by Chris Culver
The words felt like an ice pick in my side. I stood straighter and tightened my arms across my chest.
“How does he know Nassir?”
Instead of answering, the Hulk took a step back and opened the Jaguar’s rear passenger door.
“Get in and find out.”
As much as I wanted to tell them to leave, I couldn’t. If he knew something about Nassir, I needed to hear it.
“Give me a minute. I’ll be out shortly.”
Before either of them could say anything, I walked into the house and went upstairs. The lights were out, but Hannah was still awake. She rolled over as I opened the door.
“I heard you go outside,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said, walking to the closet and kneeling in front of the safe in which I stored my firearm and badge. “I’ve got to go out tonight. A guy I know is sick. He wants to see me before he dies. I don’t know which hospital he’s at, but hopefully I won’t be out too long.”
“And you need to take your gun to see him?”
Though she couldn’t see me, I shook my head even as I punched in my passcode and opened the door. My weapon was in its holster, right where I had left it. So was my badge. I attached both to my belt before standing and turning to face my wife.
“If this guy wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. I’m bringing it to remind everyone what side I’m on.”
She sighed and then sank deeper onto the bed before rolling over. “On the plus side, if he does decide he wants you dead, at least you’ll be in the hospital.”
I smiled and crossed the room to stand beside the bed. She didn’t roll over, so I kissed her shoulder.
“I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart. Try not to get shot.”
“I wish you didn’t have to say that so often,” I said.
She rolled over then and flashed me a crooked smile I had fallen in love with many years earlier.
“Me, too. Stay safe.”
I squeezed her shoulder before standing straighter and leaving. The Hulk and his son were still outside waiting for me.
“Get in, Lieutenant,” said the Hulk, putting his hand on top of the Jaguar. I shook my head.
“I don’t think so,” I said, reaching into my pocket and then walking toward my garage, which I opened with a keypad outside. I unlocked my Volkswagen with a press of a button and looked at them. “If this meeting is as important as you implied, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
The Hulk looked to his son. The younger man nodded.
“Fine. Let’s go. I don’t know how much longer Uncle Kostya has. But we’re not going to the hospital. He’s at his house. Follow us.”
The two of them climbed into their car and backed out of the driveway. I followed maybe a hundred feet back. Intellectually, I knew I should have been focusing on the meeting ahead of me, but I couldn’t help but think about Nassir.
Bukoholov may have dressed himself up as a businessman, but IMPD suspected his involvement in at least half a dozen open homicides. He was one of the most ruthless men I had ever met. Nassir had no reason to know a man like that, and yet he plainly did. Nassir had held back on me. With everything else going on, I really wished he hadn’t done that.
Chapter 15
Despite their successful attack at Westbrook Elementary, no one in Hashim Bashear’s car smiled. They still had too much to do. While Hamza drove, Hashim sat on the rearmost seat behind his grandchildren. His daughter-in-law sat beside her husband up front. Lights from Boston lit the horizon ahead of their vehicle. It was an evil thing they had done, and every adult in that car knew it. They also recognized its necessity.
In 2001, Hamza had been a graduate student at Georgia Tech. He had never hurt anyone in his life, and he had wanted nothing more than to finish his Ph.D., start a family, and become a college professor. He had wanted the American dream, and he had wanted his children to grow up in a tolerant and safe world where they were judged on their actions and the merits of their ideas rather than the part of the world their ancestors came from. For a time, he thought he and his wife had it. And then nineteen hijackers boarded four airliners on a September morning and changed the world.
On the morning of September 11th, Hamza was lecturing to a classroom of freshmen at the time the first plane hit. An administrator came by and told everyone what had happened. Hamza cancelled the rest of the class and sent his students home.
Since he lived near campus, he walked home to find his wife, Dalia, on the front steps of their townhouse, sobbing. Just an hour after the attack, someone had thrown a brick through the front window.
Detectives came and took a report so Hamza and his wife could file a claim with their insurance. The police acted professionally, but they looked at Hamza and Dalia differently than they had just a few hours earlier. In one tragic morning, they had become Arab-Americans instead of Americans. Hamza couldn’t even blame his neighbors for being pissed; he was angry, too. He wished his neighbors would direct it at the right people, though.
Life changed after that. Hamza could hardly get on a plane anymore without having armed guards search his bags and person. For some people, even that wasn’t enough. Even after he went through a rigorous security process, they would complain to the flight attendants or captain about him. They’d say they were scared of him and wondered whether the airline could do anything about him—as if he were a cockroach to squash rather than a human being.
At first, hearing those comments hurt, but he got used to them after a while. To forestall arguments, he even voluntarily left his flight a few times and caught a later one.
He and Dalia adapted to their new place in the world, but all the while, they couldn’t help but think of what they had lost. Dalia had been born in New Jersey, and Hamza had come to the country legally and become a permanent resident, but the United States had ceased to be their home. The American dream was no longer their dream.
Once Hamza finished his master’s degree, he and his wife moved to London, where they hoped to live in peace. Life was easier there, but it wasn’t home. Hamza and his family had no home. His native Iraq was a shattered, broken country; Saudi Arabia was run by men who claimed to know God but who enmired themselves in regional politics. Turkey and Egypt teetered toward madness.
For the sake of their future children, Hamza and Dalia and all the world’s men and women like them needed a home, an Islamic community not beholden to the capricious whims of dictators or men more interested in amassing wealth than living a godly life. Men and women in the West had carved out their own nations hundreds of years ago. Hamza and visionary men like his father planned to do the same. They would create a new world from the ashes of the old. Hamza wouldn’t live to see it, but his children might. They deserved somewhere they felt safe.
“I don’t want you to go, Baba,” said a soft voice from the middle seat.
Hamza looked in the rearview mirror at his daughter. “I know, Sabah. Giddo has a very important job ahead of him, though, and I have to go with him. He needs my help.”
“Your father is right, sweetheart,” said Hashim. “I get lost so easily. I’m an old man. I need his help.”
Hamza looked in the rearview mirror in time to see his father leaning forward limply, as if he had no strength left. Hamza smiled. Though Hashim had more yesterdays than tomorrows, he was far from weak. He still had a sharp, tactical mind, which was more than most men could ever say.
“You’re not so old, Giddo,” said Sabah, giggling.
Truthfully, at sixty-seven, he wasn’t very old. In a perfect world, Sabah would smile and wave to her grandfather at school and sporting events for the next ten or twenty years. In this world, though, once Hashim and Hamza climbed onto the airplane to Indianapolis, she may never see either of them again even if they did their jobs perfectly. That was too much to burden a little girl with, though. She still deserved to dream big dreams.
“You will always be my sweeth
eart,” said Hashim. “Everything your baba and I do, we do so that you can grow old in a better world than we have now. Your baba and I are doing something that will make a difference. And you and your ummi have a special job as well in Washington. I’m counting on you to make a special delivery. I hope you understand that one day.”
“I already understand,” she said. “I love you, too.”
“If you understand that, then you understand a lot,” said Hashim. “Now hush, child. It’s growing late, and I’m old and tired. Your baba and I have a long flight ahead of us once we reach the city, and then we have much work once we reach Indianapolis. I need my rest.”
Chapter 16
We drove for twenty minutes to a gated compound on the northwest side of Indianapolis. A limestone fence about six feet tall surrounded the property, creating a private parklike yard that was likely big enough to house horses. It was impressive for a city neighborhood. The driveway meandered across the landscape, allowing me to see a pair of tennis courts, a massive pool complete with a waterfall, and a poolhouse that was bigger than any home I could imagine owning.
Then we turned the corner, and I saw the main house for the first time. It was enormous and had a limestone and steel exterior that made it look like an upscale ski lodge. I parked in the circular drive out front, right behind Michael’s Jaguar. A pair of men immediately came from the house. I reached to my gun, but then one opened the car door for me and smiled.
“Would you like me to park in the garage for you, sir?”
I looked to Michael and the Hulk, both of whom were exiting their vehicle. Then I looked at the valet and shook my head.
“I won’t be long,” I said, pulling back my jacket enough to show him my badge. “If my car isn’t in this spot when I return, I’m going to be annoyed. Clear?”
“Of course, sir,” he said, taking a step back. “Have a nice evening.”
I got out of my car and looked around for a moment, taking in the grounds while also looking for possible threats. I didn’t see guards, but there were cameras on the corners of the building. I had the feeling that if I made a sudden move toward Michael or the Hulk, I’d have a lot of company very shortly.
“Uncle Kostya went all out on the property, didn’t he?” asked Michael, walking toward me. “We just finished it up about a year ago. It’s a shame he won’t get to enjoy it longer.”
I nodded and looked around again, this time marveling at the sheer size of the house and its gardens.
“I suppose any jokes I might make about compensating for physical inadequacies go without saying, right?”
Michael forced a smile to his face.
“My uncle’s inside. I’m sure you’d like to get safely home to your wife, so we’ll skip the tour.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
We started walking, and almost immediately the front door opened. Only as I walked inside did I see a member of the household staff there, smiling at us from the entryway. As much as I appreciated having doors opened for me, I felt exposed having all those people hanging out in dark corners, just waiting for me to pass.
We walked through the house for a few minutes before stopping outside a wooden door at the end of a long hallway. Modern glass sconces on the wall bathed the hallway in a subdued, calming light, while a skylight overhead gave me a view of the stars. I may not have approved of Bukoholov’s profession, but there was something to be said about the man’s home. He knew how to live.
Michael knocked on the door, and we stepped into a bedroom with panoramic windows overlooking the property. Bukoholov lay in a king-sized bed positioned along the north wall. His skin had a gray pallor, and his breath seemed weak. A monitor reported every beat of his heart on a screen beside his bed, while an IV snaked into his arm. For the first time in the all the years I had known him, he looked frail and tired.
Then he looked at me with the unfeeling black eyes of a predator, and I saw the strength still inside him. It made me shudder.
“Please come in, Ashraf.”
Though his voice was weak, it still had a commanding presence to it that compelled me to move forward. Bukoholov looked to the men near me.
“Privacy please, gentlemen. Mr. Rashid is no threat to me.”
“Are you sure, Uncle?”
I looked at Michael. “I’m here to talk. I’m not going to kill a defenseless old man in his bed.”
“Go,” said Bukoholov.
I watched the two men leave the room and pull the door shut behind them before turning to Bukoholov.
“Michael seems sure of himself,” I said.
“That he is,” said Bukoholov. “He’s also brash, reckless, and entirely too young for the life he’s trying to lead.”
“We can’t have it all, I suppose,” I said, looking around for a chair. I grabbed one from a nearby desk and rolled it over. “He taking over after you shuffle off this mortal coil, or are you still looking?”
Bukoholov chuckled and then shook his head. “No one’s taking over. At one time, I had hoped you might pick up my mantle when I’m gone, but now I know that hope will never come to fruition.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding and then scratching the back of my head. “I might get in trouble at work if I start leading a drug empire. The boss tends to frown on that sort of thing.”
Bukoholov chuckled again and then started coughing. I waited for about a minute for him to stop.
“Do you need some water?”
He shook his head and paused to catch his breath before speaking again.
“No, but thank you. You and I are more alike than you realize. You’re a genuinely good man, Ashraf, but you’ve got meanness inside you. You pretend it doesn’t exist, but we both know it’s there. You’re one tragedy away from turning on everything you believe. I know. I’ve been in your shoes. I’m glad your life has turned out such that you’ve never been in mine.”
I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows without bothering to consider what he said. “Are we done with the armchair psychology lesson?”
“Of course,” he said. “I called you here for a reason. Your brother-in-law manages a holdings company called Safe Haven, LLC. They lease a secure building from me.”
“Secure in what sense?” I asked.
“Secure from police intrusions provided the leaseholder maintains a low profile. My people have an arrangement with some of your people. I’m sure you know how that goes.”
I nodded, considering the admission. Bukoholov wouldn’t have told me about the building unless he was confident I wouldn’t be able to connect it to him officially. Very likely, there were layers of ownership and protection that would take a team of forensic accountants years to unravel. He’d be long dead by the time that happened.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“My nephew decided to lease the building to your brother-in-law’s company. I didn’t agree with it, but Michael will be taking over our real estate holdings. It was his choice. After the events earlier this evening, I’m reasserting my right to refuse to do business with certain types of people.”
I allowed a mirthless smile to spring to my lips. “You’ll sell drugs to children, but you won’t lease a building to a Muslim-owned company? You had better be careful saying things like that. If the wrong people hear you, you’ll have a serious PR problem.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly. “At my age, I’m not overly concerned about my image. Nor am I concerned about your brother-in-law’s religious convictions. I’m concerned about men who store explosive devices in populated areas.”
I crossed my arms. “Do you have any evidence to back up that claim?”
Bukoholov blinked. “Yes.”
I waited, expecting him to keep speaking. He didn’t say anything.
“Can I see it?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“No,” he said. I started to ask him why he wouldn’t share his evidence with me, but he coughed again before I could. Then he cleared his throat. “Lev will give
you the address and passcode to enter the building. I’ve pulled my own security team. If there’s anyone in the building, he or she works for your brother-in-law. You should proceed with caution.”
I nodded, already thinking about how best to approach this. If there were explosives or armed guards in the building, I’d need backup. Havelock would have wanted me to call him, but he had dicked me around enough. I’d handle this one with my own team.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.
Bukoholov blinked. “I’ve always liked you, Lieutenant. I wish you knew the man I was before I became the man I am. You would have liked him.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” I said, standing. “Anything else?”
“Good luck.”
I looked at the machines beside his bed and then to him and nodded. When I spoke, I softened my voice.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” I said, reciting a familiar verse from the Quran.
Bukoholov smiled and allowed himself to sink into his pillow. “To God we belong, and to Him, we return. Thank you, Ashraf. It’s a lovely sentiment.”
I probably should have been surprised that Bukoholov recognized the verse in Arabic, but then he had probably learned Arabic while fighting in Afghanistan in the seventies while a member of the Soviet Army.
“Good luck, Mr. Bukoholov.”
I left without saying another word. The Hulk met me outside Bukoholov’s room and escorted me out of the house. My car hadn’t moved. The big man handed me an envelope.
“Thank you,” I said. The two of us stared at each other for a moment. As I reached to open my door, I hesitated, thinking.
“Your son Michael is a young man,” I said, looking down at the concrete before looking up to catch the Hulk’s gaze. “He doesn’t have to keep going down the path he is.”
The Hulk’s expression didn’t shift. “My son isn’t the man you think he is. Do not presume to know us or what is best for us.”
“You’re right,” I said, opening my door. I sat down but kept my legs outside and looked at the Hulk. “I don’t know you or your family, but I know the world you live in. Your son isn’t going to live to old age like you or his uncle. One day, if he keeps doing what he’s doing, somebody like me is going to put him in a box.”
