Then came the explosions. The top floor windows blew out first, sending plumes of flame into the air and shattered glass tinkling to the ground. Then the windows on next floor went, then the floor below, then the floor below that, in rapid succession.
The officers retreated, and Hiro was relieved to see all of them leave the building alive. No one would know for certain until the fire investigators issued their report, but Hiro already suspected what would be in it. The purpose of the arson was not to kill people but to destroy evidence. Hiro remembered what the firefighter had told her about the fire at DiMauro’s apartment. The airflow through the shredded paper in the building meant the fire spread fast.
If the intention was to destroy evidence, it was eminently successful. In a matter of minutes, the entire warehouse was a charred, blackened shell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Bremler had the Old Lady’s report on his desk in from of him. She doubted he had done more than skim over it. “The fraud ring had been shut down, so we won’t lose any more money. Any chance of recovering the money already lost?”
The Old Lady shook her head. “Not a chance in hell. According to Johnny Chavez …”
“Who?”
“Our contact with the FBI.” She resisted the temptation to point out she had told him that before. “According to him, most of the money was transferred to a bank in Singapore.”
“I don’t know much about Singapore banking laws. They won’t work with us to recover the money?”
“Haven’t you heard? Singapore is the new Cayman Islands.”
“I see. Still, you and your staff did an excellent job. You stopped a major fraud ring, potentially saving this company millions of dollars. Best of all, we get the credit, so the stockholders can’t accuse us of being soft on fraud.” Bremler took note of her scowl, which was scowlier than usual. “You should be happy. So why do I get the feeling you aren’t?”
“You almost got one of my people killed.”
“Me?”
“We should have passed on what we knew to the FBI and let them investigate DataGuard. My people are insurance investigators, not commandos. They never should have walked into that place and put themselves at risk, but you were more worried about PR than lives.”
“Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”
“We had an agreement. I run the Fraud Unit my way. You don’t interfere. You broke that agreement. The next time, I walk.”
PART THREE: NEW YORK
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Davis Ansara’s prior teaching experience was exclusively in foreign countries, teaching American history and English as a foreign language to Asian businessmen. Still, he had degrees in History and Political Theory, worked as a journalist for ten years, and even published two books on the subject of American and Middle Eastern relations. Lennox University’s Board of Trustees was ecstatic when Ansara agreed to join the staff as a professor. He was known to have a few controversial opinions, but that was okay. A little controversy was good for the image of the school. Only a little. Although the dean would never admit it publicly, the fact that Professor Ansara was a Muslim was a major selling point. Lennox University was a small school, but it had developed a reputation as an exceptionally progressive school, even in liberal New York City, and it was something of an embarrassment to lack even a single Muslim teacher. When Professor Ansara offered to create a class called “Islam and Politics in Theory and Practice,” the board was not only enthusiastic, but positively giddy, and decided to give him carte blanche to teach the course however he saw fit.
They regretted that decision very quickly.
Professor Ansara stood in front of his class. He was a good-looking man, at least, as far as college professors go. A few lines in his dark skin and flecks of gray in his black hair gave away his middle age. He wore a beard, but not for the sake of his religion. He kept it short and neatly trimmed because, as far as he was concerned, it looked damned good.
It wasn’t unusual for various classes to lose two or three students during any given semester, usually early on. Some of the tougher courses, like the physical sciences or more advanced mathematics, might lose as much as ten percent.
So far, half the students who had signed up for “Islam and Politics in Theory and Practice” had dropped the course.
Despite all the empty chairs up front, most of the students chose to sit near the back of the classroom.
The Professor spoke with a deep, booming, orator’s voice. It was a voice comfortable speaking in public and used to being the center of attention. “I’ve decided to eschew the assigned course materials for the rest of the day, and instead, I think we should discuss current events.”
Ansara took in the blank, expressionless faces staring back at him. There were a few brown faces, but most were white. “This is a course about Islam. Let’s be honest. Most of you aren’t here because Islam is a fascinating subject, although it is. You aren’t here because you can’t understand the history of mankind without understanding Islam, although you can’t. You aren’t here because Islam has reshaped the world through art and culture and literature and spirituality, although it has. Most of you are here because of one word: terrorism. So let’s stop beating about the bush and talk about it. Recently, there have been several terrorist attacks here in the city.”
Several hands went up.
“If you intend to argue with me about what qualifies these latest attacks as terrorism, you can just put your hands down. Random murders with the intent of demoralizing a population is terrorism. Period.”
The hands went down.
“If the news reports are to be believed, and that’s a big if, then all of these men were motivated by religion. Not just any religion, but Islam. Now, some of the more bleeding hearts among you will complain that the motivation isn’t religion, its politics. Well, I’ve got news for you. Politics and religion are the same thing and they always have been. Politics is about controlling human beings. Religion is about controlling human beings. That’s why the two are inextricably linked. The real question is, when an ideology, religious or political, tells a young man he must kill himself and take as many others with his as he can, why does he do it? Anybody?”
A pudgy, boy with a scraggly patch of a shadow pretending to be a beard, raised his hand and said, “Because they firmly believe in the, uh, ideology?”
“No. Sit down.”
“Does anyone else want to try?” Ansara asked the class. No hands went up. “No? Then I’ll tell you the answer: sex. That is the reason all religions, not just Islam, are so sexually repressive. Because there is no better way to control people, especially, young men, than by withholding sex, as I’m sure every young man in this room and their girlfriends are aware.”
A girl with pink hair and a nose ring made a show of gathering up her books and stomping out of the classroom.
“Anyone else want to bail?” No one moved. “Okay then. Let’s continue. On September, 11, 2001, nineteen young men were talked into committing suicide by hijacking planes and flying them into buildings. Does anybody know what the young men all had in common?”
No one raised a hand. By this time, the class had realized no answer they gave would be correct.
Ansara continued. “They were all most likely virgins. They were offered seventy-two virgins, and all they had to do was kill. Kill themselves and kill others. For a horny young man, that is a small price to pay.
A door at the back opened, and two new figures walked into the classroom. It was the dean. Standing next to him was Amanda Schafer, professor of feminist studies. Ansara had expected this to happen, sooner or later. He knew some students had complained to the dean about his less-than-sensitive handling of certain sensitive subjects. Especially the subject of women.
They came for a show. Okay, thought Ansara, I’ll give them a show.
“Personally, I never understood the appeal of seventy-two virgins. Why would any man want to spend his afterlife with seventy-two
broads who won’t put out?”
That got a few chuckles, but most of the class chose to look horrified instead.
“Now, if someone offered me seventy-two sluts who can’t keep their legs closed, I’d be like, ‘Hey, sign me up’.”
Apparently oblivious to the fact that the professor was joking, a girl raised her hand and stood up. “Isn’t it true that some translations of the Quran offers martyrs white raisins and not virgins?”
“Some of your professors have probably told you there is no such thing as a dumb question. You just proved them wrong.” Ansara said. “No one is going to blow themselves up for a bowl of Raisin Bran. Now sit down.”
She sat down, her face reddening.
Ansara felt bad about embarrassing the girl and decided he should give a straight answer. “Actually, the white raisins thing was a bit of anti-Islam propaganda perpetrated by a man named Christoph Luxenberg. Common sense tells you it can’t be true. After all, you can’t marry even one raisin, let alone seventy-two.
The bell rang. Students rose from their chairs, happy to escape. Ansara called after them. “Read the next three chapters in your book.”
He looked around. The dean and professor Schafer were gone. He smelled an imminent ambush.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Campus politics ranked right up there with Middle Eastern politics for vitriol and backstabbing and sheer batshit lunacy. Ansara had one great advantage that none of the other professors had: he didn’t give a damn about tenure. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life a teaching bunch of rotten, overprivileged kids, so he had no fear of the overwhelming political correctness that made every conversation a minefield. Every race/religion/gender/sexual orientation/whatever other possible category was ready to pounce on any imagined offense. It had become impossible to say anything without offending someone, and it made the atmosphere at the university stifling. For everyone except Davis Ansara. Ansara could see the envy in his colleagues’ eyes when he told someone like Amanda Schafer what he really thought of her.
His latest book was nearly finished and he had no doubt it would be a best seller. His publisher promised him major publicity and a book tour. Amanda Schafer wanted him fired. If he went on a book tour, he would have to leave the university anyway. They knew nothing about it, of course. If he was fired, so much the better. More grist for the publicity mill. His book was about freedom of speech. If he got fired for speaking his mind, he became a martyr to his own cause. Then he would go on a lucrative college lecture tour. It was better money than teaching and, best of all, he wouldn’t have to grade any more papers.
The dean and Professor Schaffer were waiting for him when he left class.
“Hello, Dean,” he said cheerfully. “Hello, Amanda.”
“Professor Schaffer,” she sneered
“I know you’re a professor, Amanda.”
Professor Schaffer hated Ansara. She hated all men. Ansara assumed that was a requirement for feminist studies, anyway. Her conversation was liberally studded with words like patriarchy and mansplaining. She took every word that came out of his mouth as some sort of slur against her gender, and he encouraged her outrage. He was the only man who wasn’t afraid of her, and it drove her crazy. She had also written an embarrassingly bad sci-fi novel called Femtopia Unbound under the pen name Wanda Gaia, and was delusional enough to think no one on campus knew about it.
The dean said, “Let’s not start off on the wrong foot. Amanda and I would like to talk to you, Davis.”
Professor Schaffer said, “You’re a pig.”
The dean let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not starting off on the right foot.”
Ansara crossed his arms and asked, “Are you going to allow this Islamophobic abuse?”
This startled the dean. “Islamophobic?”
“Pig? Muslim? Do I have to draw you a picture?”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Professor Schaffer snarled. “I’m not criticizing you for being a Muslim. I’m criticizing you for being a man.”
“Oh.” Ansara uncrossed his arms. “That’s okay then.”
“Let’s not let our tempers get the better of us.” The dean tried desperately to keep control of the conversation. “There have been some complaints about your recent lectures, Davis. Some of our female students have been offended by some of the things you’ve said.”
“If they get offended that easily, they probably shouldn’t be taking classes on politics.”
“Seventy-two sluts who can’t keep their legs closed?” Professor Schaffer growled. “That’s your idea of politics?”
“No. That’s my idea of a Friday night.”
Professor Schaffer’s face turned purple.
“Oh, come on. That was a joke. Oh, I forgot, feminists don’t believe in funny. Comedy is another tool of the evil patriarchy.”
Professor Schaffer spluttered something that sounded like, “Wha … fah … gar …”
“Well said.”
The dean put up a hand. “All right. That’s enough. Davis, the board has decided it would be a good idea if you started getting approval before every lecture.”
“How?”
“Just hand in your lecture notes prior to the lecture. That should avoid any more … misunderstandings.”
Ansara considered for a moment and then agreed. It didn’t make any difference to him. He would write something benign and inoffensive, then say whatever the hell he wanted to in class.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Like any highly political institution, snooping was a popular preoccupation and pastime at the university. Email accounts of students and faculty had been hacked multiple times, and personal emails never meant for mass consumption had been widely distributed. The salaries of every professor and the dean had been posted to a bulletin board. Embarrassing peccadilloes from the past were constantly being uncovered and trotted out for public amusement. That was how Ansara had learned about Femtopia Unbound. Sometimes, the purpose was to score political points. Sometimes, it was to ruin reputations. Sometimes, it was intended to remove an enemy. Mostly, however, the purpose was simply to humiliate someone and enjoy the show.
Professor Ansara entered his office and closed the door. He unlocked his desk and pulled out his laptop to answer some school emails. Although he kept his laptop locked up when he wasn’t there, he never put anything personal on it, or his regular phone. To avoid the snoopers, he had recently bought a second, cheap cell phone that he always kept on his person. He never gave the number to anyone at the university. He used it for the most private, personal matters. He checked that phone now and saw he had a text message. He would have been humiliated if anyone found out he had signed up for online dating. The stigma alone had kept him from trying online dating for years, but after all, it had been a long time. He read the message:
ZAHRA18: “Saw your profile. Am intrigued. Would like to meet.”
Yes! Ansara pumped a fist into the air and then looked around to make sure nobody saw. He had read somewhere (he couldn’t remember where) that it was best to start with a “pre-date” date when online dating, usually something simple like meeting for coffee to scope each other out without the pressure of a “real” date. He quickly typed:
PROF A 122: Sounds great. How about that coffee shop on Ninth Avenue near Lennox University? Say, two this afternoon?”
She replied quickly.
ZAHRA18: “Sounds great. See you then.”
Ansara panicked for a moment when he realized he hadn’t given her the name of the coffee shop. If he sent her the name now, after she had accepted, did it make him look like a doofus? There was only one coffee shop on Ninth near the university. He decided not to worry about it. Instead, he decided to run home and find a necktie.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ansara walked into the coffee shop and saw her. She was sitting at a table by the window. She had already ordered and was sipping an espresso. Even seated, he could tell she was tall and slender. She was dre
ssed modestly, but not too modestly. No head scarf, thank goodness. Ansara hated those damned things. Her tobacco brown face was perfect, all big eyes and cheekbones. She saw Ansara and gave him a big smile. This was going to be great. She might even be the one.
She was beautiful. She was perfect.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Frances Brubaker clomped down the hall towards Professor Martin’s office, her oversized orange sneakers thumping with each step. She hadn’t been able to hand in her term paper in class because it wasn’t quite finished. Almost, but not quite. She did crackerjack work when it was finished, but she was also a procrastinator par excellence. Fortunately, Martin had given her until the end of the day to hand in her paper. She stopped by Martin’s office, and handed in her completed paper.
Her mission successful, she clomped back the other way. She passed Professor Ansara’s office and saw the door was open. He was angrily typing something on his laptop, hitting the keys so hard she thought he was trying to push them all the way through the computer. It was rare to see Ansara angry. People around him were often angry, but Ansara was usually in a good mood.
She stopped in his doorway. “Hi, Prof. How was your date?”
It was impossible to keep a secret in this joint. “What makes you think I had a date?”
“You’re wearing a tie. You never wear a tie.”
“Oh.” He undid the knot, whipped off the tie, and tossed it on his desk.
I guess the date didn’t go so well, she thought. Better not antagonize him. She turned to leave.
“Wait a sec, Frannie.”
She stopped. “Yeah?”
“Are you going by recycling?”
“Sure am.”
He tossed her his phone. “Drop this off for me, would you.”
“Sure. Hey, did you remember to transfer your phone numbers. People always forget to do that. Then they have to go rummaging in the recycling bins, trying to find the old phone.”
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