, saw that no one was watching, and slipped through quietly. Michael took a deep breath and descended the stairs into the darkness below.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Paul Schmidt punched the button on the elevator in the Government Center repeatedly, as if that would make it move faster. He'd just come from a meeting with Steve Harmon, who'd told him of the testing Zehra Henning had done on the DNA sample.

Paul knew of the new test and thought it was reliable. That proved what he'd told Conway, but he also worried about Zehra.

If El-Amin wasn't the killer, it proved the network was larger and more sophisticated than he'd imagined. What were they planning? Why'd they want El-Amin to take the fall and confess to the killing? Paul felt like he'd been right all along.

At some point, he had to tell Conway, but he wasn't sure what reaction he'd get. Especially after the warnings.

He stepped into the elevator when it came. Before he told anything more to his boss, Paul had other things to do. He'd have to make damn sure his information was tight before he risked a firing from Conway. And Paul didn't have much time left.

He rode the elevator to the second floor. Outside, across the plaza, he could see the hulking old pile of stones called City Hall. It reminded him of a castle topped with a bell tower. Rain splattered over the ornamental stones, giving the building a fuzzy edge.

Paul decided to take the underground tunnel through City Hall to come out closer to his office. Down two floors, he hurried past the cafeteria and turned into the basement of City Hall. As he rounded the last corner, he bumped into Lieutenant Patrick O'Brien, a Minneapolis cop.

"Hey, Father O'Brien," Paul said. He'd worked with O'Brien on the kidnapping cases and knew the old cop had a reputation for getting more confessions out of suspects than anyone else. The name fit him well.

"Schmidtty. How're the Feds treating you?"

"Busy. The killer of the Ahmed boy goes on trial in a week."

"Hope they nail that son-of-a-bitch." O'Brien slouched against the wall. Unlike the younger cops, who all shaved their heads or had short hair, he wore his gray hair longer than usual.

"I agree." Paul didn't want to reveal too much about the investigation.

"Only problem left is the jury. Worst damn thing we ever invented. They can take a perfectly good case and turn it into a failed wet dream. I don't know how, but I've seen it done enough times."

"Know what you mean." He looked closely at O'Brien. "Don't worry. We've got some things in the pipeline that could help us. Can't say any more."

"'Course not. You're a Fed." O'Brien snorted. He shifted from one leg to the other. "Say, Schmidtty, running into you makes me think of something I wanted to ask."

"What?"

"You know I was one of the first cops on the crime scene in the Ahmed case?"

"No. What a coincidence."

"I don't do any forensic investigations, but I gotta protect the scene, keep people out of there, and generally run the show." He looked to the side and back to Paul. "There was something odd. A guy was there."

"Who?"

"Damned if I know. He showed up soon after the Minneapolis coppers did. Older guy, dark-blue windbreaker that said USAMRIID, or something like that, on the beck in yellow letters. Of course, I stopped him and asked for an ID. He told me you guys gave him the okay."

"The FBI?"

"Yeah. He even showed me some kinda ID. Looks like yours, but different."

"Get a name?"

"Naw. You know how crazy a crime scene is, especially that one with all the press and gawkers. I had my hands full just keeping the civilians out. You put the tape up, plain as day, and they fuckin' crawl right under it right in front of me."

"Who do you think this guy was?"

"Don't know. That's why I asked you if you knew what was going on."

Paul shook his head. "He could've had clearance from above me."

O'Brien looked at the floor and thought. "He walked around but didn't wander. Know what I mean? Like he knew what he was doing and familiar with a crime scene. Wait. I did see him pick up something. Maybe a glove, like a latex glove. It was off to the side, outside the tape away from the sidewalk. Know what I mean?"

"To the south?"

"Yeah."

"That's the direction the killer fled, according to a witness."

O'Brien pursed his lips. "At the time, I didn't think much about it 'cause there's a lot of junk and trash lying around in that neighborhood anyway. I'd forgotten about him 'til I saw you."

"Sure, thanks, Pat. So the killer wore a mask and maybe gloves. Part of a disguise? Kinda strange."

O'Brien smiled and showed crooked teeth. He coughed with a smoker's bark. "Well, the ID from the witness on the porch wasn't too great. If it hadn't been for the snitch that heard the defendant braggin' about the killing, I don't know—"

"I'll check it out."

"But, Schmidtty, we already got the guy."

Back at his office, Paul circled his desk several times. Time was running out. Should he go to Conway with the DNA information? Would Paul be fired on the spot? No, Paul decided, he'd wait a little longer, gather more evidence, then go to Conway. One more screw-up and Paul knew he'd be working security at power plants for the rest of his life.

Zehra called him. Paul said, "I heard about the DNA test. Quite a knockout punch, Counselor."

"Not yet. The prosecutor won't dismiss until he's checked things out. We still have our alibi witness at the mosque, Mr. Moalim. I think the combination of the faked DNA and the alibi should give us a great defense."

"Zehra, remember what that means—the real killer is still out there, and someone is protecting him."

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Carolyn Bechter watched with growing horror. She had just mixed a third Mojito in her tenth-floor condo overlooking the Mississippi River near the Stone Arch Bridge. High white clouds puffed up on the northern horizon. Shoes off, air conditioning on high, chilled glass sweating in her hand, she had clicked on the Channel Six news.

After following Ben Mohammad, she'd kept searching but hit stone walls. No matter which source or friend she contacted, Carolyn couldn't shake anything loose. She knew she was on the trail of something big, which caused even more frustration.

She understood the Somali community was hard to crack, that they didn't trust many people outside their individual clans. But Carolyn had pushed on her contacts in the police department, FBI snitches, and even a few seedy, self-appointed "spokesmen" from the Somali community who were always willing to talk to the press. Not a damn thing.

On her couch before the TV, Carolyn had put her feet up on the ottoman and crossed her legs. She had been thinking of the last time she'd been laid—too long ago—when the news show had started.

Watching her employer try to deliver the news—especially since she was rarely a part of it anymore—always frustrated her. To Carolyn, the holes and weaknesses were so obvious. Did they really think the public would buy the shit they called "news" anymore? Ratings were down, and Carolyn knew why.

The familiar, pounding rock music cued up, and the graphics started flashing on and off to create a sense of something happening, even if the lead story was just a suburban art fair. But this show was different.

Out from the studio, Reggie had cut immediately to a street scene. The usual young blonde with a quivering voice stood with a strained face. The scene looked familiar to Carolyn. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound.

"Antoine," the reporter said to the anchor as if they were intimate friends—which they were, but the public didn't know that. "I'm here in the Seward neighborhood of south Minneapolis. It looks beautiful and serene, but don't let that fool you." She stretched out her arm in a practiced manner as the camera panned off the end of her hand to the background shot. "There's apparently been a robbery gone bad—very bad."

Carolyn recognized the Johnson Deli. Sure, that's it, she thought and sat up.

The cameraman, probably Ray for this story, moved to the front of the deli. Sure enough, Carolyn could see the large, dirty windows. The door was propped open.

"Witnesses tell us that about four thirty this afternoon, two men came into this small deli and tried to rob it at gunpoint." The camera traveled in through the open door. "The two men working inside were cooperative. When a customer came in behind the robbers, something went wrong. Wrong because it caused the death of the two workers and the customer." A breeze pulled the reporter's hair up on the left side.

Carolyn couldn't believe her eyes. She had stood right there a couple days earlier.

The reporter made a nice move between the camera and the open door to get inside. "All three men are dead, shot to death. We don't have information as to why they were killed. Two of the victims, the workers, are identified as Jason McMillian and Ben Mohammad—"

Carolyn stood unsteadily. It couldn't be true. She'd seen plenty of death and violence in her career, but this frightened her for another reason.

"Police are searching this normally quiet, integrated family community for other witnesses. As of now, they don't have any suspects and are baffled as to how this could happen in broad daylight."

A creepy feeling worked its way over Carolyn. She'd sensed a big story, and every step of her investigation confirmed that. This killing couldn't be a random robbery gone bad. This was a hit on Ben Mohammad.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Zehra hurried through the last-minute work for the trial in her office. Jackie propped her laptop on her knees and keyed in the instructions as fast as Zehra gave them. Zehra had an appointment in a few hours to see the imam at the mosque and go over his testimony.

She was tired since she hadn't slept well the previous night, dreaming about weird things: orchids growing all over her condo, up from under her bed, and finally taking it over. Those images had faded when she looked out at the scene of beauty on her deck and remembered the thoughtfulness of Michael

"So, will the trial, like, really start on time?" Jackie said.

Zehra tipped her head to the side. "We have to expect that. I want you to prepare a motion for the judge, asking him to delay the trial because of the new evidence we've discovered that's crucial to the case. If he won't grant that, we'll have to demand a hearing. I can tell him more about the Stein test results. That should be enough to delay things until we can convince Steve Harmon to drop the case."

"I can't believe he wouldn't agree with us."

"These judges are always concerned about the caseloads and how long it takes to get a trial out. They want to move their caseloads."

"I know, but in our case . . . I'll get this drafted today so you can check it out. As soon as you give me the green light, I'll e-file it."

"Cool. Have you finished the research to challenge the search of El-Amin's apartment? In case we have to start the trial, we've got to be ready to argue that at the omnibus hearing."

"I'm all over it," Jackie said.

"Damn. I forgot to get the jury questionnaire. Even though our client many not let us participate as his lawyers, we should be ready for that, too. I'm afraid the jury pool may be biased against him simply because he's Somali."

Jackie said, "I forgot how much work a trial can be."

"It's like a marathon—lots of training and prep, then as a reward for all the work, you get to try the thing for a few weeks."

"What a prize." Jackie gathered the loose papers on the table into brown file folders. She powered down her laptop, folded it, and tucked it under her arm. "I'm really dragging. I thought private practice was hard. This is tough."

As Jackie finished packing up, Zehra thought of Michael. He had told her about some connections he had in the Somali community. Maybe he could help her, if necessary.

She caught herself. Was she thinking this way because it could help her win the trial, or because she felt attracted to him? The truth involved both reasons.

While she texted Michael, she thought of his eyelashes and the quick eyes that sparkled when he talked about his work. He seemed so worldly and experienced. Zehra sensed passion in him along with intelligence. Crazy as it seemed, this "arranged" date might lead somewhere after all.

She asked in her text if he could help open some doors with the So-malis. Within ten minutes, to her surprise, Michael replied. He was leaving for a few days in Cairo, returning to a two-week vacation back here. Because of that, he didn't think he could be of much help but would try. Zehra told him she was going to talk with the imam and would contact him afterward.

Getting into her old Audi, she stopped long enough to text BJ but couldn't reach him. Jackie had too much work to do on the motions. Zehra had hoped to visit the imam with someone else, but now she didn't have time to wait any longer.

Carolyn Bechter from Channel Six news had called, asking for an interview. Against her better judgment, Zehra had agreed to do a short one in the next few days.

When she got to the West Bank, Zehra parked the Audi around the corner from the mosque and walked. She had to make sure the imam understood how important it was to tell the same story in court as he had told them earlier. The sun peeked between the tall classroom buildings of the University of Minnesota to the east. Cool air nestled under the bushes beside the walk and brushed Zehra's legs as she passed.

The mosque looked deserted. The front door was shut, no one stood outside like before, and silence cloaked it like a heavy shawl. Maybe they were at prayers. Since she had never attended a mosque, she didn't know their schedules.

Zehra knocked on the front door and heard a hollow boom from the big prayer area inside. No one answered. She knocked again. Finally, she pushed on the door and it creaked open.

Inside, the sun hadn't penetrated yet, leaving the cavernous main space in shadows and quiet, settling dust. She stepped one foot in the door and waited. She didn't hear anything and put the second foot in. Without shutting the door, she moved deeper into the dark interior.

A chirp startled her until she realized it was a bird, caught high in the dome and anxious to get free. A tingling rose up her back. Zehra remembered to flip the back of her jacket over her head. She called out, "Mr. Moalim? Is anybody here?" Her words echoed throughout the prayer area.

She worked her way to the side, toward a door that might lead to the back. Maybe it led to the community center and the imam was there. The door was locked. She turned around and walked back to the front. When the side door creaked open behind her, Zehra jumped. She spun around to see who it was.

A large man approached her. Dressed in a black robe with a black skullcap, he had a long beard that reached almost to his waist. He didn't look Somali. He came to her quickly.

"What do you want?" he shouted. He grasped at something near his stomach that looked like it might be a ceremonial knife.

At first, Zehra felt like an intruder, as if she'd done something wrong, until she remembered this was a mosque—open to anyone. She took a deep breath, spread her feet, and prepared to deal with another chauvinistic male. "I'm Zehra Henning. I've got an appointment with Imam Moalim."

The man's eyes softened. "Why do you want him?"

"He met with us several days ago and agreed to help us in a case. He has information about my client, Mr. El-Amin. I would like to talk with him again."

"Why do you want to do this?" He squinted at her.

"Where is he?"

The man stopped talking and looked into the open, deserted prayer area. He looked back at her. "He is missing."

"What?"

"I am sorry. He is not here and did not come in this morning. We have checked his home, and he is not there."

The shock jolted Zehra. "When—?"

The man circled her. "Why do you ask all these questions? Do you have something to do with his disappearance?"

"Of course not. You're sure he's gone?"

"He is our imam. I would not joke about such a thing."

Zehra handed him her business card. "I really need to talk with him. If you find him, please have him contact me." She turned to leave. "I'll investigate this also."

The man studied her card for a long time but didn't say anything more.

She felt uneasy and just wanted to get outside. Zehra had to leave. She backed to the door, found it was still open, and jumped through it. Outside, she turned and hurried back to the Audi. She breathed deeply and felt the warm touch of the sun, slanting down at a sharp angle. The sweet smell of jasmine from someone's garden carried on the breeze.

Zehra paused to look in the windows of the small shops on Cedar Avenue. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man from the mosque coming toward her. She turned around but didn't see him. Her breathing came harder. She hurried to the car, parked around the corner.

As Zehra rounded the corner of the brick building, shouldered next to a vacant lot with high bushes along the sidewalk, the man from the mosque popped out. He must have ducked around the back to ambush her. He lunged at her.

Zehra screamed and stopped.

Of all the bad things to do, she stopped, shocked and paralyzed. He grabbed her shoulder with his hands, trying to pull her into the bushes behind him. She threw off his grip and launched herself down the sidewalk. He came after her.

The streets were deserted. Where had all the people gone? Zehra ran toward her car, then thought that even if she reached it, he'd be able to grab her while she fumbled for the keys and lock. Around the corner was an old frame building that housed the West Bank School of Music. Surely, someone would be there.

When Zehra turned the corner, she spotted the house and sprinted for it. The man yelled and crossed the street in order to cut her off.

Zehra's lungs hurt and her legs felt like bags of sand. She pushed on, cutting left to avoid him. She faked turning down the street to the left. The man changed course and charged across the street. Zehra saw a swirl of black robes as he increased his speed.

At the last moment, she faked right and, with a shrug of her shoulders, let him pass off to her left. Zehra clambered up the steps of the school and tugged at the door. Luckily, it popped open and she dove inside, slamming it behind her, and heard it click with a lock.

Sweat coursed down her face, and she gasped to gain her breath. The school remained quiet except for the bellowing of her lungs.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

A breathy voice came through Paul's phone. "Mr. Schmidt? I don't know if you remember me, but I didn't know who else to call. This is Gennifer Simmons, and we talked before."

"Yes, yes." Paul sat at his desk, watching the sun rise higher over the skyscrapers to the east, burning off the fog.

"Gennifer, with a 'G.' I'm the teacher at Hiawatha Academy."

"I remember you. Thanks for all your help." He was wide awake.

"It's another student. Well, he came to me, actually, a Somali boy about seventeen. He's one of my favorites, and I'm worried about him."

"Tell me."

"His name is Ibrahim, but he's taken the American translation of Abraham, and he's the sweetest boy."

"What are you concerned about?"

"He caught me on my way to my car so we could have a private talk. He told me he was scared, because some of the other boys had talked him into a meeting at the community center at his mosque. The elders from his clan were there, and so was a younger, Middle Eastern-looking man. He may have been a scientist, because he talked to Abraham about his science courses." She cleared her throat.

"Did the scientist try to kidnap your student?"

"No."

"Did he talk about leaving for Somalia?"

"Just the opposite. The man talked to him about doing something great for Allah here in the Twin Cities. He said he should go to the meetings at the mosque."

Paul's shoulders stiffened.

"Abraham has been so scared, he won't go back to the mosque."

"Parents?"

"Abraham is afraid the elder from the clan will find out, so he said nothing to his parents."

"Good. Thanks so much. I'd like to meet with you and the boy immediately. Is he there at school?"

"Yes. We could meet. Is he in trouble?"

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. And, yes, he could be in big trouble."

Paul called Conway. On one level, he'd be upset, but after all, the teacher had called Paul. He had to respond. When Conway didn't answer, Paul left a voicemail.

On his way to Hiawatha Academy, his phone rang.

"All right, what the hell are you doing?" Joan Cortez asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't bullshit me. I called your office, and your secretary said you shot out of there like from a cannon. What's going on?"

He took a deep breath. How much should he tell her? Since he was already on his way to meet the kid, ICE would never be able to catch up. He told her about Abraham and the scientist who'd recruited him to attend mosque.

"Attend mosque? Paul, that's what those people do."

"I know, but I have to check it out." He hung up.

At the school, he met with Ms. Simmons in the teachers' privacy room. Simmons hopped around the room like a nervous bird. "We can meet Abraham in the classroom next to mine. It's empty."

He followed her to the room, and within a few minutes, Abraham entered. Paul looked at the slender boy with dark skin. He had short, curly black hair and coal-black eyes. Like many Somalis, he had snow white teeth. The boy's eyes darted from Paul to the teacher. She put her arm around him while she introduced Paul.

"Abraham, I won't tell anyone what you tell me. Okay?" When the boy bobbed his head, Paul continued, "Your teacher told me that a scientist talked to you at the mosque."

The boy looked between Paul and Simmons. "Yes. Mr. Ammar meets with us there."

"When did these meetings happen?"

"In the past six months. One of the elders is a friend of the scientist."

"Why do you call him a scientist?"

"He told us he was some kind of scientist and that Islam had a history of the best scientists in the world, but that it's been lost. It's up to people like me to help regain that spot."

"Did he want you to do something?"

"Yes. A special mission for the glory of Allah."

"What?"

"He didn't say exactly, but it would be an important sacrifice."

The skin on Paul's arms tingled. "Did he talk about going back to Somalia?"

"No. He said the most important work was here."

"And he didn't say what that was?"

Abraham shook his head. "We were not supposed to tell our parents because the scientist is not Somali and the clans don't trust too many people outside the clans. He told us to be sure to come to mosque on Fridays and to go to school every day." Tiny beads of sweat covered the boy's forehead.

They all stood in silence. Paul wrestled with the facts. They were thin—some scientist had told the boys to go to mosque and school. So what? What did it mean—if anything?

"But I know where he works," Abraham said.

"Huh?" Paul looked at him.

"I saw the briefcase he always carries with him. It had the initials 'MA' on top and the name of the company."

"You remember the name?"

"Sure. Health Technologies."

A grin burst across Paul's face. "Great work. You may become an FBI agent in the future. What's he look like?"

"Like he's Middle Eastern. Tall, in good shape. I'd like to go to the mosque, because my friends are there. Can I go? It's on Friday."

Paul thought for a moment about using the boy as bait to lure the scientist in, but decided it was too risky. Instead, Paul would follow up with a visit to Health Technologies. Thanking both of them, Paul left and went back to his car. He Googled the company and found their website and address in Arden Hills, a suburb on the north side of the Twin Cities. There might be lots of Middle Eastern techs employed there, but how many with the initials MA?

He called Conway, heard his gruff voice, and left another voicemail. Depending on what Paul found when he arrived at the company, he'd call for backup if necessary.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

At the elevator in the basement of her condo building, Zehra pounded on the button to retrieve it. She rode up, rushed inside her condo, and locked and chained the door.

She tried to calm herself. She gasped for breath but couldn't seem to get enough. Zehra felt as if she were choking. That was too close.

To distract herself and calm down, she filled the old copper watering can her parents had given her for a housewarming gift. Gardening had always given her a respite, a spiritual retreat.

Zehra sprinkled the spinach and chives, then watered the begonias. It was easy because her hands shook. Gardening magazines had urged her to buy worms for the soil. They created a rich environment for the plants and disposed of garbage. They were right, of course, but the thought of all those worms crawling around her plants made her queasy.

The missing imam—their main witness.

Zehra keyed BJ's number on her cell. When he answered, she told him everything as quickly as she could get the words out.

"Chill, girl. I'm there already."

The trial was scheduled to start on Monday. Where was the defense now? Maybe the faked DNA evidence would be enough to win.

Like a dog sensing things before humans could, Zehra's training as a lawyer caused her to feel a gathering storm. Someone had to have faked the DNA—but who? Now the imam had disappeared. Paul must be right—this was bigger than just the murder case. She felt alone and vulnerable.

She texted Michael. Since BJ wasn't able to make headway with the Somalis, maybe Michael could. She explained what had happened at the mosque. To her surprise, he responded quickly. He might be able to help, and he suggested they meet later.

When Denzel arrived, Zehra let him in. She knew he probably couldn't do much, but having him with her for a few hours comforted Zehra. He hugged her so close, she could hear his heart thumping, and that made her feel safe.

"What really spooked me was the guy kept asking where he could find me." Zehra's voice didn't sound like her own. "Do you think he'll come after me again? Here?" She started to shake.

"I'll be here as much as you need me. I'll also call my old partner and see if he can get a squad to hang around here."

She buried her face in his chest and cried. His presence calmed her, and he let her cry as long as she needed it.

In twenty minutes, Michael also arrived. Zehra introduced the two men. Denzel said since Michael was there, he'd leave them alone. They shook hands, and BJ gave Zehra another long hug. "I'm with you, girl." He parted and left the condo.

"I think it would be good if we got out of here," Michael said. "Let us go for a ride since it's a beautiful day. Get your mind on something else."

Zehra agreed, went down to the public parking lot, and climbed into the front seat of his Mercedes. He opened the windows to let the warm summer air surround them. It felt good, and she relaxed a little. His car had a manual transmission, and she watched his strong hand maneuver the stick, shifting with confidence.

"I hate to ask you, but can we look for the imam? I think I'll be okay with you there."

"I have done some work for the Somalis in that area, but they still don't trust me much. I don't know if I can help much. Let us try if you feel okay to go back."

Zehra told him about the faked DNA evidence, which surprised him. "Our expert said that if a criminal knew how to prepare the sample, it's not too hard. Which means someone thought about this and planned to place the fake DNA at the murder scene. So, if El-Amin is the wrong guy—"

"You think your client is innocent?"

She turned in the seat to face him. "After defending people for a few years, I've come to distrust most of them. But the evidence here sure makes him look innocent."

"He told you he did the murder?"

"Sorry, that's confidential between lawyer and client."

Michael nodded, and the sun glistened off his shiny hair.

"Why would someone want El-Amin to take the blame? What's going on that I don't see?"

Michael turned onto Cedar Avenue a few blocks from the mosque. He hummed quietly to himself. "What do you think the federal agents will do when they find out the DNA was false?"

"The agent working on the case, a guy named Schmidt, knows about it."

"What action will they take?"

Zehra was flattered that Michael was so interested in her work. Most of the men she dated were more interested in the NFL or themselves. "I know that he suspects there is someone or some organization behind the killing. He's actively searching for clues." She dropped her head. "I've known him for a long time, but I don't think I can trust him entirely."

"Why not?"

"He knew about the alibi witness almost before we did, and now the witness has disappeared. Maybe the Feds grabbed him as part of their investigation, for all I know."

He turned to face her. "What do you think?"

His eyes stared into hers, making her feel a combination of unease and excitement at the same time. This man was certainly different from many others. He was attractive for his intensity and passion. Zehra said, "I'm not sure. My focus is really on the trial of my client. But I'm worried, after what happened here, that I'm now a target for some reason."

Michael pulled in front of the mosque. Several robed men slouched at the door. Every set of eyes watched them get out of the Benz. "As-salaam alaykum," Michael called to them.

One of the men finally called back, "Wa-alaykum as-salaam." No one moved.

Zehra remained in the car while Michael walked up to the men. They surrounded him.

"I am a friend of your imam, Moalim," Michael told them. "I would like to talk with him."

A younger man from the back stepped forward. "I have seen you among our people. You have worked with the children in the schools."

"Yes. Is the imam here?"

"He has disappeared. It is not like him, and we even checked his house. He has not been there for two days."

"Where did he work?"

The young man turned and pointed down the street. "That hospital. In the kitchen. We have not gone there because he would come here first."

Thanking the group, Michael got back in the car and drove five blocks to the hospital. They decided to stop at the HR department and try to find Moalim.

Inside, they identified themselves and were led into the Human Re-sources offices. After they'd waited ten minutes, a small man came into the lobby to greet them. "I'm Roger Weber, Director." He wore a stiff white shirt with red suspenders. Blond hair spiked over the top of his head. He took them back to his office, where the three of them squeezed into the chairs.

"So, you're looking for Mr. Moalim. That's coincidental, because we're looking for him also. We employ many Somali people here because they're good with the patients. He hasn't been at work for two days."

"Has he done this before?" Zehra asked.

"No. He's very reliable. He worked in the kitchen and the supply room."

"What's that involve?"

"Oh, keeping inventory, stocking things we use in the hospital."

An idea poked into Zehra's mind. "Does that supply room contain face masks?"

"Of course. In a hospital, we go through thousands of them. We have to be careful, so we use only the 3M N95, 8000 respirator. It's the best on the market for screening most of the nasty things we don't want to breathe."

Zehra's chest twitched. The same type found at the crime scene. She didn't say anything more.

They left, and Michael offered to drop her off at her condo. At the door, she hesitated, then invited him in. She led him into the kitchen and marveled at the way he seemed to glide as he walked. Graceful. She offered something to drink.

"Tea would be wonderful."

She heated water and pulled down a box of green tea. "I feel like a glass of wine after what I've been through."

"That is not good for you. I know you're not Muslim, but our rules are for everyone's benefit."

She stopped dunking the tea bag into a cup of steaming water. "If I want a glass of wine, I'll have one." She felt offended.

He shrugged and looked away.

"Hey, sorry. I know that's important to you."

Michael turned back to face her. "I am only trying to help you. There is a good reason the Prophet prohibited alcohol. You should consider it."

The "help" he offered began to feel restrictive, controlling. Zehra kept her thoughts to herself, however.

"I like you and want to help." He looked at his watch and stood to leave. "I will be very busy next week, and I must go to Cairo, Egypt on business. It will be a short trip."

"I appreciate all you've done. Let's get together when you return."

At the door they faced each other. He pulled her toward him and leaned down. He stared into her eyes and, at the last moment, lowered his head to reach her lips. With any other man, the long stare would've made Zehra think he was weird. Instead, she found him exotic and kissed him back. She felt his strong body and wondered what it would be like to touch him.

He left, and she walked to the kitchen to wash out the cups. Thoughts pressed into her mind about Michael. Zehra was still cautious about him, didn't know him, but found herself drifting toward him anyway. She felt a shudder of desire low in her body.

Her cell rang with a call from Jackie. "I've got great news." Jackie talked quickly. "Dr. Portman said he's got a window of time to meet us this afternoon."

In two hours, they sat at the Ramsey County medical examiner's office and labs in St. Paul. A tall man with long white hair that hung over his shoulders greeted them. Dr. Portman moved slowly. He sat deliberately in his leather chair and crossed his legs carefully. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

He made Zehra think of an old hippie. "Thanks for your time and for giving us a second opinion."

"Dr. Wong is a friend of mine." He smiled to reveal small teeth. "I found two things that are of interest to me. The red markings on the body that Dr. Wong noted—very unusual. Without actually viewing the body itself, I can only make my observations from the photos you provided."

"What do you think?" Zehra asked.

"Looks like a rash of some kind. Something like you might think of with eczema, but different. Discounting any skin disease, which Dr. Wong didn't observe, and therefore, I won't speculate, the rash could only mean one thing."

"What?"

"The young man was sick."

Zehra and Jackie looked at each other.

Dr. Portman steepled his hands over his protruding stomach. "I don't think I could testify to that under oath, but I'm telling you what I suspect. Yes, he was sick, and whatever he had caused the rash that covered his palms and feet."

"Any other supporting evidence for this?" Jackie said.

Portman grinned. "Yes, and it's even something you two could see."

Zehra frowned.

"The list of the contents of his stomach. Alone, it wouldn't mean much to me—as it didn't for Dr. Wong. And it certainly wasn't the cause of death. But together with the rash, it confirms the victim was deathly sick."

"What was in his stomach?"

"Undigested pills—an unusually large amount of Advil."

"A common cold?"

"Could be, but with the rash, I think it's something more. I'm going back to lab samples. I want to test the blood to see if he was infected with something worse."

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Outside of Minnesota, Michael could become Mustafa again. He looked out the window of the Egypt Air flight as it cruised over the vast city of Cairo. Even from this altitude, the city stretched for as far as he could see in all directions. The plane circled the airport and landed at Terminal 3, the newest and largest one.

He carried only the company briefcase for his laptop and a small suitcase. He'd substitute the new laptop with the package hidden in it for his old one.

Although the airport was only ten miles from central Cairo, it took a long time to reach his hotel, the Ramses Hilton. A new freeway promised a quick entry into the city, but like with most things in Cairo, corruption, crowding, and millions of people slowed progress. Piles of garbage stood everywhere. Mustafa didn't mind. He had plenty of time, and from inside the air-conditioned taxi, he could watch the unfolding of humanity on the streets in all its forms.

He'd forgotten the noise and smell.

Car horns, scooters whining beside the taxi, the bawling of donkeys, the shouts of vendors, the crush of people everywhere, crying children, the dry wind from the western desert that whistled through the arches in the markets, the calling of the faithful to prayer by muezzins, and the tinkling of bells all assaulted Mustafa.

Even in the spring, the sun beat down on everything, retarding time as if it were in slow motion. Sometimes, if you were out in it too long, your head could begin to ring until the cacophony of noise around you started to feel painful.

Finally, the taxi pulled in front of the huge, dusky Ramses Hilton. It rose alone above the east bank of the Nile, a modern square pyramid with flat sides and protruding corners. From its rooms, Mustafa could see up and down the length of the Nile, the city, and the ancient pyramids to the west. He liked that the sun, settling into the desert beyond, infused an orange glow into the rooms in the early evening.

As he walked in, he saw a man plodding across the street, hunched under an immense stack of cardboard, bound in twine and perched on his curved back. With his pants legs rolled up, the man placed one sandaled foot in front of the other, careful to avoid the potholes in the street.

"What is that?" Mustafa asked the doorman.

"Zabaleen. Christians who've collected all the garbage of Cairo for hundreds of years. They used to have herds of goats to eat the organic material, and the Zabaleen removed everything else on their backs to sell."

"What do you mean, they used to have goats?"

"Not anymore. Since the government killed all the goats here to avoid the flu, no one collects the organic garbage. Stupid decision, but it's usual for the government. Can't you smell the garbage?" The doorman lifted his nose to the breeze.

Mustafa detected the odor. He hurried into the hotel.

After leaving his things in the room, he retreated to the Terrace Café, which overlooked the Nile. As the awnings shaded him from the afternoon sun, the breeze felt good. He ordered a Diet Coke and felt guilty. Try as hard as he could, some items of Western decadence still remained with him.

Cairo was hemmed in by deserts to the east and west, so the city crawled along the banks of the Nile to the north and south. He could see this easily from the terrace. Across the Nile, Gezira Island sat in the middle of the dirty waters. Beyond that, squatting at the edge of the city, were the famous pyramids. From the back yards of the adjacent homes, a child could throw a piece of camel dung and hit the monuments.

Mustafa planned to meet the shipment and the courier at one of the Cities of the Dead, the northern one, for the transfer. In the meantime, Mustafa would attend the conference, give his presentation, and get back to the United States as soon as he could. Attended by scientists from all over the world, it would be mildly interesting. Presenting the paper provided a wonderful cover. The company had paid for everything. Besides, it was comforting to return to the world of Islam again.

Tomorrow he would meet the courier. Because of his corporate credentials, Mustafa had special privileges to carry research materials through customs. He'd practiced with other, non-threatening parcels on several occasions without ever having a problem. The test camps in the deserts of Somalia had been a success. All his efforts in the United States to recruit young men would pay off. Once he had the material back there, he'd have the boys meet to start the process.

Mustafa planned to buy a gift for Zehra to win her trust. Although she was corrupted like all Americans, he found her somewhat attractive. He would avoid any personal relationship for the sake of the mission, but he couldn't deny how pretty she was. He probably didn't have the time, but sex with an infidel might be fun.

He'd find the gift at the souk at Khan el-Khalili, one of the oldest and largest in Cairo. It would be crowded with tourists, but he could find almost anything there, including a good knife if he needed one later.

The souk had been built in the late 1300s by an Egyptian family that had a stranglehold on European trade since all goods from the east must come through this souk. The family made the kafirs pay and pay. The only thing approaching the magnitude of this monopoly for Islam today was oil.

Mustafa would go to the bazaar in the cool of the evening, when the city came back to life. He'd seen a jewelry box before, handmade with pieces of mother-of-pearl inlaid on the top. It was a perfect gift for Zehra, and it would include a silk scarf inside. Usually, American women were easy to win over. Most of their men were too stupid to consider extravagant gifts. When Mustafa gave them, the women responded.

The next morning, the loudspeakers awoke him with the call to prayer. Today these Islamic cities were much too large for human muezzins to call and be heard. Public address systems with recorded calls amplified the message in order to reach more people above the ceaseless noise of the city.

Mustafa rose, washed, stood facing southeast, and crossed his arms before his chest. He went through the normal chants to call to Allah and thank Him for the blessings. Mustafa knelt, bent forward, and touched the seven parts of his body to the floor—the forehead, palms, knees, and both big toes. The carpeting felt soft. He went through the ritual two more times.

When Mustafa finished, he dressed in tan robes and went down to the grill for a light breakfast. He took a taxi across the 6 October Bridge to Gezira Island, the largest one bisecting the rushing Nile. At the southern end of the island, the conference would be held in the Sheraton Hotel.

During the lunch break, Mustafa took advantage of the charming, small Fine Arts Museum just north of the hotel. It took his mind off the transfer. He worried because so much depended upon the package. The defense of Islam and the enormity of his task overwhelmed him at times. His best refuge was the Qur'an and the flowing words of the Prophet. How proud Mustafa was to be able to spearhead the destruction of the West. He also worried how the damage could be contained, but there were ways to do that also.

At the end of the day, Mustafa was ready for the return flight later in the evening. He dressed in a Western suit, covered by his tan robe. He carried the small suitcase and strapped the briefcase over his shoulder. The new laptop would be sealed inside for protection. He had ripped out the hard drive to avoid any ties to him.

Downstairs at the hotel, he told the taxi driver to take him to the City of the Dead. Mustafa assured him it was okay. They drove out onto the Salah Salem Highway, and the cab slowed to turn into the Northern City of the vast collection of cemeteries clumped at the foot of the Mokattam Hills.

Mustafa told him to wait. He stepped out into the dusty wind. In the distance, he could see the minarets of the Citadel quivering from the heat over the sandy landscape. The smell of rotting garbage struck Mustafa, but this was the safest place to make the transfer. He started to walk.

Five million people lived in the Cities of the Dead. Because of the chronic shortage of housing for the urban poor, they'd moved into these facilities in the cemeteries over the years. Unlike in Western cemeteries, Egyptians buried their dead in room-like sites so the family could live in them for the required forty days of mourning. Once the families left, the rooms remained vacant and available for the poor to move in.

Electric lines sagged from one roof to the next to bring in power, illegally. The entire occupation was illegal but tolerated by the government as an easy way to house the poor and avoid violent protests. For his purposes, Mustafa knew the authorities ignored most of the activities in the Cities, and he wouldn't be bothered.

He started through the twisted, unplanned streets of the cemetery. Cockroaches and flies spread before him. An occasional car languished between the tightly-packed buildings.

Mustafa made two left turns and avoided stepping into a pool of stinking liquid from a garbage pile. He looked up the street to see white laundry flapping in the dry wind, strung between two gravestones. To the side, a fat man sat in front of a grave marker turned sideways to create a desk. Wrapped in dirty robes, he scratched a pen across papers before him. The man looked up with large eyes at Mustafa. One eye was clouded over with a milky cataract. Mustafa felt for the new knife hidden under his robes.

Around one more corner in a narrow alley, Mustafa met him.

He was a swarthy man, carrying a briefcase stamped in big letters on the side that read "ISTC, Moscow." Mustafa almost laughed at the irony of it all—a briefcase of death in the middle of a city of dead people. He approached the man, looked him in the eye, and said, "As-salaam alaykum, peace be with you."

"Wa-alaykum as-salaam, and peace be with you also." The man stared at Mustafa.

Mustafa waited for the handoff. No one moved. A puff of dry dust blew past them. Stabbing like a knife on the ground between them, the slanting sun cast a blinding white light from between the gravestones. Shadows gripped the side of the walls. Mustafa asked for the transfer.

"What is it worth to you, American? You are rich."

"What?"

"You must pay a little more for this. I know of its value."

Blood rushed up across Mustafa's chest and into his face. His anger boiled out of control. He came closer and burned his eyes into the man. "Give it to me, you goat!"

Holding the briefcase behind him, the man backed up to the wall, shrouded in shadows.

Mustafa trembled, dropped what he carried, jerked out the knife, and without taking his eyes off the man's eyes, stabbed him repeatedly in the torso. Mustafa worked his way up the midriff to reach under the ribs to find the heart. A last, deep plunge and the swarthy man jerked once, fell into the dust, and died.

Catching his breath, Mustafa stood back for a moment. The wind blew a greasy piece of paper across the dead body and down into the dark alley.

Mustafa grabbed the new case, traded laptops from his corporate briefcase, removed his bloodied robe, dropped the knife, and left. He made his way back to the taxi. Setting the briefcase carefully beside him on the seat, he told the driver to hurry to the airport. His flight left that evening.

In spite of the air conditioning in the taxi, Mustafa found himself sweating.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

When Joan Cortez clicked off her phone after talking to Paul, she quivered with excitement. But she forced herself to sit and think. The scientist at the school had insisted the boys go back to school and go to mosque. She didn't want to go off in the wrong direction, but this sounded like the plot they feared the most. Should she call the Army now?

On the one hand, she wanted to break the case and uncover the plot herself. This one would ensure her career forever. Still, she knew she couldn't do it alone. ICE had the manpower, but not the technical expertise.

Poor Paul, so far over his head. By the time he figured out what was going on, she'd have it all wrapped up. A nice guy, but business was business. He would complain to her after she'd taken it down. She'd simply tell him, "Homeland Security." If it was even half as big as they suspected, she'd be a national hero. Her grubby little life would change forever. Joan could give her son all he deserved. And no need for help from the deadbeat ex-husband. In fact, she might have lots of interested men in the future.

What scared Joan was the timetable. In a "few days," the boy had said to Paul. That was a lot faster than expected. She calculated the rollout and realized they would have less than a week to head things off—not enough time.

Ribbons of sweat smeared down the sides of her chest. Joan took a deep breath. This wasn't the same as chasing a bogey across the Mexican border; this would challenge everything they had to combat it. How far had the enemy progressed? Was it here yet? If law enforcement missed the small window of time to stop the bad guys, they might as well give up.

With all the pressure, her mind seemed to slow down until Joan could feel her thoughts struggling to organize themselves. To make sense of it all. To decide how to fight them. She looked at her watch.

Joan keyed her phone to an app specially developed by Homeland Security for just this occurrence. It would calculate the timing more accurately than she could. Let's see . . . on Friday, the boy said.

Fear crept up from behind her, causing Joan to lose her concentration. She sat back for a moment, shook out her hands, and went back to keying in the data for the app. She ran the numbers three times to be certain. Finished, Joan pulled her sweater closer around her shoulders.

Finally convinced, she knew what had to be done.

Should Joan email them? Too slow. That was why he'd given her his cell phone number. Direct.

She picked up her cell and tried to dial the number, but her fingers couldn't hit the small keys. She started again. This time it worked. The phone rang, kept ringing. Finally, someone said, "Yes?"

"It's Agent Joan Cortez from ICE."

"Yes—?" The voice sounded hollow, almost bored.

She swallowed. "I have a message for Dr. Sarnahan."

"What do you have, Agent?"

"With intel we've obtained and after running the data through the app—"

"Just get to the point."

"I think—tell him that it's already here."

# Chapter Thirty

Paul drove to the Arden Hills campus of Health Technologies. He'd Googled the company and found they were one of the largest bio-tech companies in the US, with offices all over the world.

He parked in the spacious lot surrounded by manicured bushes, acres of green grass, and a fountain that shot a jet of water high into the air. He thought of calling Conway again. The news from Abraham at school would probably change Conway's attitude, but Paul didn't want to take any chances yet. Just a little more investigation. If it produced legitimate information, he'd call Conway with the results.

Paul worried. What if he couldn't find the mysterious Dr. A. in time? Should he call for backup? No. For now, he'd handle it alone.

The main lobby of the company soared three stories into a clear glass area above him. Sun danced off the steel supports and cascaded into the lobby so that no artificial lights were required. It faced south to minimize energy use, and expensive plants fanned out from the front door like open arms.

Paul's shoes clapped over the polished granite as he walked toward a low, modern desk. A beautiful woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a firm bun looked up at him, smiling as brightly as the sun above.

He pulled out his FBI identification and told her who he was looking for.

"You should talk to the head of security, Mr. Crenshaw. Please take a seat, Agent Schmidt. Would you like coffee, tea, a latte, or water?"

After she handed him a chilled bottle of water, Paul sank into a soft leather chair that was so deep, he worried he wouldn't be able to get out of it.

In two minutes, Crenshaw appeared in the lobby. He was short, thick, and had an unusual hairstyle. Must be a rug, Paul thought. He followed Crenshaw down a long, quiet hallway. Paul's feet sank into the gray carpeting until they came to the office. They sat in seats around a conference table.

"We've never had the FBI here before. Our most serious crime is usually petty thefts and collisions in the parking lot," Crenshaw said, patting the back of his head as if the hairpiece had slipped. "Always wanted to work for the Bureau myself." He grinned, but it disappeared quickly.

"I'd like to talk with someone I think is employed here. Do your people get briefcases with their initials and your company name on them?"

"Some do, yes. Who do you want to talk with?"

"I think he's a scientist. Middle Eastern, probably, with the initials M.A."

Crenshaw's eyes flicked around the room. "Our employees' information is confidential, and even the FBI would need a warrant to—"

"Listen, Mr. Crenshaw, I'll cut the bullshit."

He sat up and stopped patting his hair.

"This is a matter of homeland security. After we talk, I want you to call for your own security people. I'll need to talk with them before we approach the suspect."

"The suspect?" Crenshaw's voice squeaked. "What's going on?"

"We don't know all the answers, but I'm convinced this man could be very dangerous."

"He works here?"

Paul nodded. "How could I find out who M.A. is?"

He didn't move, and Paul could tell his brain was whirling. Crenshaw rose and moved behind a desk. "We have scientists from all over the world working here." He tapped on a computer for a few minutes and frowned. "Here, here he is, I think. We have several employees in the science department. Malcolm Alpers, Michael Ammar, Vicky Aniston, and, of course, lots of Andersons. We're in Minnesota, after all." Crenshaw looked up from the screen with a grin.

"Wait." Abraham had said the name Ammar. "What about Michael Ammar?"

"Lessee—he's worked here about three years. In our microbiology labs." Crenshaw gave Paul a brief bio of Ammar.

"Are there lots of people around him, or does he work alone in an office?"

"What do you mean?"

"We have to be careful how we approach him."

"Should I call to see if he's in?"

"No," Paul shouted. "Call his secretary, but tell her not to say anything."

Crenshaw called and found out Ammar was out on a two-week vacation.

Paul slapped his knee and swore. "Of course he is. He's going to be busy with the students in a few days."

"There's something odd. His secretary said he'd just gotten back from a business trip to Cairo. Normally, we don't allow someone to take vacation immediately following a trip."

"Cairo?" A hollow feeling expanded in Paul's chest. "What's his home address?"

Crenshaw hesitated. "We're not supposed to give that—"

Paul jumped from his seat and leaned over the desk, spinning the computer screen out of the way. "What the hell don't you get about national security? Do you want to be the one who wouldn't help the FBI stop a terrorist? Let's go to your boss right now."

He gulped, it looked like his rug shifted backward, and he turned the screen back to face him. He keyed the board. "Here, here it is."

Paul took a photo and raced out to his car. He called Conway.

"God damn it, Paul. I told you—"

He quickly explained the events that had led to Paul's search for Dr. Ammar. "Don't you see we've got to move on it—yesterday?"

"So?"

Paul heard a small plup as Conway took a puff from his cigarette—even though it was a non-smoking building. Paul said, "Something's going to happen at the school or the mosque in a few days. We've got to intercept this guy before anything goes down."

Conway was silent for a minute. "These damn Somali cases—they just won't go away. Okay. Where are you now?"

"Just about to case the suspect's house."

"I'll get the emergency response team scrambled to meet you there," Conway ordered. "Wait for me." He paused. "And if you screw this up—"

Ammar lived in southwest Minneapolis in a quiet neighborhood of single family houses. Minnehaha Creek twisted through the neighborhood on its way to the Mississippi. Walking and biking trails hugged the banks of the creek.

Large elms and ash trees curved over the streets like umbrellas, creating a canopy of shadows in the front yards. Paul found Ammar's house, a tight bungalow made of stucco with brown wood trim. Green ivy snaked from the side and threatened to engulf the front door. The lawn, speckled with yellow dandelions, needed mowing.

Paul slowed as he reached the house and tried to see in. Shades hid the interior. A rusted air conditioner stuck out of the side window. In the alley behind the house, garages stood with garbage cans stacked next to their sagging walls.

When he reached the end of the alley, he noticed something. There weren't any cans behind Ammar's house. Paul parked around the corner at an angle where he could watch the front of the house while he waited for the team. The hollow feeling returned to his chest, and he felt as if he had to piss badly.

At his ankle, he carried the little Glock 29, the subcompact. Under his arm, in the shoulder holster, he cradled the Glock 21 with the .45 caliber slugs in it.

His cell phone buzzed. The assault team was near and asked for intelligence about the house. In five minutes, a dark van pulled up behind Paul. Five agents dressed in dark blue jackets and pants jumped from the van and huddled next to it on the sidewalk. Large yellow letters on their backs read "FBI." Paul knew they were armed for anything and vested. One agent carried a "bunker buster," a light but protective shield carried before him when he burst through a door.

The leader, First Deputy Tony Valentini, came up to Paul. Without shaking, Valentini said, "What's the intel, Agent?"

Paul detailed the area for them.

"I'll take two agents with me for the front, and I want two others to ride with you up the alley, Schmidt. We'll be responsible for primary contact. Cover the escape route if necessary. Description? Alone?"

Paul told them. "Probably alone. No family or wife."

"From what you say, I'm thinking a bomb, possibly. Once we're in position, we've got to move!" He thought for a moment. "Conway wants us to wait for him, but he'll just get in the way." He grinned. "We can't let the suspect escape. We move out now, gentlemen."

The agents separated into the two vehicles. Paul backed up and turned into the alley. He waited for the van to round the corner into the street and gave it a little time to reach the front of the house. Paul rolled up the alley and peered through the houses to keep pace with the van.

He parked his car to block the garage and alley. The two other agents fanned out to each side of the back door and pulled out their weapons. Since Paul wasn't wearing a vest, he screened himself behind the car. He braced the Glock 21 on the roof of the car and pointed it at the back door.

He forced himself to keep calm. The two agents at the door fidgeted while in position. Paul strained to see into the dark windows for any hint of trouble. No matter how many takedowns a person went through, they were always tense. Anything could happen.

Five minutes later, Paul heard a crash from the front of the house. Probably the door breaking open. Men shouted. His impulse was to storm the back door, but they'd been trained to wait. No one appeared in the back until Valentini shouted to them before opening the back door himself.

Inside, they searched the small house. It was obvious no one had lived there for many months. The refrigerator was clean and turned off, the toilet paper roller empty, the cupboards bare, and dust settled on every surface. Paul smelled the stale air and was reminded of his grandparents' house.

"You got bad intel," Valentini said to Paul. "Nice work." He scowled.

"Hey, we didn't know. This is his official address at the company."

"What the hell's going on?" A hoarse voice carried in from the front door. Conway stepped into the living room. He huffed and looked around. "What'd you bag?"

He looked from one agent to the next until he came to Paul. No one had to explain. "What do you have to say?"

"Nothing. You agreed to the grab yourself."

"Chief." Valentini raised his hand between the two men. "Let's look around."

Everyone separated, and Paul walked to the front door. It stood open, the frame splintered in long strips of damaged wood. Sun flooded the area, making it uncomfortably warm. Paul noticed the mailbox and opened it. A bundle of mail tumbled out. "Hey, I've got something," he shouted.

Conway and Valentini hurried to the front. Paul held out the letters and junk mail. All of them were addressed to Dr. Michael Ammar.

"Drop house," Valentini said. "I'm startin' to like the smell of this guy—we're definitely on to something now. Any idea where our man could be?" he asked Paul.

Conway nodded. "I guess you're right: this guy stinks. I want him brought in," he ordered.

Paul said, "I know the mosque where he will go on Friday. Let's cover that."

Conway spun to face Paul. "We'll talk later. I may still fire you."

After they had all left, Paul sat in his car. He remembered that he'd intended to check the acronym on the stranger's jacket that Father O'Brien had told Paul about. He Googled USRMID. He didn't get any matches. Rearranging the letters, he keyed in USAMRIID. What he found stopped his breath.

USAMRIID was an acronym for the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, located at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.

# Chapter Thirty-One

Carolyn Bechter couldn't believe her good luck. The old mojo was back. While covering the murder trial of the terrorist, she'd casually asked Zehra Henning for an on-camera interview. To Carolyn's surprise, she'd agreed.

Carolyn would film a killer interview that, combined with what facts she was already gathering, would kick ass all over the country.

She shook out her hair and straightened her back. It was almost too good to be true. Only an old pro like her could handle the whole story. Carolyn thought of Schmidt. She'd kick his ass but good.

They met in the late afternoon in the common room of Henning's condo building. Luckily, Carolyn had been able to snag Ray for the camera work. The interview had started well, although nothing new was coming up. Henning was dressed casually and had beautiful eyes. She was photogenic in an ethnic way, smart, and Carolyn could sense a toughness underneath. A passionate young woman. Carolyn was confident Ray could pick up all of this on film.

She also sensed fear underneath Henning's façade. Years of interviewing people had given Carolyn the skill to read people perfectly.

As for herself, Carolyn was in Oscar-like form. She fluffed her hair more than usual and wore an off-white linen jacket with a teal blouse that opened down the front as far as she could risk without causing Reggie to pull the piece. Carolyn was particularly good at pausing mid-sentence to keep the audience's attention until the end of the question.

As they worked, Carolyn knew parts of the interview would have to be cut. The long statements Henning made about how most Muslims weren't terrorists and were not opposed to Christians wouldn't sell to Channel Six's demographics. Ray got some nice close-ups of Henning's face when she was most passionate about those beliefs. Instead, they'd splice those shots with her words about the rights of all accused people to have a fair trial. This is fucking America, after all, Carolyn thought. A little of the flag-waving would sell better.

Because of her own suspicions, Carolyn pushed Henning hard about what else was really going on behind this murder. Henning acted like she didn't know.

In twenty minutes, the interview was over. Henning said she'd forgotten her car in the public lot, so she walked out with everyone else. They all moved into the parking lot. Henning told them she was driving to her office. Carolyn watched her get into the car. Ray started to pack the camera and tripods into the Channel Six TV van. Henning tried to start the old wreck of a car. The engine just clicked.

Ray noticed too, set the camera down, and went over to help her. He opened the hood and ducked his head down, poked around, and came back up without an answer. Then he stretched out on the ground to slither underneath the car. Come on, Ray, Carolyn thought. Reggie'll have my butt with all the time and money we're wasting.

Ray shot out from under the car. His black skin was bleached white with fear. "Bomb!" He screamed again and again.

They all turned to run when the clicking sound got louder until a flat whump behind them and a blast of scalding wind knocked them all to the ground. Carolyn sprawled across the grass, pissed that it probably stained her linen jacket. As she twisted around, she saw the front end of the car explode into an orange ball with black edges of smoke. Her head felt like it was squeezed by a pair of large, hot hands.

Ray, always the professional, was rolling toward his camera, still on the ground by the van. He hefted it onto his shoulder and kneeled on one leg. He shot footage of the flames from several angles as dead leaves fluttered down around all of them. Black, stinky smoke billowed into the sky.

Carolyn's ears rang, and she couldn't hear much. People started to gather, gawking. She struggled to stand. She checked her jacket and smoothed the front, knowing she'd have to go back on camera soon. Actually, it would be great—a smudged jacket, a little smoke on her face, and her hair tousled in a sexy way. Carolyn Bechter—survives a bombing to be the first to report it. She steadied Ray and pointed to the shots she wanted. Great stuff. Shocked people. Scared. Now there were sirens wailing—perfect audio.

Carolyn remembered to get Henning's face also. Ray swung the camera on his shoulder to find her. The confident, controlled woman of ten minutes before was gone. Zehra stood, leaning against a tree next to where the car had been a minute earlier, motionless, her face black with smoke. Shocked. She started to shake. How had she made it out of the car without getting blown up?

"The eyes, Ray," Carolyn screamed at him over the noise surrounding them. "Get the eyes." She pushed Ray in for a closer shot. Yes—the perfect expression for the ten o'clock news.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Zehra fought desperately. The early spring heat threatened to kill her plants before they even had a chance to get going. Since the growing season in Minnesota was so short, she was determined to win the battle. They probably just needed more water. If she could just get clear of the ringing in her ears—

Back in her condo the following day, Zehra came up from sleep and a dream. She awoke with a jerk and looked around. She saw the garden on the deck and her parents. Paul Schmidt stood behind them near the kitchen. "Wha—?"

"You survived—somehow," Donald told her.

Prisha ran to Zehra's side and leaned over to hug her tightly. She smelled faintly of curry, of course. It had never smelled so comforting to Zehra. "A bomb blew up your car. Luckily, someone called 911, you were taken by ambulance to the hospital, and you only suffered a few scratches. No one knows how that happened, but I prayed to Lakshmi to give you good fortune, as she always will."

Zehra nodded. Her head throbbed, and her mother's voice sounded like it was coming through cotton.

"The doctors said you'll be okay. A good night's sleep should help," Donald added.

"This is why I want you out of the job," Prisha said. "Engineering. Medicine. Can't you see what I'm telling you? This is crazy, and it's killing me with worry."

"I remember the interview, starting my car—"

"Don't think about it," Paul said. "I've convinced the Bureau to put a guard outside for you. Meanwhile, we'll be looking into this, and I promise, we'll find out who did it and get them."

Zehra fell back onto the couch and tried to hold off sleep as it stalked her. She lost.

The next day she felt better—enough to do some work from home. In the mirror, Zehra searched her face for the damage. She had a sore shoulder, a slight headache, and a few cuts around her cheek. Not bad for someone who'd survived a bomb blast. When Ray scrambled out from under the car, Zehra had known something was wrong. Apparently, she'd been able to jump from the car just before the blast. It saved her life.

At least her brain worked as it should. She had brought home the parts of the El-Amin case that she wanted to work on, including the video the prosecutor's office had burned onto a DVD. It came from a security camera on the top of a light post at the crime scene. Zehra would see exactly what the killer and the scene looked like, even though the quality was poor. Denzel was coming to watch it also.

Like a dumb ox, she kept moving forward. At least action took her mind off the fear that haunted her now.

Zehra debated whether to call Michael. She had already told him about the car bomb in a quick phone call. He'd offered to drop everything and come to her condo. The video wouldn't be of any interest to him, anyway. Now she held her cell phone, admitting to herself that she'd like to see him again. Zehra made the call. He said of course, he would come immediately.

Her mother called to check in. Zehra reassured her about her recovery.

"I forgot, in all this horrible stuff, to ask you about Michael. How is he?"

Zehra sighed. "Actually, he's really great. I didn't expect this, but he's pretty cool."

"How serious are you? He's not Hindu, you know."

"Aw, Mom. I'm just interested. Good-bye." Zehra hung up before her mother could get going.

Her phone buzzed with the security app for the building. She let BJ enter the door on the first floor. In a few minutes, he was at her door. "Getting hot out there." He whistled. "Not as hot as things have gotten for you. I'm worried about you, girl." He reached around her and hugged tightly. "I leave you alone for a minute, and look what kinda trouble you get into." His presence was so peaceful. She really needed it now.

Zehra slumped into his arms. "I'm okay—I guess. I'm coming back to some kind of normal. In a way, the trial is a welcome distraction. I can keep going forward."

"What does the FBI think?"

"Who did it? Got to be the people behind El-Amin."

"Will you get pulled from the case now?"

"Not likely. I can't prove he was behind this, so I keep preparing for the trial. Starts on Monday."

"What can I do?"

"Watch the video with me. But before you do that, here." She handed him the copper watering can. "You can start with the hibiscus over there, the big plant with the red flowers." He held the can as if it were radioactive. "Look, Denzel, just tip it and pour."

He worked his way around the other plants. "My momma is not doing well. My father was a cop in Gary. Momma worried every night and raised all us kids. They were both a lot tougher than me."

"Hey, Michael is coming over."

BJ stopped watering. "That serious, huh?"

"No, he just wanted to see how I was doing. Don't worry, I'm just shopping."

"I'm still watching out for you."

Her phone buzzed, and she used the app again. Michael came in. He wore tan slacks, perfectly pressed, and a cotton shirt that, once again, clung to his muscled body like spandex. A heavy silver watch glistened on his wrist when he stuck out his hand to shake with Denzel.

Michael carried a package wrapped in colorful paper. He set it on the table in the main room. When he came over to see Zehra, he put his hand on her shoulder and left it there. In spite of her reticence about him, it felt good. Glancing at the package, he told her, "For later."

"How was Egypt?"

"Hot. The conference was boring, and nothing interesting happened."

Zehra moved to the far side of the table and shuffled through the stacks of files. "I've got the DVD here. Denzel, if there's anything you pick out, let me know." He sat in a wicker chair next to the flat screen, but he studied Michael instead of the screen.

She warned Michael, "This will just take a short time. It's the video of the killing. I have to watch it for my preparation. If you'd like, you can wait on the deck." He shrugged but remained in the room.

Zehra pushed in the DVD and clicked it on to play. A scratchy, black-and-white scene came to life. She saw the edge of the deli, the parking lot below, and a fence. Nothing moved in the scene, but the picture jerked repeatedly.

"Cameras are usually programmed to take shots every two seconds," BJ explained. "Cheaper that way."

About five minutes into the film, the door on the fence opened out into the parking lot. The victim, a young black man, started into the screen. His jerky movements reminded Zehra of watching films from the early days of Hollywood. A bright light from the deli shone from the right side of the scene.

From the same door, another man jumped out. The young one didn't react, so maybe he was unaware of the second man behind him. The second man was dark, tall, and wore glasses and a huge white mask over his lower face. He was dressed in a long robe. In one jerk, his left hand reached up to the boy's forehead and yanked it back. Simultaneously, he drew something across the boy's throat. It happened so fast, Zehra couldn't see the knife itself.

The killer wore what looked like surgical gloves. She hadn't seen any mention of them in the police reports and wondered why he'd worn them. Why hadn't the police noted their presence at the scene? Maybe the killer had kept them as he escaped.

Zehra shifted in her chair and felt a horrid captivation with what was happening on the screen. It sickened her, but she couldn't look away. Thankfully, the film didn't have any sound.

Even with the bad focus and jerking of the film, it was clear that the boy's head snapped back. The killer jumped out of the way. A black gush of blood exploded from the front of the boy. He staggered ahead one step, faltered, and dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The killer lurched out of view to the left.

No one moved in Zehra's condo as they watched five minutes more. The boy sprawled on the ground, motionless, while a black pool spread from under his head. Otherwise, the scene remained completely still.

Zehra found herself breathing faster than usual. Up until now, the killing had been on paper. The description of his death, the autopsy, the witness' statements, and the police reports of the crime scene had held little more emotion than a stack of paper.

The film detailed the life and death of a real human. Zehra couldn't talk for a few minutes.

BJ broke the silence. "What I wonder about are the gloves. Along with the surgical mask, it suggests someone who worked in a hospital or clinic."

"Like the imam?" Michael added. He had watched the film silently.

BJ nodded and looked closely at him.

"Why the gloves?" Zehra said.

"Hide his fingerprints from the weapon, keep the blood off of him," BJ said. "But where are the gloves?"

"I didn't see him drop the gloves on the film," she said and turned to Michael. "I'm so sorry—you must think I have a horrible job. I didn't realize it'd be so—I didn't mean for you to have to see this."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "That's okay. The hardest part for me was when the curved knife actually cut the boy's throat." He sighed. "I do not like violence, but I will be okay."

BJ cleared his throat. "Got a few clues, Z. I measured the height of the fence in person. It's hard to tell for certain from the angle of the camera, but it looks like the killer was tall—much taller than El-Amin. Since he wore a robe, it's hard to tell body shape. Notice he didn't have African hair? The killer's hair was straight."

"Anything else we can pull out of this?" Zehra said.

BJ said, "Remember, during the trial the prosecutor's going to stop at each frame and digitally enhance it. The face of the killer will be more recognizable."

"Your client?" Michael asked.

"We don't think so. The DNA doesn't match, so the killer must be someone else. Our job at trial is to convince a jury there's a reasonable doubt that El-Amin killed the boy."

"So that will solve the case for you?"

"Not exactly. The police will continue to investigate, but if we can find the real killer, we'd certainly pass on the information to them, so we'll continue to investigate ourselves."

"So you think El-Amin will not be convicted?"

"Don't know what a jury will do. If our DNA test results are admitted into the trial, I think our client will walk away."

A frown flashed across Michael's face. Perhaps he still didn't understand the American justice system.

BJ stood and stretched. "Gotta hit the bricks."

It surprised Zehra. "But we have more to review."

"Can't right now. I'll be in touch." He nodded at Michael and left.

Zehra moved to the sliding glass door that led to the deck. She slumped in a chair. "Sorry—I wasn't sure you should come over, but I wanted to see you." She looked out at her garden. Michael walked away but came back with the gift.

She felt uneasy about accepting something else from him, but he was so considerate. Most other men thought giving her an NBA t-shirt was an inspired gift.

Zehra opened the wrapping paper and the carton. From inside, she lifted out a small, beautiful jewelry box. Mother-of-pearl covered the outside. It felt smooth and cool in her hands. She opened it to find a silk scarf. Red, yellow, and green colors flowed through the exquisite material. It must have cost a fortune.

Zehra slipped the scarf around her neck and felt the softness of the silk on her skin. She looked up to find Michael watching her, his eyes big and alive. She didn't know what to say. "Thanks," she stammered. "It's so beautiful."

"Directly from Egypt. I looked for something special for you."

Zehra felt her face blush. She stood slowly and wanted to kiss him. As she moved toward him, she reached out and he leaned forward. Their faces came closer, and Zehra stood on her toes to reach his lips. At the last minute, he kissed her firmly. She reached for his shirt and pulled on it, and he backed away. "Not now."

"This is America, and I want to thank you—my way."

"Soon enough."

Zehra sighed. "Oh—all right. You have to understand, this is moving faster than I imagined." She took a deep breath. "These gifts are beautiful. Thank you."

They walked out to the deck. The sun burned down through a clear sky. With the watering, Zehra's plants had perked up and stretched open to the life offered by the sun.

Michael turned to face her. He took hold of the ends of the scarf still draped over Zehra's neck. "I thought these colors would look good with your skin color. Would you consider wearing it over your head?"

"What?"

He reached around the back of her head and flipped the scarf over it so the ends hung below her cheeks. "That is also attractive. Could you wear it this way with me?"

Zehra backed up from him. "Uh, I'm not sure. It reminds me of photos of my grandma with a shawl. This isn't me."

"In my opinion, it is important for women to be modest—"

"But, Michael, I'm an American. And I am modest—too modest sometimes." Tension stiffened her body until she looked up at him and relaxed.

"I'm sorry. You are right." He stepped into the living room and spotted the plant in the corner. "Is that a hibiscus?"

Zehra let her breath escape. "Yes. Look at the deep green of the leaves."

"And those huge, red flowers—they are stunning. You should pick one and put it in your hair before it's too late."

"Too late?"

"Surely you know that hibiscus flowers bloom once in the day and then every night, the same blossoms fall off and die."

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Paul forced the meeting with Conway. They crowded into his office at seven in the morning, along with the first deputy, Tony Valentini. Without drinking his coffee, Paul started. "I know you're pissed off at me, Bill."

Conway scowled at Paul. His arm propped up a wrinkled face.

"Tony said it himself, that he 'liked the smell of this guy.' We're onto something."

When Conway dropped his eyes and sat motionless, Paul knew to stop talking. Conway's sharp mind probably struggled to put all the facts, suspicions, and fears into a logical order. He would test the truth from various angles.

He looked at Paul and Valentini. "You're right." He heaved his body up. "Shit. I thought we had put these Somali cases to bed."

"First mission is to find Dr. Ammar."

"How about the mosque? We'll carpet it with agents. What's our time frame again?" Conway asked.

"This Friday. Abraham said the doctor wanted to meet with them. Seems the obvious way to go—if we're not too late."

"A high-percentage play," Valentini agreed.

Conway turned to Paul. He walked close enough that Paul could smell stale cigarettes. "Get back to the school and that kid. And I don't want you to Bogart this thing. Understood, Agent?"

Paul started to laugh until he realized Conway was serious.

"By the way, no one talks to the press. I find even a tiny leak, you're fired." Conway blew out a huge breath of air. "This is frightening enough for the public. For now, at least, they think we got the bad guy in jail, waiting to be convicted. I don't want any possibility of a panic on our hands if they find out we don't have this case all wrapped up and there's still some bogies out there."

When Conway turned away, Paul knew the meeting was over. He reached for his coffee cup. At the door, he stopped and said, "Bill, forgot to ask you."

"Yeah?"

"What do you know about the US Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease? I Googled their website, but there's not much information."

"Never heard of 'em. Of course, every year there's a new agency in Washington. No wonder the voters are fed up with government."

"Besides that, someone from their agency was at the crime scene and seized some of the evidence. Can you get a meeting with them ASAP?"

"Son of a bitch." Conway grabbed a phone. "Damn right. I'll call the director himself if I have to. What the hell's going on with this case?"

Paul met with Gennifer Simmons and Abraham at Hiawatha Academy an hour later. He said to the boy, "I don't want you to be scared, but we would like to meet Dr. Ammar. Could you tell me more about where you meet?"

Abraham looked from Paul to Simmons. "It's the mosque in Burnsville, near the mall. We meet in the community room once a week. Dr. Ammar is going to meet us again." He was so thin, Paul worried that if the clothes draped around Abraham were removed, he'd collapse. "Dr. Ammar is cool and talks a lot to us about being a Muslim and being proud of it."

"Oh?"

"Maybe you don't understand, but my parents work all the time. I never see them. Most of the kids at school, when they hear I'm Somali, they walk away. And the American blacks don't like us—so it's kind of lonely. Mr. Ammar helps us with things like that. We're going to see him again on Friday."

"Has he ever asked you to do anything illegal for Islam?"

Abraham laughed. "No. He's totally into science. Like, he's helping us for the Science Expo. He helped with our projects and will be there."

"I know you like the group at the mosque, but maybe you should take a week off and not go there."

"But why?" Abraham's face twisted.

"Uh, we think there are some problems with Dr. Ammar."

The boy's expression told Paul he didn't agree.

"Can he go to the Science Expo?" Simmons asked. "It's Friday night, and it's held in the fieldhouse. There will be competing science students from all over the state. Hundreds of people will be there."

"Yeah, sure."

Paul left and drove straight to the mosque in Burnsville. When he reached the neighborhood, he spotted a small sign for the mosque. Like many Muslim groups in Minnesota, they didn't have enough money for a fancy facility. This one occupied the end unit of a one-story row of offices. Paul drove around the back side and found several cars parked there.

He didn't have time to get a search warrant but hoped the people inside would cooperate. At the door, an ash tree leaned over so that its leaves brushed the corner of the building. Cardinals called in warning about the human invading their space.

After a few minutes, a man shuffled toward the door from inside and opened it. He had a black beard and wore a tan skullcap and a full-length brown robe.

Paul stuck his badge in the man's face. "I'd like to talk with you."

The man squinted at the badge as if he were nearsighted. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a man named Dr. Michael Ammar. He'll be meeting with a group of boys here tomorrow."

The man stretched to his full height. His black skin glistened in the sunlight. "I do not know anyone. He is not here. Good-bye."

Before Paul could jam the door with his foot, it slammed shut. Nothing more to do here now. But the man's reaction told Paul he was on the right track—this was the correct mosque.

Back in his car, Paul called Conway. "Bill, I'm at the mosque in Burnsville. This is the hot spot. We'll need a stakeout immediately, and we've got to move fast to protect the boys before Ammar's alerted."

"Great work, but I want you back here right now."

Something in Conway's voice bothered Paul. "I'm out here now. I'll handle surveillance until the team arrives."

"Get back here now."

"But—"

"I've got a meeting starting in ten minutes. I got through to the Army Medical Research Institute. They're meeting with us, along with ICE." His voice dropped lower. "Paul, trust me, you're going to want to hear this—"

# Chapter Thirty-Four

"Come on, Denzel," Zehra urged him. "We've got a meeting with Harmon in ten minutes."

"I'm all over it, Z."

When they got outside her office, they crumpled under the heat and humidity. An FBI agent assigned to Zehra followed a few steps behind.

"Something wrong with this weather," BJ said. "Storm must be coming. You can always tell by the smell in the air."

They crossed the street and rode the elevator in the Government Center up to Harmon's office. BJ didn't say a word. Zehra asked him, "What's wrong? Out late last night?"

He shook his head.

Her thoughts returned to Michael, to the feel of his smooth skin and the smell of his cologne. What was he doing now? She longed to be with him again, because with him her loneliness lifted for a while.

They met Steve Harmon in his office. "Hey, Zehra, sorry to hear about you. How are you holding up?" Harmon said.

Zehra shrugged her shoulders. "Hanging in there."

"Any last-minute things we should talk about? Judge Goldberg's anxious to get this baby moving on Monday."

"There is something. We watched the video yesterday and noticed the gloves the killer wore. Do you know anything about them?"

"Gloves? That's right, it looked like the killer had something on his hands. 'Course, the quality of the film is so poor, it's hard to tell for sure."

"Did the police find them at the crime scene? Are you holding out on us?"

Harmon's eyes opened wide. "Don't ever accuse me of anything unethical. You've got all the evidence I have."

"Then where did the gloves go?"

"El-Amin kept them after he slashed the kid?"

"But the killer dropped the mask at the crime scene, so why not the gloves, too?"

"Don't know. And, frankly, I'm not too concerned about that. I want a conviction."

Zehra said, "You've got to admit, this is the weirdest murder case ever—the type of mask worn, gloves, glasses. It's more than a disguise." She waited for a response. When Harmon didn't say anything, Zehra asked, "Can we see the evidence in the property room?"

"I've already called ahead for you. Sergeant Miller's waiting for you."

In a few minutes, Zehra, BJ, and the agent had crossed under the street in the tunnel past the cafeteria and come up in the massive City Hall, where the Minneapolis Police Department had its headquarters. In the basement of City Hall, they stopped at a worn wooden door with a frosted glass window in the top half. Large letters stenciled on the window said "Property Room."

As they entered, Sgt. Miller came from behind a secured door and shook hands. He smiled broadly when he recognized BJ. "Hey, dude. Still on the wrong side, huh?"

"Pays better," BJ lied. "Everything's cool. By the way, nice threads." The sergeant wore an old uniform with frayed blue shirt cuffs.

Miller led them back into a large room. Rows of metal shelves towered around them as they worked their way deeper into the room. Each shelf held dozens of banker's boxes, numbered and marked with the name of the case they came from. They were filled with exhibits for hundreds of cases. Other than the scraping of their shoes over the old concrete floor, silence hung in the room like old dust.

After three turns, Miller stopped and reached for the appropriate box. "Here it is," he grunted. Although a younger man, he looked like he'd been in the basement, alone with the boxes, a long time. His skin looked as dry as the paper boxes, and his left eye had a tendency to twitch at odd times.

He carried the box to a small metal table at the end of the row. Since forensics had already analyzed the evidence, it could be touched with bare hands. Most of the items in the box had been taken from El-Amin's apartment or found at the crime scene. Zehra watched as shirts, shoes, pants, a pair of glasses that resembled the ones in the video, and a curved knife were laid on the table.

The knife was unusual. From a long handle, the blade curved slightly, resembling a scimitar. Zehra held it in her hands. A shiver ran through her when she thought of what had been done with this weapon. Who had held it? As she turned it back and forth, the lights from the ceiling glistened off the shiny blade. An idea flashed across her mind. There was something she tried to remember about the knife. After a few moments she gave up, hoping her thought would come back later.

Outside, the sun, although steamy hot, felt good in comparison to the chill in the basement. "How about some coffee?" Zehra suggested. Her neck and shoulders still ached from the bomb blast.

She and Denzel, with the agent following, sat in a Caribou coffee shop on the second floor skyway that connected the office buildings downtown. With the brutal winters and steamy summers, the skyways bustled with life as the entire city flooded into them. They reminded Zehra of an ant farm—a toy for kids. The ants scurried through the passageways on their way to work or food. People moved through the glass tubes the same way.

BJ licked the foam from his upper lip. His eyes flicked up to Zehra, and he cleared his throat. "Uh, Z, I got something to say to you."

She could tell he was serious. She set down her cup. "What is it?"

"It's none of my business, of course, but like my momma said, 'If you got something to say, say it.'"

Zehra waited.

"It's about your friend, Michael."

She sucked in her breath. "Denzel, we got a lot to do in the next few days. Can it wait?"

"I'll say it quick." He looked at the settling foam in his cup. "He's lying to you."

She jerked back. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know what it's about, but you know with my FACS training, at least I can tell when somebody is probably lying."

Zehra wrestled with her emotions. Sure, she didn't know Michael well, but so what? That was the whole purpose of dating. "Maybe, because he's foreign, his ways of talking and expressing himself are different."

"Doesn't make any difference. The signals are universal." He reached out to her. "I know how you feel about him, but I have to warn you." His hand covered hers.

"Okay, but I can't think about it right now." Zehra waved her hand in between them. "Too much—" She looked at Denzel's eyes and found them wet and shiny. "I'll be careful. And thanks for always thinking about me."

He shrugged and stood. "Got a few things to run down."

Zehra nodded as he left. She tried to think straight. With the trial and the bombing, her world was a mess. It was impossible to sort through her emotions right now. Maybe in her thrill of meeting such an attractive man, she had missed things she normally would spot. At times, Michael had been patronizing to BJ. Was BJ reacting to that without recognizing it himself?

She had agreed to meet Michael for dinner later. Zehra looked forward to it—both for pleasure and for a chance to view him more critically.

An hour later, her phone rang. It was Denzel.

"Zehra, girl. I'm picking you up in three minutes." He sounded out of breath.

"What?"

"Don't have time to explain. Meet me in the front."

In twenty minutes, they squealed into a three-story parking ramp on the West Bank, near the hospital where the imam had worked in the supply room. Denzel told her, "The coppers found the imam's body. I still got friends there, so they tipped me." They bounded out of his car and ran to a circle of squad cars, the medical examiner's van, yellow tape, and one reporter.

As BJ and Zehra closed in on the activity, a cop in uniform came outside the tape to meet them. "BJ," he said. "Gotta stay back."

"Thanks for the tip. What's shakin'?"

"A citizen saw the car parked here for a while and thought there was an unusually large pool of oil underneath it. When he got closer, he saw it was blood. Looks like the killer backed the car over the pool after killing the victim. To hide it. Tire tracks in the blood."

"Where's the imam?"

"Trunk. It's his car. ME thinks he's been here a couple days."

"Suspects?"

The cop shrugged.

"Lemme take a look."

The cop looked back and forth, sighed and said, "Just a minute. I'll get my ass whooped."

BJ and Zehra moved toward the car. As they got closer, Zehra saw the trunk standing open and a lumpy form stuffed inside. A pallid white hand with dirty fingernails hung over the edge. She started to shake.

BJ stopped and put his arm around her. "You okay, Z?"

Taking a deep breath, she nodded yes.

They approached from the side of the car. A tech bent over the body. She worked on something and then stood up. When she moved to the side, BJ squirmed to the end of the trunk. Zehra moved beside him and forced herself to look.

Just a glance was enough. She felt sick, and her knees began to buckle. She gagged on the fear rising within her body.

The imam's head flopped back at an unusual angle. His neck had been sliced open from ear to ear, penetrating deeply into his throat. It was an identical wound to the one that had killed the young Somali boy, Ahmed, the victim in her case.

* * *

Several hours later, Zehra met Michael at a small Thai restaurant across the street from the Guthrie Theatre. BJ had stayed with her for a while until she felt calm again. She wanted to see Michael, to get away from all the blood and killings. When he'd insisted on meeting, she readily agreed. Zehra walked the few blocks from her office. The late-afternoon sun felt good and helped clear her mind.

As she stepped into the air conditioning, she fluffed her blouse and ran her hands through her hair to lift it off her shoulders. Michael, handsome as ever, stood in the corner and came quickly to her. He opened his arms and gave her a long hug. She thought of BJ's words but hoped he was wrong.

As he pulled back, his eyes opened into a smile. "You look hot and starved." He caught himself. "I did not mean 'hot' like—"

She laughed and it felt good. "Of course you didn't." Zehra followed him to the table. It also felt good to have a man look at her and tell her she was attractive. She relaxed and tried to clear her mind of the horrible events around her.

Michael had already ordered chicken satay. They sat, and Zehra launched into the food, surprised at how hungry she was since missing lunch.

While they ate, Michael asked dozens of questions. The waiter brought an order of vegetable curry and Pad Woon Sen, a noodle dish with shrimp that Michael had ordered previously for her.

For a moment, that bothered Zehra—that he hadn't let her order what she wanted. But his formality was sweet. Zehra let it slide.

Suddenly, BJ's words echoed in her head again. Was Michael more interested than normal? Was he simply curious about her work? After all, when Zehra told people what she did, most of them were fascinated and had many questions.

"You seem so interested in my trial," she said.

His eyes dropped for an instant and flicked back to her. "I am interested in anything you do."

Impressed, Zehra still pushed on. "But I'm wondering why?"

"Why? It is you. I learn what you are like through your work and how you feel about it. I see your passion and your honesty."

Her thoughts twisted.

His voice was pleasant, soothing, and he said, "All right. Let us talk about me for a while." He told her of his volunteer work at the mosque with the young people. "Muslim scientists used to be the best in the world, many centuries ago. One of my missions in life is to resurrect that leadership. I work with younger Muslims to encourage them to go into the sciences. For instance, the Science Expo is Friday night at my school, Hiawatha Academy. I have worked for months with the students to help them prepare their projects."

"How interesting."

His head tilted up. "Maybe you would like to come as my guest. Some of the projects are amazing."

"When is it?"

"Friday evening." He stopped. "I forgot. You're probably too busy with your trial."

"No. I'm sure I could squeeze in some free time—I need it." The work required for the trial was growing larger, but she also wanted to find out the truth about Michael. Zehra smiled. "Sure. I'd love to come."

"Great. I'll pick you up."

Zehra smiled and decided, just in case, to call Denzel with the details.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

As Paul returned to the FBI's main office, he felt humid hints of a coming storm, rain, and certainly lots of thunder. As he walked into the lobby, a similar sense of impending storms struck him. It wasn't so much the level of noise or activity; instead, it was the lack of both.

Conway's voice had had a panicky edge to it. Something was wrong.

In the conference room, Conway paced. Several people Paul didn't recognize stood around the edges. He was surprised to see Joan Cortez sitting at the table. He walked up to her. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't look him in the eyes. "We've been pulled in, too. You better listen."

Nervous conversations bounced off the walls until Conway asked for quiet. Paul could feel the electricity in the air.

"Listen up, folks," Conway began. "This is Dr. Stanley Sarnahan from the USAMRIID."

Sarnahan looked like a college professor. Short white hair bristled over his scalp, and he wore a button-down shirt with a narrow tie. He carried a coffee cup with stained brown edges. He moved slowly, in contrast to Conway.

He began by explaining, "I'm from the US Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease. Just call us RIID." He waved his arm at a group of drab-looking people who bunched together by the window. "We don't have much time, so here's the skinny. Since 1969 our mission has been to research biological threats to the military and develop strategies for defense against these threats that require containment. Our work also includes defense of the civilian population when called upon."

Conway, always needing attention, said, "They have over two hundred scientists who developed a response to the anthrax scare after 9/11."

"That forced us to expand our capacity to combat threats by tenfold," Sarnahan said.

Valentini shouted, "So this is about anthrax, again?"

The doctor shook his head. "Not that simple. Don't repeat this anywhere, but frankly, we were taken by surprise. Until the message came from our Russian counterpart at Vector, we would never have guessed—"

"Vector?" Fancher said.

"Sorry, I'll back up. Smallpox was eradicated from the planet in 1979. However, two repositories were established to preserve the virus for future research purposes. One is located at the CDC in Atlanta, and the other is in Vector, Russia."

Paul looked around the room. No one moved.

"Vector was chosen because the Soviets established a secret biological warfare research center during the Cold War. President Richard Nixon halted all biological warfare research in 1969. The Soviets agreed to halt their research also—but they didn't.

"Once the Communists fell, our government moved into Vector and set up joint research projects in order to monitor their work. In fact, the complex is under military guard and has a security system built by the Bechtel Group and paid for by our government."

Conway said, "So the virus is actually stored in Russia and Atlanta?"

"That's correct. They're the only places on earth where smallpox is kept in deep freeze."

"So what's the problem?" Valentini asked.

"We received word two weeks ago that a sample of the smallpox virus and the vaccine against it had been stolen from the lab at Vector. It disappeared."

"After being frozen, are these samples dangerous?" Conway said.

"The stolen samples are extremely hot."

"What's that mean?" Conway said.

"Dangerous and contagious," Dr. Sarnahan said. "The Soviets used a three-hundred-gallon tank and filled it with live kidney cells from African green monkeys and pumped in smallpox. It created a 'hot,' or amplified version of smallpox."

Paul could tell people still failed to catch on to the danger.

Dr. Sarnahan continued, "It would be easy for someone to draw off samples that could be freeze-dried in small vials and easily carried anywhere in the world. Smallpox invades the respiratory system from human to human. It's spread by coughing, sneezing, and anything that can be airborne. So it's easy to transport and wouldn't take a large sample in order to start a pandemic."

"And," Conway interrupted, "you think the samples are here?"

Dr. Sarnahan sipped his coffee quickly. "Yes."

"What evidence do you have?" Valentini asked.

"When the young Somali man was killed a few months ago, that alerted some of the ICE agents, who had been tracking the young men for a long time. Agent Cortez," he said, nodding in her direction, "contacted our scientists here to help with the investigation."

Paul stared at Joan. She refused to look at him. He was furious. She hadn't lied to him, but she had left out big chunks of what she knew when they had met.

"Also, several things struck us as odd: the killer wore a mask that's designed to prevent the spread of airborne contaminants. He wore glasses, and we found a pair of latex gloves at the crime scene. A disguise? Perhaps, but our theory is he wore them to protect against a contagious disease."

"Still not conclusive evidence," Valentini insisted.

"Up to that point, the evidence was curious, but not much more, so we stopped our investigation. We really didn't know what else to do until we thought of the autopsy conducted on the victim. We obtained samples of tissue remains and, unlike the medical examiner, we tested and found the results of a variola—uh, smallpox—invasion."

"What?" Paul shouted. "You're saying the victim had smallpox?"

"Exactly. So, the question became—if smallpox doesn't exist in the world, how did the boy contract the disease?"

"Wouldn't the victim infect others?" Conway asked.

"That depends on the incubation period. Normally, it's two weeks. It takes a while for the patient to be contagious. Hopefully, the boy was killed before that point."

Conway crossed his arms. "What the hell can we do to help, Doctor?"

"At this point, we're stumped and hoped you folks could help. Smallpox is highly adaptable to the human body and is considered to be the worst human disease. It's estimated to have killed more people in the world than any other infectious pathogen in history."

People around the table shifted uncomfortably. Some looked into their coffee cups. Murmurs echoed around the room. Finally, Valentini spoke. "I remember the anthrax scare. Turned out to be a lot of fear and not much else. Besides, I was inoculated against smallpox as a kid, and I bet everyone in this room was also. So what's the big deal?"

Dr. Sarnahan shook his head. "Decayed. All your vaccinations are so old, they've lost their effectiveness against the disease. That wasn't a problem since variola had been eradicated from the planet, but if someone re-introduces it—no one, no one in the world is immune."

"Back to my question," Conway said. "What can we do now?"

"We must assume this is a terrorist plot. Before an outbreak of smallpox could occur, they have to overcome two problems. First, the terrorist would have to obtain a sample of a live variola virus. The theft from Vector accomplished that. Second, a delivery system would have to be devised. That's where we're at now. Would they dump it in the drinking water? Drop a bomb of it on New York City? To make things worse, the virus is able to live outside the human body for up to two months."

Conway took a deep breath. "We need a short break to clear our brains."

Paul's phone rang. It was Zehra, who asked if he knew anything about gloves at the crime scene. He responded, "I've got some info for you, but I'm busy right now." He almost hung up when he remembered to warn her. "Stay away from Burnsville for a few days."

"What are you talking about?"

"We suspect a major law enforcement event there." He clicked off.

He found Joan near the window that overlooked Minneapolis. "Why?" he asked her. "I know you've got stuff you can't share, but this wasn't a small item."

"Most of this is so highly classified that I can't even write it in my diary."

"Bullshit."

She shrugged. "I was ordered to be careful with the intel."

"Why didn't you tell me you were at the crime scene and what you found?"

"Because of the evidence we found." Joan took a deep breath. "National security is all I can say."

"I work for the goddamn FBI! National security is what we do."

She sighed. "I've got my career. If ICE busts this, I'm golden. I gave you what I could." For a moment, she looked up at him with softened eyes. "Sorry, shit happens."

Everyone returned to the conference table. Valentini started. "I get how this works, Doc. But can't we just find it and snuff it out?"

Sarnahan's eyes lifted slowly. He unwrapped a Snickers bar and took a big bite. He looked at his team grouped in the corner and back at the table. "Agent, I don't think you grasp the gravity of the threat. You better sit down for this."

# Chapter Thirty-Six

Friday morning, Mustafa rushed from his second house to Hiawatha Academy. He knew the drop house in south Minneapolis had been compromised. He must move quickly now, before the FBI found out any more about the plot.

Luckily, he had access to information through Zehra Henning. Mustafa paused to think about her. Even though she was an infidel, in a different place and different time, maybe she would have been . . . He dismissed the idea abruptly. She would never submit to him or convert to Islam. But for now, he must keep that channel open and pretend to be fascinated with her.

Henning had become suspicious, it was obvious. Mustafa planned to do anything to keep her trust and fool her until she would be disposed of, like all the rest, as a sacrifice to Allah.

She had called him a few minutes ago with more valuable data. For some reason, Zehra also wanted the exact location of the Hiawatha Aca-demy and the Science Expo. Mustafa assured her he would drive and return her home early. Her brazen questioning bothered him, but he'd been smart enough to placate her. In turn, she'd revealed contacts with the FBI. Mustafa learned they had discovered the southern mosque in Burnsville. If they had not already flooded the area, they would soon. It didn't make any difference to him; he wouldn't go back anyway. The end was coming.

Would Zehra inadvertently tell the FBI about the Science Expo and himself? Probably not, because she still didn't connect him with anything of interest to the FBI. He was safe for now. That was another reason he must keep Henning with him tonight—to control her movements and communications.

It would work perfectly.

He ran over the details. The Science Expo would draw hundreds of people from all over the state to view the projects in the fieldhouse of the academy. Because he'd done so much volunteer work there, he had open access to the facility anytime he needed it. Mustafa had purposely spent time wandering in the basement of the fieldhouse to the point that the maintenance people ignored him.

He pulled his Benz into the faculty parking lot of the school. He got out, locked up, and hurried into the fieldhouse. A few students were in there, putting the final touches on their projects in preparation for the Expo tonight. He waved at one of the other science teachers who was directing the last-minute work.

"Hey, Dr. A. Ready for the crowds? Some of these students will just make it under the wire."

He nodded at the stupid woman and hurried past her. She deserved to be one of the first to go.

Mustafa walked to the end of the building and let himself through a door that led downstairs to the extensive spaces underneath the fieldhouse. The area was used for storage and contained some of the heating and air conditioning ductwork. He searched for the vents he'd picked out earlier. Even though he'd been over this many times, he would inspect it all again.

He reached a section that was directly below the large area where all the projects were assembled for display. He checked the air vents to make certain they were open and cleared, as he did also with the return vents in the center of the room.

Next, he found the fan attached to the return vents. He flicked it on and went back upstairs. Behind the space used to display the projects, he found the metal vents fastened to the floor. As he worked, the students concentrated on their projects and didn't pay any attention to him. He flicked a Bic lighter and watched the flame bend down toward the return air vent. Activating the fan would create a negative pressure condition in the room to ensure the process worked efficiently and quickly.

Back in the basement, he shut off the fans and inspected the aerosolization device attached to the inflow air ducts. He also tried those fans by turning them on. They hummed quietly. Mustafa repeated the match test upstairs and found air blowing hard out of the vents along the wall into the big room.

He decided to launch it at seven o'clock—when he'd calculated the maximum number of visitors would be present.

With his skills, Mustafa had personally designed the special equipment that would take the dried samples and vaporize them with just enough moisture to adhere to the respiratory tracts of the boys and every single one of the visitors who would trudge through the projects. He had designed it to release a prescribed amount for two hours—plenty of time and quantity to infect them all easily. And with the high concentrations, the incubation period in the people would be considerably shortened.

He had already taken the vaccine provided with the sample stolen from Vector, although he wasn't sure it would be effective. Ultimately, only Allah could protect him.

The unsuspecting kafirs would not smell or feel anything until the symptoms showed up in a few days. Even then, it would seem like the flu, and Mustafa doubted any doctor would even consider making a diagnosis for smallpox—at least, not quickly enough.

His groin tightened at the thought of the success of the plot. To further protect himself, he would leave the country to view the carnage from afar. He detested suicide bombers as crude and limited in their effect. His way would shock the entire world. The casualties would be immense and would lead to mass chaos. It would bring about the kingdom of Allah in the heartland of the infidel.

Mustafa stopped on the main floor of the fieldhouse and sat in a high chair next to the heart model he'd helped the boy construct. All the years, the planning, the failures, the double life he had led, the fools he'd had to pretend to enjoy, the enormous risks, all weighed on him. Sweat moistened his forehead. When he reached up to wipe it off, his hand trembled.

This would finally bring the victory for Allah.

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

What was unfolding in the FBI's conference room shocked Paul beyond imagining. He hoped to God the scientists had some solutions.

Dr. Sarnahan continued, "The terrorists will need a delivery system. We don't have a clue what that might be."

"At least security is much tighter today," Paul said.

"True, but the world has grown more vulnerable to the disease." Sarnahan unwrapped another Snickers bar. "Considering that routine vaccination of Americans ended in 1972, we have a nation that is totally vulnerable to the virus."

"How much of a spread are we talking about, Doc?" Conway asked.

"Epidemiologists have models that can tell them how fast a disease will spread. The main figure they concentrate on is the number of people who will contract the disease from an infected person. It's called 'R-zero,' or the multiplier of the disease. It tells them how fast the disease will spread.

"In a modern country like the US, with mass transportation, shopping malls, and a mobile population, the multiplier is between three and twenty. An infected person could pass it to three or as many as twenty people." Dr. Sarnahan moved to the whiteboard next to the table and started to write.

No one interrupted him.

"Let's say smallpox has a multiplier of five. The spread will be explosive because five multiplied by itself every two weeks—the incubation period—can reach millions of people in a few months." He drew the numbers on the board. "Like a forest fire that feeds on itself, there would be an explosive transmission through a population of people—with no immunity."

No one moved.

Conway interrupted. "But wouldn't you put up a fire ring around the outbreak and vaccinate everyone possible?"

"Classic response. The CDC has stockpiled millions of doses of vaccine, but it's never been tested since the disease has been eradicated. And to build the fire ring, we'd have to quarantine everyone in the Twin Cities in their homes for two weeks or more while the medical teams vaccinated them all."

Heads nodded.

Sarnahan took a bite of his candy bar. "If we can't contain it quickly enough, we lose, and the virus crashes through our defenses. It's designed to go out of control, to kill as many people as possible, anywhere it can find a human host."

"Wouldn't these cases be caught by doctors treating patients?" Paul said.

"Doubt it. They wouldn't even know to look for it."

Valentini walked to the end of the table. "Am I the only one here not buying all this? We're not living in Jakarta or some shit-bag slum. I don't get why we can't simply contain it."

With a wave of his hand, Dr. Sarnahan brought a small man out of the corner of the room. "This is Dr. Kumar, our expert on that issue."

A young Indian man with straight black hair started to speak. He wore a black shirt, a black jacket, and leather sandals. "We have expert teams trained to respond. These teams are vaccinated and can deploy to the hot zone to confirm the diagnosis and work to contain it. We call it 'quarantine-ring vaccination.' That's the simple part.

"The vaccine is useless if administered more than four to five days after exposure because the virus will have overwhelmed the immune system, which won't be able to kick in fast enough. Other than getting people together for a Vikings game, think of how hard it will be to congregate people fast enough to administer the vaccine. Two months? Too late."

Valentini looked down at the carpeting. "Half the public wouldn't believe us and wouldn't cooperate, anyway."

He must be really worried, Paul thought. Like the rest of us. Paul could sense the fear in the room by the lack of any sound. Dr. Kumar reached inside his jacket and scratched for a long time, as if he had some disease.

Conway cleared his throat. "Like I said earlier, what can we do to help?"

Sarnahan joined Kumar. "Frankly, Bill, the disease isn't our greatest problem. That's not the reason a terrorist would introduce it."

"You just scared the shit out of us, and now you say it's not a problem?"

"Sit down, Bill," said Sarnahan. "The fact is, no pandemic has ever been controlled. We hope our response team can do that. In the meantime, we have to deal with something far worse—the fear factor." He finished the last of his Snickers bar and tossed the crumpled wrapper on the table. "Remember the panic everyone felt after 9/11? Multiply that by a thousand. If the public learns of what we've been talking about, what do you think their reaction will be?"

"So that's the ballgame," Conway said. "I can imagine if crowds of people stampede the vaccine centers. And then there's the transportation systems, schools, malls, and hospitals." He looked up with gray, sagging eyes. "They'll all crash."

Paul said, "And if they try to get out of town, to flee?"

"Worst possible thing to do," Sarnahan said. "It will amplify the spread. Our local first responders won't be immune, so when they try to control the population, they'll succumb also."

"Katrina," Valentini reminded everyone. "Complete breakdown of a civil society."

In a whisper, Conway asked, "What can we do? We can't just sit here."

"We have one shot at controlling this," Sarnahan said. "If we know the delivery point, we can quarantine a manageable zone and vaccinate everyone inside the zone immediately. We may be able to control the spread. I've already contacted the CDC's war room. They're sending a vaccinated team while we talk. Should arrive here tonight."

Dr. Kumar said, "We need law enforcement to help keep the outer perimeter of the quarantine area sealed." He scratched his arm. "It will still be a great risk to all of us to even be near the scene."

"What should we tell the public?" Paul said.

"Good question. Studies have shown that when we tell the public the truth, they ignore it," Sarnahan said. "If we assure people we have everything under control, not to panic—the response is panic. I suggest we mention very little of this to the press. If we do, my concern is the news will spread faster than the disease. Even if we don't have a pathogen introduced, the news itself will cause a panic and chaos."

"One small problem remains," Paul said. "Where's the delivery point?"

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

Zehra didn't have to force herself to concentrate on the final trial preparations—fear did it for her. On Friday afternoon, she finished the final work on the case. She sat with Jackie at a large conference table in the public defender's office. Her ears still rang occasionally but were getting better. The memory numbed as the days went by.

"I'm so scared we won't be ready by Monday," Jackie said.

"We'll do our best. Because no matter how much you think you're ready, there's always something odd that pops up in the trial. All you can do is think on your feet."

Stacks of papers, briefs, law books, half-empty coffee cups, three laptops, and scattered chairs filled the room.

Jackie sifted through layers of notes. "BJ got all the subpoenas served." When she looked up quickly, her hair fluttered to the side of her face. "What about Dr. Stein?"

"Payment? I've had a running battle with Mao about coughing up the money for Stein. At first he didn't want to pay anything, until I pointed out that Stein's test could benefit all public defenders. Then he got the point." Zehra crossed her eyes. "Duh—"

"Okay, so he's coming in for sure." Jackie twisted her hair in her fingertips. "How do we handle our client if he still insists on going pro se without our help?"

"We still have to be prepared." Zehra waved her hand. "Every time I've had a pro se client, once they see the twelve mostly-white jurors, they always tell the judge they want their lawyer to take over."

"Hey, Josh has been so sweet, making food every night. He's so cool I may just marry him." Jackie looked up into the air. "What about the suppression motion?"

"First line of the defense. If we can get Goldberg to toss the clothing and knife out of evidence, we're winning." She pictured the knife in her mind.

"But it's just a knife."

"The knife looks dangerous. It's not a Boy Scout campfire knife. I think it'll scare the jury."

"This is like a wicked smart chess game."

"Yeah. We've got to anticipate the different ways Harmon can go and prepare for all of them, just in case. And if El-Amin chooses to testify, that could really scare the jury."

They both buried themselves in the work and remained silent. When Jackie wasn't looking, Zehra reached into her bag and pulled out a chocolate cupcake. She leaned down and took a quick bite. Probably go straight to my thighs, she thought, but justified it by all the pressure on her.

Jackie interrupted the work. "Is this the toughest case you've ever had?"

Zehra pushed back her chair. "No, I think the toughest are when you're sure the client is innocent. Since the prosecutors win about ninety-five percent of their cases, it puts a lot of strain on the defense lawyer to win. Sometimes, it's actually easier when you know the client is guilty. If he's found guilty, at least you know justice was done."

Looking at her phone, Zehra said, "Hey, where's Denzel?" She called him.

After four rings, he answered. "Z, I'm sorry. I'm on my way to Chicago. Momma's got some problems." His voice had a sharp edge to it—worry. "I'll be back Monday for sure."

"Take care of her. You've done the heavy lifting already."

"Hey, girl, you see that friend of yours, be sure to let someone know where you are."

"Denzel, I told you to butt out. Besides, I've got an FBI agent out in the lobby. It's worse than having my mother with me."

"Here's the problem. My sources can't find any record of this guy. If he's a famous scientist at that company, wouldn't he have some history? Some trail we could find?"

"He's Egyptian. There's probably a lot about him in that country." Her mind felt like it would collapse from the weight of everything. "Look, I've got the trial to think about. I promise to tell people where I am. Good luck with your mom."

Jackie stood up and carried a four-inch-thick notebook to Zehra's side of the table. "Here's the trial notebook. Everything. And I got it all backed up on my laptop." She opened it across the table. "See, I've got all the legal motions right here, the pleadings, complaint here." Jackie flipped through a few pages to demonstrate.

"Good work. I know it's tedious, but we have to know every detail and every fact of the case. During the trial, we won't have time to learn it. I remember a case I second-chaired a few years ago. Our client had been charged with strangling his wife to death—first degree murder because of the premeditation. He had lots of time to think about what he was doing while he choked her, so premeditation."

"Sounds like it to me."

"Until the medical examiner testified that the victim's neck was broken within seconds from the pressure of the husband's hands. After that, the next ten minutes didn't count. Since death was almost instantaneous, he didn't premeditate. Jury found him guilty of second-degree murder instead. It was a good lesson about how every trial can go off the tracks before you know it."

"How should we handle Judge Goldberg?"

"I'm happy to get assigned to him. He's honest and great to work with. Trying a case is hard enough without having to fight with a judge. If we had a more sympathetic client, we'd be in great shape with Goldberg."

Jackie frowned.

"Before going to law school, he was a social worker. He's always had a soft spot for people in trouble. Our problem is, El-Amin isn't sympathetic in any way. I think our strategy is to keep him quiet. The less Goldberg hears from our client, the better."

"How do you keep this all going?"

Zehra sighed. "Sometimes it's like keeping four plates spinning in the air at once." She stretched her arms into the air, ran them through her hair, and thought of Michael. She wanted to see him. In spite of BJ's concerns, Zehra hoped the relationship could work. Michael was attractive, intelligent, and so considerate of her. There must be something good inside of him.

Still, along with Denzel's warnings, Zehra had seen odd things he'd done, nasty attitudes about other things, and a sometimes condescending attitude toward women. Maybe Zehra could work on those things. Change him.

She turned to the window and watched the growing wind whip the trees like it was shaking out some laundry. A storm was coming. The air had a metallic color that warned of bad weather.

Zehra was anxious to meet Michael tonight. A break in the trial work would be wonderful. The Science Expo sounded interesting and fun. How would Michael react around the students? It would be revealing to see that side of him.

Then she remembered her promise to Denzel. Maybe she should call Paul. She didn't want to talk with him now, so she texted him a message. Zehra told Paul she was meeting Michael Ammar, the event, and the location of the school. Probably not necessary, especially since she had the FBI escort. So was there really any problem?

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

The only quiet place Paul could find to think for a minute was a corner of the conference room with a large window that looked out over Minneapolis. He practiced deep breathing and let his eyes float up into the air. Thunderclouds trundled in from the west.

He'd been trained with both the Rangers and the FBI to remain calm in a crisis. He had to force his anger at Joan Cortez out of his mind until later. Paul thought of the humiliating raid on Ammar's house. This time, he must get it right—not only for the sake of his career, but for the sake of thousands or millions of people.

Paul saw the reflection of Dr. Sarnahan in the window. Paul turned around. Several computer monitors had been set up by the techs. The conference room had been transformed into a command center for now. More coffee had appeared on a small table along the wall.

Conway had ordered everyone out except the crisis team, which included Paul. Conway lit up a cigarette in spite of the pained look on Sarnahan's face. Conway drew in deeply, exhaled, and asked the doctor, "Where do we start?"

Joan Cortez, followed by two other men, filed into the room and stood by the door.

"I said to clear the room," Conway barked.

"No." Joan looked directly at him. "What if the perp is bringing in more terrorists across the border or they try to escape the same way? This is our jurisdiction, too. We're staying."

Conway frowned and turned back to Dr. Sarnahan.

"We've already got the team from Atlanta coming. But we also need a containment strategy for local law enforcement."

"I want you to notify the Minnesota Department of Public Health," Conway ordered Valentini.

"No," Sarnahan shouted. "This is much too sensitive to share with them right now. It's classified intelligence. Think about it—what if this is a nationwide plot? We don't know the parameters of the problem yet. When I said 'containment strategy,' I meant not only the virus, but information, also. We don't want intelligence leaks to start a panic."

"Oh, yeah." Conway drew from his cigarette again.

Dr. Kumar hurried into the room. "The team from the Center for Disease Control has landed at the military base by the airport. They've got three epidemic intelligence officers with them, nurses, doses of vaccine, and other personnel." He scratched his side.

Valentini asked, "We still don't know the delivery site?"

"Undoubtedly, it's the mosque in Burnsville," Paul said. He told them about his investigation of Ammar and Abraham. "He screwed up, and we can take advantage of that."

"How big should we draw the circle around the quarantine site?"

Paul said, "We're going to need local law enforcement at the site."

"But don't tell them all the details," Sarnahan cautioned.

Conway told Valentini to make contact with the chief of police for Burnsville. "Give him the address."

"What should I tell him?"

Sarnahan said, "They are to maintain order and make sure no one leaves the area of the mosque. Paul, you need to get out there immediately to meet the CDC team with Dr. Kumar. Post police at all points where people may enter or leave the quarantine zone. When the CDC team arrives, they'll set up a mobile medical center to assess the problem and administer vaccinations to those people inside the containment zone as soon as they think it's necessary. Hopefully, the team won't miss anyone."

"Should we cut off the entire suburb?" Conway said.

"It may be necessary, but we won't know until the CDC team is on site to assess the extent of the release."

"I've got to notify the governor. Anyone else?" Conway said.

Sarnahan sighed. "We have to face the possibility this is a nationwide release. Contact Homeland Security, the Defense Department, and the President."

"How do I protect my people?" Conway asked.

"The priority for the CDC team is law enforcement and health workers. Next are the closest hospitals and emergency room personnel. We must maintain the viability of the medical personnel. If they're overwhelmed, we lose the war."

Paul said, "What about the kids at the mosque?"

"The team will vaccinate everyone who's infected and isolate them at the closest hospital."

People in the room attacked their cell phones and made the necessary calls.

Conway walked over to Paul. "You were at the mosque. Do you know when the meeting with the kids is supposed to happen?"

"Sometime tonight. Wait a minute—the services at the mosque began already, at noon. The meeting could be any time after."

"Like right now." Conway crossed his beefy arms over his chest. "Take the assault team with you to grab Ammar."

"I'm moving."

They ran for the elevator and descended to the basement. Paul raced to his house and took only enough time to grab the big Glock 21. He twisted into his shoulder holster and settled the gun under his arm. He picked up his Kevlar vest, just in case, and raced up the stairs. In his car, he always carried a Browning 12-gauge shotgun. He lurched out of the drive and glanced at his watch. Paul calculated it was about thirty minutes to the mosque. He called Dr. Kumar, urging him to move fast. Paul noticed a text from Zehra. He didn't have time to open it now.

"The team is on their way and will set up quickly. I'll help you work with them," Kumar said.

"When we get there, will they start the vaccinations immediately?"

"No. Because the doses are limited, they'll insist on an accurate assessment first. Depending on what they discover, we'll react."

"Our assault team will clear the area first and arrest the suspect, Ammar. The CDC should stay back for their safety. Then they can start the vaccinations."

"In this situation, they have command and will work as they determine is best."

"How long does this assessment take? Don't they know the virus could be spreading fast?"

"Of course. First they'll have to take samples from patients they suspect are infected. Then they must fly the samples by military jet to Atlanta for thorough analysis in their maximum containment lab."

# Chapter Forty

Joan Cortez had armed herself earlier and brought along the two agents she trusted the most. George Eppert and Teddy Vang sat with her in the unmarked Immigration and Customs Enforcement SUV as they raced south toward the mosque. The SUV was heavily loaded with weaponry: extra pistols, automatic rifles, shotguns, and even a Taser, if they needed it.

No one at the FBI conference had noticed when she slipped out of the meeting after learning of the location of Ammar. She'd beat all those dopes lounging around the table.

Everyone in the van had changed into lightweight Kevlar vests, covered by blue jackets with large yellow letters identifying their agency. Joan pulled back her hair and tucked it under a baseball cap. The vest hugged her ample chest. It felt hot and tight.

"What's the plan, boss?" Teddy asked.

"Simple." Joan glanced at him. He was small but one of the toughest agents she'd ever worked with. "We ignore this epidemic shit and go for the gold. We'll take down this asshole Ammar."

"You can ID him?"

"Close enough. He's an Arab; should be easy."

Teddy frowned. "You cool with this? What if we get the wrong dude? You know how these Somali religious guys are. We'll get sued, and worse, get our faces plastered on TV."

"I'm taking responsibility for this operation. If we get the guy, we're all heroes. While the rest of these idiots are running around with test tubes, we save the country." She rolled down the window to let in humid air. It smelled like a storm was coming. "Besides, the way the FBI treats us, I'd love to stick this up their ass."

Teddy shrugged and swerved between open slots among the cars heading south on the interstate. He pushed the vehicle up to ninety.

George leaned forward from the back seat. "What's the mission when we get there?" He wasn't the smartest agent she knew, but Joan could depend on his competence and loyalty to her.

"We cover the exits and force our way in, if necessary. I figure we'll trap the dude in there, or at least be ready to make the grab. We'll rescue the children there also."

"Expect any problems from the local guys at the mosque?"

"Who knows?" Joan turned to George. "Speed is our best weapon. Make the grab, secure him, get him into the vehicle, and get the hell out of there before they know what hit 'em." She ordered both of them, "No shooting unless we're fired on first."

In ten minutes, they arrived at the mosque. They cruised the adjacent streets, and it was obvious they'd beaten all other law enforcement.

A long, low row of attached offices stretched along the road to their right. They were one-story, flat-roofed, with a single door in the front of each office unit. Teddy slowed to turn around the back side of the building. A large parking lot butted up to the loading docks at the rear of the offices. There was a closed loading door and a regular door in the back.

"George, you'll take down the front entrance," Joan ordered.

Teddy circled around to the front of the building again.

"Teddy and I will take the back side. Keep your radio channel open. On my command, we'll storm the doors. The dude's name is Michael Ammar. He's about six feet, dark skin, shiny black hair, good looking. Maybe they'll give him up right away, but be prepared for anything. These people are crazy. Once we make the grab, we transport him out the back to avoid attention."

After they dropped off George, Teddy parked near the back door with the front of the SUV facing away from the loading dock. They exited the vehicle, and Teddy took the sawed-off shotgun. Joan grabbed the Taser, which she hooked onto her belt. She removed the Smith and Wesson pistol from the holster that rode over her back right hip. They hurried to the back door.

Joan whispered, "We'll both go in, but if you hear the loading door open, you cover that. I'll keep going inside." Teddy nodded and stood to the left of her. Both of them flattened on either side of the regular door with their weapons up. The Kevlar vest dug into her armpits and hurt. After all the cop shows on TV, Joan felt a little stupid, but this was proper procedure.

She spoke into the radio clipped to her shoulder. "George—go!"

Teddy and Joan folded into the door, which was unlocked. Inside, they spread immediately and raised their weapons, announced themselves, and demanded the release of Ammar.

As they came in from the summer heat, the room they entered felt cool. Ahead of them, a man in brown robes bolted down the long hallway. They yelled at him to stop, but he kept running.

Joan and Teddy hurried after him. To their right and left, several doors opened to small rooms. They cleared each one before moving on. In the front, they could hear George doing his work.

The end of the hallway opened to a large room covered in Persian rugs. Joan assumed it was the worship area. Several older, bearded men stood in a semicircle in front of George with their hands in the air.

Joan approached and studied them. They looked scared, and all of them stared at the ground. Excitement surged through her body like a wave of heat coming up from a steaming sidewalk. She loved this part. To have people cower before her like this, to obey her—it thrilled her with the power she possessed.

"Everyone take it easy. All we want is Michael Ammar. Where is he?" she shouted.

No one spoke.

Joan holstered her pistol and removed the Taser. She approached the guy who seemed to be the leader. "You in charge?"

He nodded and flicked his eyes up to hers. Instead of fear, she saw hate and anger. That would make the job easier. Joan held up the Taser. "I'm only asking once more, old man. Where the fuck is he?"

The man's mouth moved without opening. Finally, he said, "Are you looking for Dr. Ammar?"

"You're catching on quick."

"He was supposed to be here, but he has not come in." Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Joan turned to Teddy. "Search the place."

In five minutes, he returned with a group of young boys. They straggled in front of him until they reached the bigger group. Joan smiled and dropped her Taser to the side. "All right, relax. Now we're making progress." Both of the other agents lowered their weapons, and the people lowered their hands.

"When is he coming?" Joan demanded.

The older man opened his palms toward her. "I do not know. Usually, he is here by now."

"You know damn well why we're here," George shouted. "The smallpox epidemic. Some sort of a 'gee-had' of yours."

Frowns creased the faces of several of the men. They looked at each other. "Smallpox?"

"That's enough." Joan studied the group. "We'll just wait for Ammar. Let's all chill. All we want is Ammar." When she saw their eyes darting among themselves, she moved closer and ordered George and Teddy to search all of them for weapons. Then she'd isolate them in one of the small rooms.

After the search, they herded the group down the hall and into the first room on the right. It was a slow process. As Joan was about to walk away, she noticed one of the men in the back, talking fast on his cell phone.

Alerting Teddy, she stormed through the crowd and grabbed the man with the phone by the arm. With her other hand, she slammed the Taser into his face. He dropped the cell and screamed in pain. His lower lip cracked open and spouted blood.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Joan shouted.

With Teddy holding the shotgun on the man, Joan reached down to pick up the phone. He had managed to click it off, but she keyed into it and went to the menu for the recent call. Her breath stopped when she saw the man had called Channel Six TV news.

# Chapter Forty-One

From her balcony, Zehra saw the Mercedes pull into the parking lot far below. Up where she was, the hot breeze blew in from the west. Already, raindrops pelted her occasionally.

She wore jeans, tight but not too tight. Although he was conservative, Michael was still a man. Something had to awaken him to passion. Zehra studied her makeup and pulled at her thick hair. The humidity didn't help. Curls threatened to burst out all over her head. Finally, she draped the scarf he'd given her around her neck and switched off the light. She also determined to switch off thoughts of the bombing—at least for tonight.

Michael was at the downstairs entry. Zehra buzzed him in and arranged some teacups. The water on the stove bubbled and popped softly. Like the air pushed aside by a speeding semi-truck, Michael entered the condo with a burst of energy. "Hello." He looked her up and down. "You are beautiful. Are you ready?"

"Well, yeah, but don't you want some tea or pop?"

He squinted. "No, thanks. We do not have much time." He touched her briefly but seemed far away.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I have worked with these students for so long on their projects, I am nervous. I want everything to go well," Michael said.

"Relax. I'm looking forward to meeting them." Zehra paused and pulled on his arm to slow him down. "Are you missing something?"

He stopped and studied her again. "The scarf. Thank you for wearing it. It is very beautiful on you. It complements the color of your skin."

A hot blush flashed across her face. She reached for his shoulders and pulled him closer. Staring into his eyes, she brought her face close to his, felt the warmth of it, and reached up to kiss him. It was a long, deep kiss, and she could feel his body responding.

When it was over, he swayed slightly and said, "That was wonderful. Can we go now?"

"Oh, all right."

They hurried down the hall to the elevator. Waiting for it made her nervous. She'd never seen Michael so agitated. Usually, he was in complete control and prided himself on his scientific approach to things—too much, Zehra thought, especially when it came to relationships. Maybe that was how men from Egypt acted. She'd have to work on him some more.

The FBI agent met them in the lobby. He would follow them in his car.

In the Benz, she sank into the buttery-soft leather and felt the cool wisp of air from the vents. Michael drove fast. "Hey, slow down," Zehra said. "It's still rush hour, anyway."

He jerked his head toward her. "Sorry. You are right." He eased off the gas and leaned back in the seat. "I have been so busy. It is nice to see you again. You make me feel calmer."

She pushed the next question at him carefully. "Is it because I am not wearing the scarf over my head, like you asked?"

"No, it's not that."

They rode in silence for twenty minutes while Michael eased the car through the jammed traffic.

"What's the Science Expo about?"

"I have worked for months with the students. They will have all their projects displayed in the fieldhouse. It is a state-wide competition, and I hope my students win." He looked at her with soft eyes.

"Do you expect a lot of people?"

"Hundreds—I hope."

Michael reached the West River Road that traveled along the bluff above the Mississippi River. He turned into the parking lot of Hiawatha Academy, found a spot in the crowded lot, and parked the car. The light faded, and Zehra could see the sun setting under salmon-colored clouds, streaked with gray underneath. The rain came heavier and splattered on the tar lot. Thunder rumbled from far off.

They were in the faculty lot and close to the fieldhouse. A quick run across the lot brought them both to the door. The FBI agent followed close behind. A sidewalk with broken concrete sections led to the door. The grass was mowed, and two sets of tall bushes shrouded the parking lot to the east. They were so thick, Zehra couldn't see anything beyond them. A red maple arched over the door like an umbrella.

Michael led her inside and across a huge expanse of floor to the far side. A collection of tables and chairs ran along the entire wall of the fieldhouse. Each was covered with projects and surrounded by people looking at them.

When they reached the Hiawatha Academy students, they cheered at the sight of Michael. He smiled and waved at them. Some ran to him and slapped his outstretched palm. "Hey, Dr. A. We're looking good, huh?" one young girl said to him.

"Yes, yes we are," he said and beamed at her.

Zehra relaxed. Michael seemed to calm down around the kids. He led her around several of the tables and explained the projects to her. They were fascinating and so well done for students. More people arrived to admire the work, and soon the entire room became crowded.

The FBI agent tried to keep up, but the crowds were too thick. He pulled Zehra aside and told her he'd wait near the front door.

There was a variety of people. Some were Somali. Zehra didn't know much about them except that Minnesota had accepted hundreds of refugees. Although few women had come, she admired the men. Tall, with dark, shiny skin, they all smiled with a lot of beautiful white teeth.

Parents of the students milled around the tables. Many shook Michael's hand and thanked him for all his work. One man in a long robe bowed to Michael. He said thank you and encouraged the man to be faithful. "No matter what happens, you must be obedient to Allah."

The other man looked flustered but agreed.

After each group of people moved on, the boys and girls pushed and laughed with each other. The boys tried to pretend they were uninterested; the girls pretended to ignore them. Zehra smiled at their exuberance and joy. The pelted her with questions. What job did she have? Where was she from? Was she Muslim? Did she like men? Did she like pizza? A skinny boy asked, "Are you and Dr. Ammar getting married?" A few catcalls crashed through the group.

Zehra's face flushed. "We're just friends. Good friends."

Michael came over and told the students to get ready for another round of visitors. Zehra chuckled to herself. He looked so serious in contrast to the kids. Another surge of people surrounded the tables to admire the projects.

Michael pulled her to the side. "I have to run out to the car. I will return soon. Would it be all right for you to stay with the students?"

"Not at all. They're a riot."

"Thank you. You will do something of great favor for Allah."

Zehra frowned. "Watching the students?"

"I'll be right back." He looked at his big watch and gave her arm a squeeze. He looked into her eyes, then was gone.

Zehra strolled the area and sat on a high stool to rest. She watched the crowds absent-mindedly and thought of Michael. He was acting so strange tonight. Was it nervousness? He was loved by these students and their parents. Why had Denzel insisted Michael had lied to her?

Outside, Zehra heard thunder boom against the walls of the fieldhouse. Then rain hammered at the windows. She saw darkness out there with the exception of an occasional flash of lightning.

Bored, she got off the stool and walked to the nearest exhibit. The boy beside it said his name was Sergio. He showed Zehra his project.

"It's a model of the human heart where I show how open-heart surgery is done." He pointed to the squishy-looking model on the table. "See, here are the chambers. Here's the instruments the surgeons use." He held up a scalpel, sharp, with a curved blade. "And I even got fake blood." He pointed to a jar with red liquid in it. "It's the same stuff they use in Hollywood. It's so awesome." He insisted Zehra put her finger in it. When she finished, he set the open jar on the table next to the model.

Zehra needed to wipe off her hand. When she reached for a napkin, the strong breeze from the vent in the wall blew it off the table. She hadn't noticed the breeze before. It was cold. Why would they turn on the air conditioning at night? Zehra wanted Michael to come back. She looked up at a clock on the wall. It read 7:09.

# Chapter Forty-Two

Paul rocked to a halt in the parking lot of the Tarryville church, five blocks from the mosque. He got out quickly. A circle of Burnsville police cars occupied the corner of the lot. Several cops stood around, waiting for orders.

"Paul Schmidt, FBI." He stuck out his hand to the chief.

"Bob Rasmussen. What's the mission? We're ready." He wore a pressed uniform, burdened with a heavy belt that contained weapons, his nightstick, radio, extra speed loaders, and cuffs.

"You know where the mosque is?"

"Roger that."

"For right now, we don't want anyone to go in—or come out from a containment circle around the mosque."

"What's the mission?"

"Uh, for now, containment. Get your men out on a quadrant, spaced at intervals to intercept anyone leaving or arriving. Anyone leaving is to be detained and brought to our command center immediately."

"Are we looking for a suspect?"

"Yes, but we're not moving on that. I believe he's in the mosque."

"I've received permission from the church to use the full extent of the parking lot."

"Good work, Chief." Paul looked around at the expanse of asphalt. "This will make a good staging area."

"Staging area?"

"For our support team."

"Should we prepare for—"

"Chief, just form a perimeter around the mosque. Hurry."

The chief nodded, squared his shoulders, and gave orders to his men and women. Squad cars left the parking lot in small groups.

Paul checked his cell phone. The CDC team would arrive in about five minutes. Conway and a large contingent of agents would get there in about ten minutes. Paul noticed several other messages but didn't have time to respond.

Dr. Kumar came up in a small car. He got out and said, "Uber. Quickest way here. When the CDC team arrives, they'll need enough space to set up the mobile lab. It's a tent, really. The police should keep the area free and clear so the experts can do their work."

Paul looked for the chief and waved him over. "Can you get a couple squads back here to provide security for the support people?"

Rasmussen unhooked his radio and called in the orders.

A crowd gathered at the edges of the parking lot. Several people stood, hips canted to one side, and watched silently. Some had kids in strollers. The presence of the police always drew many gawkers. Paul wanted to warn them to keep the kids as far away as possible but couldn't say anything at this point.

The sky darkened, and he heard thunder.

A large group filed out from the side door of the church. Led by an older man with a white halo of hair and a deeply tanned face, they approached Paul. He held up his hand for the group to follow. They kept walking toward Paul.

"Pastor Roundhill." He stuck out a hand to Paul.

"Pastor, I need your help here. Keep these people back as far as possible from our operation."

The older man stopped abruptly but followed Paul's orders. He led the group to the far side of the parking lot.

A large white van curved into the lot and stopped with a scrape on the asphalt. People exploded from every door, including the back end. A black woman in a white coat and short dreadlocks came directly to Paul and Dr. Kumar. "I'm Dr. Johnson, CDC. Who's in charge?"

Paul introduced himself and Kumar.

She looked from one to the other. "I don't mean to offend you, Jack, but is this all you got? From what I hear, we're going to need an army."

Paul told her about the backup on the way. Kumar spoke fast, telling her the latest information. Rasmussen came back and asked what was going on.

Paul glanced at him. "National security, Chief. These people are from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. You cannot let this information out at this time."

Rasmussen's eyes popped open. "Uh, what—"

"Not now, Chief. We're too busy. Keep the crowd back as far as possible."

When Paul turned back to the CDC team, seven people scurried around the van. They had already erected a large tent and were wheeling equipment inside it. Side flaps were lowered to conceal their work. They carried small suitcases and four laptops. One man lifted a heavy generator from the van. He rolled to the side of the tent, ran cables underneath the flap, and pushed on the electric starter. The generator roared to life until it settled down to a steady hum.

Kumar said to Dr. Johnson, "What can I do?"

She stopped working and looked up at him. When she lifted her head, dreadlocks danced over her face. "Get a map of the area up on the computer. We're about to measure wind speed and direction. I need to know where the source is exactly. The first patient you have, we want to see. We'll take a swab and put it on the jet to Atlanta. If it tests positive, we'll make a decision to release the vaccine and which one. Anyone who has come within six feet of the source will be vaccinated."

Kumar scratched his back and nodded.

Two marked FBI vans and three cars shot into the parking lot. Conway was out and charging toward the tent before his car stopped. Agents poured out of the other vehicle. Another car, marked USAMRIID on its side, pulled up and more agents came out, including Dr. Sarnahan. Paul was surprised that Joan Cortez and the ICE agents were missing.

The FBI agents gathered around Paul. "Should we storm the mosque now?" Valentini asked.

"I'd advise against it," Dr. Sarnahan said. "If any of the infected people scatter and we lose them—"

"Right," Conway said. "I've ordered a chopper to do surveillance. Should be here any time."

"Besides, if Ammar is as dangerous as we think he is, there could be violence and the loss of lives at the mosque."

Conway added, "Can you imagine the media shit storm we'd get? We'll wait for now. We're far enough away from the mosque. Hopefully, they won't be tipped before we can act."

Paul felt impotent. The disease could be spreading as they talked. What if it had already jumped the quarantine line guarded by the police? Occasional drops of rain plopped onto his head. He asked Dr. Sarnahan, "What can we do?"

Sarnahan frowned. "Wait."

"Hey, guys," Dr. Johnson shouted from inside the tent. "Get these people out of here."

Paul turned to see Pastor Roundhill and a large group of people edging around the tent. They swarmed over the cables, and one person even lifted the flap of the tent. The two police officers struggled to move the mob backward, but they couldn't budge them.

Paul and Valentini moved into the crowd. They flashed badges and shouted for people to back up. Paul found Roundhill and shouted at his face. "I told you to keep these people back."

"This is our church. We have a right to be here. And I don't think you're looking for a lost kitten."

"I'll explain later. But for now, get the fuck back!"

People swore and shouted but folded back onto the grass at the edges of the parking lot. Paul saw more people streaming out of the houses in the neighborhood. He ran to Chief Rasmussen. "Can you get more muscle out here? Now!"

Sweat trickled down the chief's face. "I've got every man and woman from the line right now. I can call for help from the next city over, but that means bringing more officers into this. I thought you wanted to keep it quiet?"

"I know, but we need the help. Call 'em."

Rasmussen pulled out his phone and made the call.

A squad car scraped across the asphalt and stopped. A cop came out with a civilian. They hustled over to the tent. "Found this man leaving the quadrant. Says he wasn't at the mosque but only walked by it."

Dr. Johnson stepped up. "Good work, son. Get him in the tent. We'll take a swab." She followed the civilian inside the tent and closed the flap. In a few minutes, they came out. "Keep him in your squad. We may need to quarantine him at the closest hospital."

Paul's shirt was steamy and damp. He wanted to take off his sport coat but was hesitant to show his weapon and holster. As it was, a larger crowd bulged out from the south side of the lot to reach within twenty feet of the tent. He motioned Conway to use the other agents for crowd control.

Paul could tell the crowd was at the tipping point. They could easily overwhelm the law enforcement and the CDC team. He ran to find Rasmussen. "Where are the other cops?" Paul shouted.

"Coming, but it takes a while to round them all up."

"Can't you see it's about to blow up here?"

Rasmussen stopped and looked into Paul's face. "We're doing all we can. This is your show, pal."

A surge of noise interrupted them. The crowd shouted and cheered. Paul turned to see a green van pull up with an antenna mounted on the roof. "Oh, shit," he yelled as he ran toward it.

Large green letters on the side of the van said "Channel 6 News." Three people spilled out of it. Two had cameras, and the blonde woman dressed in a starched blouse and a blue blazer waded through the crowd. Carolyn Bechter smiled and waved at the people.

Paul's stomach tightened when he saw her. The short fling they'd had didn't work out. He knew Carolyn blamed him for everything. She'd be tough to deal with. He heard Conway, who stomped around so much it looked like he was dancing.

"Who called those assholes? Get 'em out of here," Conway ordered.

At the edge of the crowd, Carolyn started to interview Pastor Roundhill. The camera zoomed in while someone held an umbrella over the two. Paul moved closer.

Bechter started, "We received a tip from a religious leader about a raid on a peaceful mosque in Burnsville. Apparently, it has to do with a breakout of smallpox, a deadly disease. Do you know anything about it, Pastor?"

Paul stopped. How did they know about it already? What raid was she talking about? Nothing had happened yet. If that incendiary news spread, could they control the crowd? He saw the mindless bobbing of heads and a shove of people who were worried. A scuffle broke out. People shouted and clawed at each other to get away. Paul looked around for more police. Bechter looked behind herself for an escape route. She tried for shelter next to the burly cameraman.

As Carolyn backed up, someone ripped the microphone out of her hand and started yelling into it. She kept backing while the cameraman tried to film. The person with the mike jerked it, causing the camera to tumble off the shoulder of the cameraman.

Carolyn's head swiveled. Searching for an escape, she saw Paul and worked her way through the crowd toward him. "Paul?"

"This way." He imagined they were two cats circling each other. But now, she needed help. He grabbed for her hand, got it, and pulled her toward the back side of the tent, where there were more police. "Stand by the tent, and don't you dare ask any questions. Those people working inside may be the only ones who can save us now."

She nodded, her eyes bulging.

Paul's phone rang, and he reluctantly answered it. "Agent Schmidt, in response to your inquiry about a suspect named Michael Ammar, it took us a while to review the databases. He's got deep, deep cover, so the search engines couldn't find him at first. He's Egyptian. A member of the Muslim Brotherhood, an extremely violent group that advocates a return to strict Islamic law. His real name is not Ammar. It's Mustafa Aadheen."

He thanked them and decided to check all the messages that had piled up in the past hours. There was a text from Zehra. Paul opened it and felt his chest pound. She was going to a Science Expo at the school with Michael Ammar! He wasn't at the mosque. He glanced at his watch —7:30. He punched the school's address into GPS, made sure he had his weapon, and shouted at Conway that he was leaving. Paul heard the faint screams of his boss as Paul roared out of the lot, almost hitting the civilians.

# Chapter Forty-Three

Zehra felt dreamy. It seemed the crowds of people kept passing through the tables endlessly, like a slow-flowing river. Her mind wandered through the past several days. Exhaustion tiptoed around her. She thought of the trial starting on Monday, her violent client that she would fight with, the threats, the bombing, her mother's interest in Michael and the relationship. Zehra also thought of Michael. Where was he?

Her fatigue made it hard to think objectively. Maybe she shouldn't be objective about love. All her life, she'd been analytical, hard-working, dedicated to her career. Look where it had gotten her. She longed to let go, to trust him and have fun.

He's lying. Denzel's words echoed in her mind.

"But look at all the wonderful things he's done," she argued back to the absent investigator. "His kindness, work in the mosque, intelligence, worldly charm, and look at how all these students love him." Zehra glanced at the group, their faces lit up by pride.

Her eyes traveled from the crowd to the tables and to the projects. She was sitting close to Sergio's heart model, and she noticed the curved scalpel.

The curved knife used to kill Ahmed—Zehra's mind snapped to attention. What was it about the curved knife? Something in the property room had tweaked her brain. She searched for the idea, but it rolled over and disappeared from her thoughts. Then it came back and struck her hard. Her chest ached painfully. One of the boys looked back at her in concern. She waved him off. Rain drummed on the big windows and ran down in slow, torturous streams.

When Denzel and Zehra had watched the video of the murder, Michael had been with them. She had been unable to actually see the knife do its horrible work because the killer had been so fast. But Michael had talked about the "curved" knife in the video. How could he see it and know it was curved?

Zehra started to shake. She couldn't breathe. She fought to gain control. Everything crashed down on her like a tsunami hitting a harbor. The thought of Michael killing the young man sickened her. He must be involved in the disappearance of the Somalis—but why?

More came crashing down around her. The betrayal, the lies, the gifts he'd given her. The long talks about life and progressive Islam—all of it staged and false. Tears streamed down her face. How could she have missed it? An intense pain slammed into her side. Two of the students turned to her and asked if she was okay.

Zehra calmed herself, taking several deep breaths. She stood and walked to the window and looked outside. She balanced herself against the wall. Cool air streamed over her ankles from the vent along the wall. Outside, purple clouds hung low. Under the bushes, shadows filled in, hiding the lawns and sidewalks.

How could she escape? Even though Michael was still in the school somewhere, Zehra could try to make it to the FBI agent before Michael found her.

Zehra pushed her way through the crowds, glad to be hidden among them, to find the agent. She squeezed next to the door but couldn't find him. Where did he go? Maybe he was strolling around the fieldhouse, drawn by interest in the science projects. Zehra stood on her toes and searched the crowd for him. The agent was gone. Like a fool, she'd never thought to get his cell phone number—she'd never imagined she would need it.

A new surge of people came in from outside, damp from the rain but laughing and happy to be at the Expo.

Michael would certainly come back for her. She hid behind a new crowd of people with umbrellas. She tried to call Paul. No answer. She texted him, in caps, to help her. Fighting to calm down, she decided to merge with one of the big crowds that was leaving and get outside. Once there, she could escape.

But for now, the only people leaving were singles and couples. Zehra couldn't hide in such a small group. Michael could be outside, waiting for her, especially since she'd left the Academy students. Could Zehra fake it, pretending nothing was wrong until she could get away? Maybe. She worked her way back to the Academy tables.

She felt dizzy and grabbed the edge of one of the tables to steady herself. This would be tough. Her cell phone rang so loudly that her hand swept the table top, knocking off Sergio's jar. It smashed on the floor, splattering blood across her shoes. She fumbled to answer the phone. It was Michael.

"I am so sorry to be late. How is everything?"

Zehra gulped a breath of air. "Uh—Yeah, things are great. Where are you?"

"I am in the fieldhouse and will come to you right now."

"Sure—I'll watch for you." She hung up and grabbed her purse. She pushed her way through the crowd and headed for the outside door. Even though it was only a small group, Zehra slipped into the middle of it and made her move to get outside. The rain came down heavily, and it was difficult to see. No Michael. He must still be inside. The rain would also make it hard for him to find her.

In a few minutes, she saw the lights from his car turn on and slice through the darkness. Zehra moved in the opposite direction. She started to walk quickly. She could beat him.

He jumped out of his car faster than she'd planned. Michael ran toward her in long, graceful strides. "I am so sorry," he shouted. "I should have come back sooner." He wore a rain jacket with the hood pulled up, partially hiding his face. The lights from his car reflected across the parking lot surface.

She avoided looking at his face but stopped walking. It was impossible to outrun him. She would have to fake it. "Sure. I've got a lot of work left to do tonight. Can you take me home right away?"

He held her with both of his hands on her shoulders. Black shadows hovered along the sides of the building. The rain drummed without interest, and more fog curled around her legs. Michael looked down at her. "Thanks for your help tonight."

Mixed emotions flooded through Zehra. His hands felt strong and confident, and that scared her. Should she try to run?

Zehra looked up at him. "Hey, no problem. It was fun." When she tried to move past him, he held her firmly. The rain seeped through her thick hair and ran down her face.

"What is wrong?" His voice dropped to a lower register than Zehra had ever heard before.

"Uh . . . nothing. I've got a lot of work, and besides, it's raining. I'm soaking wet."

"Something is wrong. I can tell something is wrong with you." He pushed her toward the door of his car. "We will find out. It is too late for deception."

"Let me go—please," she pleaded.

His hair fell forward on either side of his face. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. His arms started to pull her closer. "You will come with me."

"No. If you have any feelings about me, let me go. I haven't done anything." Zehra twisted her body to the left and slipped from his grip. For a moment, both were surprised. Then she started to run down the sidewalk away from the car.

"Stop!" he bellowed and chased her. A few people paused to look.

Zehra screamed at them, "Help me." She picked up speed until her foot caught on one of the broken concrete slabs. She fell hard on her side. With her face on the ground, she couldn't breathe.

Michael towered above her. He reached down and yanked her up. When she went limp, he dragged her toward the car. Zehra kicked at him but missed. She tried to plant her heels in the wet grass but only slid closer to the car. Michael tugged harder.

"No, please," she begged.

"You cannot be allowed to reveal anything. I have worked too long," he screamed.

"Why?"

"For the glory of Allah. Why else, you fool?" He wrenched her arm to force her to move.

"Killing innocent boys is for the glory of Allah?"

"You would not understand. You are an infidel." His hand shot toward her throat and grabbed the scarf he'd given to her. With a twist of his wrist, he tightened it around Zehra's neck. She gagged and followed him.

Then her fear coalesced into hatred and anger. Zehra squirmed to the left until he lost his grip on the scarf. She put her foot underneath her, prepared to bolt. She shoved off, but the wet grass caused her to slip and she slammed onto the ground.

Michael was on her like a cat. His weight suffocated her. His arms went around her neck. Zehra felt her head jerked up until it hurt and realized her throat was exposed. No . . . no, her brain screamed. She saw the glint of a knife off to the side of her decreasing vision. Rain fell effortlessly and without concern on her.

He mumbled something that sounded like a prayer. Michael shifted to the side and pulled her head in the same direction. He stiffened along the length of his body.

Zehra tried to scream, but his arm around her neck made it impossible. An image of her parents flashed through her mind. She started to cry. A beautiful kaleidoscope of colors flashed around her, blue and yellow and green from the refracted headlights on the wet pavement.

She tried to fight to the last, but she realized it was hopeless. She collapsed and braced for the pain.

Suddenly, Michael's weight disappeared. His body lifted off her and rolled to the side. He grunted. Zehra gagged and gasped for air. Her lungs sucked hard, fighting to keep her alive.

When Zehra rolled onto her hands and knees, she saw Paul wrestling with Michael in the grass. They struck at each other, twisting to get an advantage, slipping in the mud. Michael no longer had a knife, but he was strong and seemed to be winning.

Paul separated, inched away on his butt in the grass, and reached behind his back. He drew out a pistol. As he brought his arm forward, it tangled in his wet sport coat.

Michael pounced. He kicked the gun from Paul and shoved him over on his side. The gun skittered across the sidewalk. Before Paul could recover, Michael grabbed the gun and stood.

"Stop," Zehra yelled.

A loud bang echoed off the wall. Zehra looked at Paul and saw a bloody mist explode from his thigh. He shouted and jerked to his side. Zehra crawled toward him. Paul writhed in pain. Zehra turned to Michael. "Stop. Please, stop."

Michael leaned forward and raised the pistol again, pointing at Zehra. "This must happen," he mumbled. Long wet hair stuck to his face. His long nose curved out from a twisted face.

Zehra tried to get up. As she lifted her hands in useless protest, Paul moaned something. He pointed to his ankle. She ran her hand along his leg, pulled up the bloody pants cuff, and found a small gun. Paul collapsed onto his back.

Michael's gun barked, but he missed.

Zehra held the pistol in both shaking hands. It was wet, and she fought to keep from losing her grip and dropping it. She finally got it pointed at Michael's chest. He raised his gun again. Zehra's mind drifted into the fog that surrounded her, and she closed her eyes. Zehra jerked the trigger.

# Chapter Forty-Four

Zehra shook so badly, the gun fell from her hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. Great sobs tore through her chest. When she looked across the lawn, Michael was lying in a still lump, facing away from her. Rain bounced off his upraised hip.

She heard Paul moan and turned to him.

"Tourniquet—" he gasped and pointed at his belt.

Zehra pulled on the buckle while he rolled to his side. When she had it out, Zehra wrapped it around his thigh, just under his crotch, and stretched as tightly as she could, tucking the loose end under the strap.

Paul fell back and rested a while.

"What—what happened?" Zehra said.

"Call 911."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Zehra pulled out his phone, sheltered it under her jacket, and called. Curious people edged toward them.

"You friend is a terrorist, Zehra. I'm sorry to tell you."

"I guessed that earlier tonight." Her stomach turned over and she felt sick. "I killed—"

"You didn't have any choice. You saved your own life—and mine."

"I don't know what—"

Paul interrupted her. "Why were you here?"

"Michael invited me to the Science Expo."

He propped himself up on an elbow. "Here, tonight, with lots of people. Were all these people inside?"

"Yeah, why?"

Paul's face contorted in pain. He grabbed the phone from Zehra and keyed in a number. "Bill," he grunted, "get everyone to the Hiawatha Academy right now. We got the wrong place. Ammar is here." He slumped back.

In five minutes an ambulance and police car pulled into the lot. Two emergency techs jumped out. One ran to Paul and the other to Michael. The second one came back to the group quickly. "Gone," he said.

Within a short time, they'd examined Paul and fixed up what they could under the circumstances. "Hit a lot of muscle, but I don't think it touched any bone," one of the techs said.

When Zehra looked at Paul, the color had returned to his face. She felt cold and started to shake. Another tech wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

"Someone's got to get inside the school," Paul said. "Check the ventilation systems." He reached for the pair of crutches a tech handed him. Paul stood, propped the crutches under his arms, wobbled and righted himself. He identified himself as an FBI agent to the police officer and explained that help was on the way. Then he pulled Zehra aside and gave her the ten-second version of the smallpox launch and what was being done to contain the spread.

Zehra swayed for a moment. It was too much, and her brain threatened to shut down.

"When the CDC gets here, I'll get you vaccinated."

In a few minutes, Zehra saw people in white coats erecting a small tent in the corner of the yard. The rain had tapered to a drizzle. A burly man charged toward them. He tossed a cigarette to the side.

"My boss," Paul said.

Next, a black woman in a white coat came over to Paul. "Did you find any evidence? Any patients?" she asked Paul.

His lips thinned. "There's probably a delivery system connected to the ventilation system. This lady, Zehra, has probably been infected." Paul nodded toward Zehra.

The black woman motioned for her partners to go inside. Masked, they left immediately. Someone found chairs for Zehra and Paul inside the small tent. Paul brushed off attempts to get him in the ambulance. "Just a minute," he insisted. He finished telling Zehra about the plot and the dangers they all faced now.

Zehra started to cry. She couldn't stop. The unbelievable horror of it all, the deception, lies, and smashed hopes flooded through her tears.

The black woman, Dr. Johnson, spoke to Zehra. "Take it slow, honey. What can you remember in there?"

Zehra told her about the Science Expo and how all the people had walked by.

"How long was the Expo?"

"Several hours."

Her face remained relaxed, but Zehra could see the corners of her eyes wrinkle up. "Was Ammar with you?"

"No. I mean, yes. Why are you—?"

"Honey, all of you inside were probably zapped with maybe triple the dosage necessary for infection and transmission." She glanced at Paul. "Expand the perimeter," she barked.

Zehra felt sick. "Paul said you had a vaccine."

"We do, but I have to tell you, we're not one hundred percent sure it'll work. Depends on the strain of this virus." Her eyes grew round and soft. "We'll do everything we can, honey. Don't worry." She turned around, walked a few steps, and slapped her hands together. A man in a white coat ducked under the side tarp and whispered to Dr. Johnson. "Good work," she told him. "Get it on the jet to Atlanta, like yesterday."

Paul struggled with his phone. Zehra could tell he was at the breaking point and should get to a hospital. He ordered someone to quarantine the zone.

Johnson asked if the ambulance was still waiting. "These two need immediate attention. Where's the closest hospital? When these kids and families get sick, they'll crash the first line of defense. We've got to warn those hospitals."

Conway said, "But how wide should we make the quarantine? We don't know where the hell the families went after the Expo." His stomach jiggled as he paced.

Dr. Johnson held up her hands. "Hold your butts, boys. Don't you get it? All these people are hot. Everyone they come in contact with will also be infected. Families, neighbors, gas stations, anywhere they stop on the way home."

Another man who looked East Indian ducked under the tarp and came inside. They all looked at him. "What do you think, Dr. Kumar?" Paul asked.

His face got even darker. "I hate to tell you, but even with a low multiplier, this will spread like wildfire. It may already be too big for the defenses we have."

Conway stopped moving. In a quiet voice, he said, "I'll call Homeland Security."

Dr. Johnson said, "We have to go public now. We need maximum cooperation if there's going to be any chance for success. Unfortunately, what will happen is that everyone with flu-like symptoms will access the medical system—even if they aren't infected with variola. That will crash the entire system, denying help for people with the real infection."

Outside the tent, the ambulance backed up to take Paul and Zehra to the hospital. Zehra stood while Paul was strapped to a gurney and slid in through the doors. There was a line of squad cars circling the parking lot.

Four green trucks rolled across the wet pavement toward the school. Brakes squealed as they stopped. From the back end of each one, dozens of soldiers erupted into the lot. They fanned out as if a cue ball had struck the triangle of stationary balls on a pool table. They carried weapons and wore gas masks.

As Zehra stepped up into the ambulance, she heard a cop tell someone, "National Guard. They're taking over now."

# Chapter Forty-Five

At the hospital, Zehra rested. On the outside, she was okay. A few bruises and scrapes. Inside was a different problem. Warm blankets were piled around her body up to her chin. She was in quarantine.

Mentally, she was a wreck. Although Zehra didn't know the full story about Michael—Mustafa—and his plot yet, she still felt guilty. In her mind, she replayed the details of the shooting. Would he have shot again and killed her? Was he turning away? Did she have to kill him? It became too much, and her brain stopped.

When she opened her eyes, her mother and father smiled through the large glass window on her room. "What have you heard on the news?" she asked them.

"It's not good," Donald said. "The best place for you is right here."

Zehra worried the vaccine she'd received might not work. "How's Paul?"

"He's right next to you," Prisha said and pointed at the curtain beside Zehra.

She tugged it back and saw Paul propped up in his bed, talking on his phone. She asked him, "How can you keep going after all you've been through?"

Lowering the phone, he said, "This is why I became an FBI agent. We're fighting for the state now. If we lose, it's the entire country." He resumed talking.

Zehra took a deep breath. No one spoke. Her parents found chairs and sat beside the window.

Suddenly, Paul whooped. He laughed and cheered. "Dr. Sarnahan, are you certain?" he said into the phone. "I can't believe it. There's really one honest person left in the world?" He clicked off and looked to Zehra. A smile played across his mouth until it split open across his face.

"What's so funny?"

"The CDC flew the sample of the virus found in the school to Atlanta to be tested. The tests were run three times. The results show the virus was already dead. Ammar and his terrorists bought worthless stuff. The Russian who sold it cheated them."

"What does that mean?" Zehra got out of bed and still felt dizzy.

"It means we're all okay. There's no epidemic. False alarm!"

* * *

Two days later, Paul invited Zehra to the FBI office in Minneapolis. When she arrived, she found him propped in a swiveling office chair in the conference room. His leg stuck out, wrapped in a blue plastic brace. Conway was there and several other people Zehra had never met.

"How's your trial going?" Paul asked.

"Under the circumstances, we got a continuance. It's pretty clear Mustafa was the killer. Until things are sorted out, the prosecutor isn't dismissing the case."

"Why didn't your client tell you this in the first place?"

"He thinks I'm an infidel. He's probably a zealot who was willing to take the fall for Ammar."

"Looks like he doctored the DNA samples at the crime scene and planted the knife and clothing in El-Amin's apartment."

Zehra said, "I still don't know why all these Somali boys disappeared. Do you still think it was for fighting in Somalia?"

"Testing," Conway said. "Some were recruited to fight, but others were diverted to an isolated camp in the desert and infected with smallpox to see how it worked."

"How horrible. Have you found those boys?"

Paul shook his head. "Probably never will."

Conway lumbered over next to Paul. "We're lucky both of you are alive—thanks to you."

Zehra shrugged and wondered if that were true. "What about the threats to me? My car?"

"We assume Ammar did all of that to disrupt your trial and the truth about your client. And although they wanted people to get sick, their main purpose was to cause panic. Hysterical, mass panic that would tear apart the country faster than any bomb or army could ever do." Conway's face twitched as he talked.

"By the way, does this mean I'm not fired?" Paul asked Conway.

"Uh, I forgot to congratulate you. Nice work. You got a good shot to take over from me when I bail on this place."

"And I forgot to ask, what happened to the ICE agents and Joan Cortez?" Paul asked.

Conway laughed. "Before the rest of us could get there, they busted the mosque. They stayed there, waiting for Ammar, so we didn't know they were inside."

"She always wanted to grab all the glory," Paul said.

"Well, now the agency's been sued by the mosque, and I think Joan was busted back to working security at the airport."

"What about the victim in my case, the Ahmed boy?" Zehra asked.

"Poor kid," Paul told her. "They infected him and were ready to launch the transmission when the kid refused to cooperate. We figure Ammar had to kill him to keep things quiet until they could launch again. The fact the kid was hot explained why the killer wore all the protection."

"But wouldn't he spread the virus?"

Paul's face twisted. "We hope to hell not. The experts from Atlanta are still working in the neighborhood. So far, it looks like the boy started feeling sick, so he went back to his apartment and stayed there by himself. We know this because his mother texted him. Our hope is that he was alone during the infectious period."

"And when he came out and was killed?"

Paul shrugged. "The CDC has quarantined the neighborhood. Luckily, it was only three blocks from his apartment to where he was killed. The best I can say right now is we hope it's contained."

The conversation rolled on, but Zehra lost interest. She looked at Paul and saw him with new eyes. He even looked handsome in a formal, old-fashioned kind of way.

"Thank God the governor's made his statement," Conway said. "Even the brass from Washington came in to help write it. They decided to call the whole thing a 'training exercise.' The possibility of the real deal was never mentioned. If the public ever knew the truth—"

Paul turned to Zehra. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I've got my family and my garden, but—"

"Don't worry, we're not done chasing these guys down. I promise."

Zehra didn't want to hear any more. Guilt and fatigue haunted her, but she found herself angry instead. Angry at all the violence and fear the terrorists had caused. "Thanks, Paul, but we all have to do something." She stood to leave. The sun outside lit up piles of white clouds to the east. She walked to the door.

Paul called after her. "How can I thank you? Will you at least have dinner with me?"

She turned to smile at him. "Sure."

"And you know I'm fascinated with gardens."

"You're a liar."

He came toward her as his face colored pale red. "I can learn."

"I can teach you."

"How about a lesson later this afternoon?"

Zehra grinned. "Okay. But the first lesson in gardening is hard work. We'll start with weeding and cleaning up."

"Huh? I was thinking wine and sitting on your deck."

"I'll put you in charge of the hibiscus. It loses all its petals overnight and they must be picked up. But the reward is to see the new flowers that always bloom every day. They give me hope."

