Andy’s pants are a maze of zippers and Velcro; they’re the Swiss army knife of khakis. He slips the wrench down a side pocket along his calf, and slides the tire iron under the driver’s seat. I pretend not to notice.
We lock up the cottage and double-check the dock to make sure the Catalina’s secure. I take a last look at the waterfront. Will I ever see it again?
“Sammy, get your ass in gear,” Andy hollers.
And we’re off.
Twenty-nine
We’re on the 401 to Toronto, a multilane highway packed with trucks. It’s fast but hardly the scenic route. I check my watch every few minutes. Calm myself with prayers.
“Pickering,” Andy says. “We’re getting close. Check out the nuclear power plant to the left.” I stare at a wasteland of concrete visible from the highway and the lake beyond. From the air, an easy bull’s-eye. “You can read about it in my folder. Wild stuff,” he says.
The wild stuff is a news story Mr. Bhanjee had stressed in one of his pep talks: Shortly after 9/11, Canada’s national police, the RCMP, arrested twenty-three Pakistanis and a South Indian on terror charges. A bunch of them were on expired student visas, attending this sketchy madrassa. But the reason they got arrested was they were learning to pilot planes over the nuclear plant. The raid was called Project Thread, but the case unraveled. It turns out every flying school in the area had the same flight plan. And why were their flight plans over a nuclear power plant? Because of the nice view!
“Officials had to admit they had no evidence,” Mr. Bhanjee said. “The young men were released without ever going to trial. Moral of the story: Officials make mistakes. Innocent people can go free.”
Right, but after how much time in jail for nothing? And then what? According to the news item, they got deported to Pakistan, where they’ve been hassled by police forever after, treated like criminals, unable to get a job. This is a happy ending?
Anyway, what’s it have to do with Dad? None of those guys had e-mail, cell, and video evidence against them. And just because authorities mess up, doesn’t mean they mess up all the time. Innocent people get arrested, sure, but not everyone who’s arrested is innocent. No, stop it, I can’t think this way.
“Toronto,” Andy shouts. “We’re here. Watch for the Don Valley Parkway.”
In no time, we’re zipping toward the city center, along a highway that snakes through woods, parks, ridges, and ravines. To our right, off in the distance, the CN Tower rises over the skyline. According to Google, Hasan lives a few minutes from here, in an area called the India Bazaar.
We swerve between cars onto a tight exit ramp. A sharp loop and we merge with traffic mounting a steep, winding hill. At the top, Andy glances at the map and pulls a dogleg onto Greenwood Avenue. Soon, we’re at a main intersection: Danforth.
A few hundred yards off, I spot women wearing hijabs and some men in Islamic dress, milling outside a nondescript building. A mosque, I’ll bet. Noon prayers.
“Any second,” Andy says. He grips the steering wheel. We go down a hill, a massive transit shed to our right, fenced-off town homes to our left. We go under an overpass and along a block of rundown houses pasted to the sidewalk.
Suddenly—Gerrard Street. Hasan. On one corner, a pizza joint. Opposite, a mini-mart with a small parking lot.
“Pull in,” I say. “Let’s call Hasan’s, see if anybody’s home.”
“Good idea, if they’ll answer,” Andy says. “But don’t waste your cell. Use the pay phone, side of the building. We’ll be across the street getting takeout.”
“No ham or sausage,” I say.
“Hunh?”
“It’s haraam.”
“Haraam?” Andy looks at me weird. “Like the food list your dad used to send to the cottage?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No,” Andy says, hands in the air. “I just never thought you were religious is all.”
“I don’t know what I am. I just don’t want to take chances.”
I get out of the car and make the call. It goes through. The line’s in service, but I get the voice message. “Blah, blah, blah, you know what to do.” Beep.
This time, I do know what to do. I call again and again and again and again. If anybody’s home, I’m gonna bug them till they pick up screaming. At last, just as I start to think everyone really is out, I get an actual person. Her.
“Who is it?”
I freeze.
“Whoever you are, I’ve had it with the goddamn harassment,” she steams. “The line’s bugged, so watch your sorry ass or I’ll get Officer Dipshit, who’s listening in, to charge you. By the way, Officer, have a nice wank.” Click. I smile. She sounds like me.
Andy honks the horn, and I hop back into the car. We all grab slices of pizza as Andy pulls onto Gerrard. The pizza tastes as cardboard as the box: dried-out dough with a smear of tomato sauce and a handful of mushroom bits that look like fried roaches. We wolf it down anyway. Andy tries to avoid the street-car tracks while Marty and I look out the windows, searching for numbers.
The India Bazaar. At first, I don’t get the name. I mean, we’re driving along your basic two-story, flat-roofed McStrip. There’s rooming houses, a gas station, doughnut shop, coin laundry, greasy spoons, and a pair of grubby bars. Above the stores, some sad apartments, the windows covered by dusty drapes, torn roller blinds, and tin foil, the odd glass pane replaced by plywood.
Then, out of nowhere, we’re in the middle of it: a nonstop wall of Indian and Pakistani restaurants, halal grocery stores, an Islamic book center, and jewelry and fabric shops with windows full of silks and saris. Some of the merchandise spills onto the street: racks of brilliant scarves next to sweet trays, and produce stands with crates of mangoes, lichees on the twig, and ripe pomegranates stacked amid a jostle of copper pots and pans, and two-foot stainless steel shish kebab skewers.
I squint hard. “Hasan’s place should be right around here.”
“Know what’s weird?” Marty says. “Hasan is on the loose, and people are out doing their thing.”
“Why not?” Andy says. “He’s hardly hiding in the area. Besides, we’ve still got that unidentified terrorist around Meadowvale, and people are at the mall and stuff.”
I spot the narrow blue door from the news. “That’s the door. The number.”
We go to the next corner. There’s a small library across the street to the north. It’s strangely familiar. The set of cement steps, the shaded window. Where have I seen it? My god. The FBI photos. It’s where Dad met Hasan.
We turn south onto a side street. There’s a lane that separates the back of the Gerrard Street stores from a mess of low-fenced residential yards that stretches down to the next big intersection. No wonder Hasan escaped so easily. All the stores on his strip are connected, each with a back fire escape and a row of second-floor apartment windows. Even with cops breaking in at the front and back, if he was on the flat roof, he could dash the length of the block, drop anywhere, pop into a backyard, and disappear in a flash.
We park.
“Okay, Sammy,” Andy says. “Marty and I’ll be inside the library, watching you go to Hasan’s. If the woman doesn’t answer the buzzer, knock till your knuckles bleed.”
“Not so fast,” I say. “We don’t want attention. Even without camera crews, there’ll likely be surveillance from a car or a window across the street. Maybe at the back too, from one of the houses across the lane. I’ll start with a casual stroll-by. Meet you in five.”
They head to the library. I put my hoodie up, and do a slow walk along the street, checking out the produce stalls, the silk racks. The door leading up to Hasan’s apartment is squeezed between two restaurants.
I pretend to read the vegetarian menu in the window to the right, but my eyes are on his door frame. There’s six buzzers. The stairs beyond the door must lead up to a hallway of apartments running across several first-floor businesses. Each of the buzzers has a name beside it—except for buzzer fo
ur, where the name’s been scratched out. No surprise whose apartment it is or why the name’s been removed.
I turn away from the menu and saunter down the street, then cross over and double back to the library. The guys are at a table in the teen section. Marty’s got a graphic novel. Andy’s drumming his knees. I fill them in.
“So what do we do now?” Marty asks. For the first time ever, he’s looking at me when he says it. Andy’s glancing my way too. It’s a little overwhelming. Especially since I realize we’ve been incredibly stupid.
“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Hasan’s friend or relative is in Apartment Four. But the place is probably bugged. So problem one is, if I tell her what I’d planned—that I’m Sabiri’s son and I’ve got something for Tariq—I’ll be in deep shit. Whoever’s doing surveillance will think I’m a terrorist too. Right?”
Andy frowns. “And problem two?”
“Problem two: Even if I just press her buzzer, the wiretap will pick up the buzz. Whoever’s watching the place will know I want to see her. Bingo, they’ll be snapping my picture like crazy. And for what? I mean, the way she was on the phone, she won’t let me in unless I spill who I am. Which, of course, I can’t—because of problem one.”
“So we should sit outside on the steps, watch the door for when she comes out, and tail her,” Andy says.
I shake my head. “That’s problems three and four. Three: She’s likely being tailed already. If we start following her, we’ll be followed too. Four: There are six apartments up there, and we don’t know what she looks like. A woman comes out of the building, how do we know it’s her? Who would we follow? Even if we could, which we can’t.”
An awful silence. A fly lands on the table, cleans its wings. Marty’s stomach grumbles.
“Want to go back to the car?” he says. “Finish the rest of the pizza?”
“How can you think about eating?” Andy snaps.
“Sorry, I just thought—”
I smack my head. “The pizza! Marty, you’re a genius!”
“Me? Hunh!”
I hunker over the table. “I have a plan.”
Thirty
One thing at a time.
I write a note to Hasan’s girlfriend and put it in my pocket. I switch hoodies with Marty; it’s a little baggy, but it makes me look different in case anyone took my picture before. I leave the guys, go to the car, and get our pizza box.
I’m ready.
No, I’m not. I mean, what am I doing? I’m walking to a terrorist’s door with a pizza box! It’s like I’m in a dream. My feet are moving on their own; I can’t stop them. So many times, things look easy, then turn into something else—like that trip to Hermit Island. Or go out of control—like with Mr. Bernstein in the can. Or like now. Am I going to die? Why can’t we know the end of things at the beginning?
I’m at the blue door.
Hasan’s place is Apartment Four, but I can’t let anyone guess that’s where I’m going. I press buzzer five and hope whoever’s there will let me in. I wait.
I want to run, but I’m caught in this wave; it’s dragging me out, I can’t stop it.
I press the buzzer again.
Breathe. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just delivering a pizza. If I clear Dad, that’s good, right? Or if I find Hasan, I can report it—which is also good, right? And Andy and Marty are across the street with cells in case anything goes wrong. I’m fine. I’m safe. There’s no problem.
So if there’s no problem, why are my feet sweating? Shut up. Don’t be a coward.
One last try at Apartment Five. No answer.
I try buzzer one. Nothing.
Buzzer two. Somebody’s gotta be home besides Hasan’s friend.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Somebody, anybody, let me in. I’ve been standing here too long. It’s gotta look weird. Why? It’s a pizza delivery. Whoever’s watching could think the person I’m buzzing is holed up in the can or getting their money.
What’s strange about that? Nothing—except the pizza box is empty. So? Who’s gonna know that?
Apartment Two answers. There’s a bunch of static over the intercom, a TV in the background: “Who is it?”
“Pizza delivery.”
Crackle—“I didn’t order pizza”—crackle.
“It’s for Apartment Five.”
Crackle—“So buzz Apartment Five.” The intercom goes dead.
I try Apartment Two again. Hold it down forever.
Crackle—“I said, try—”
“Their buzzer doesn’t work!”
Pause. A click on the door lock. Apartment Two lets me in.
The stairwell is a dirty mustard color. It smells of fried fish. If Mom was here, she’d be reaching for her hand sanitizer. I make sure not to touch the railing.
Apartment Two is watching a really loud show. They don’t bother to check me out. I go down the hall to Hasan’s place and take the note out of my pocket. It reads:
SABIRI JUNIOR IS LOOKING FOR YOUR FRIEND.
LIBRARY ACROSS THE STREET, TRAVEL SECTION.
DON’T KEEP ME WAITING.
That last bit was Andy’s idea, to make me sound tough. Anyway, there’s nothing in it that could get me in trouble. At least I don’t think so.
I slide the note back and forth under the door before leaving it. Anyone listening in on a wiretap will think someone’s just rubbing their foot back and forth. But whoever’s inside should hear the rustle.
Flash panic. What if Apartment Two is suspicious about why I haven’t knocked at Apartment Five to deliver the pizza? No sweat. I go to Apartment Five. I know that nobody’s there from when I buzzed, so I bang hard. “Pizza!”
I have this whole imaginary speech in my head where I say, How do you do, sir? Thanks for the tip. By the way, your buzzer doesn’t work. But before I can get out a word, the door is thrown open. There’s a big, sweaty guy holding a towel around his waist. Boy is he mad. In the background I see a woman in a bathrobe.
“You the asshole who buzzed?” sweaty guy yells.
“Uh, no.”
I race down the hall, ditch the pizza box in the stairwell, and exit onto the street. Sweaty guy wouldn’t chase me down the street in a towel, would he? I dodge up the next side street and circle back to the library.
“What happened?” Andy says.
“Don’t ask.”
“When you ran out of the building, I saw a curtain move,” Marty volunteers. “Someone was watching you.”
“Hasan’s friend, let’s hope,” I say. “Maybe trying to see what I look like.”
I go to the travel section and have the guys take a few books to a table at the end of the aisle. I stand and look over the shelves, like maybe I’m researching a family trip. Hmmm. Where to, Sami? Amsterdam? Australia? France? Germany? I pull out Lonely Planet’s Egypt.
I’m so busy checking out the pyramids, I almost don’t notice the woman standing next to me. She’s wearing a gray skirt, black sweater, black nylons, and a niqab. Only her eyes are showing; they’re rimmed in liner and mascara. She takes the Fodor’s Mexico, glances at it, and returns it to the shelf. A piece of paper sticks out slightly over the top.
The woman gets two other books and heads to the checkout counter. I wait till she’s gone, then take all five Mexico books back to the table. With my back to the counter, I pull the paper out of the Fodor’s.
It reads:
NORTHEAST CORNER, YONGE AND BLOOR, 5 P.M.
Five o’clock. Two hours from now.
My heart skips. “How do we get there?”
“Easy, dummy,” Andy says. “I put maps in the folder, remember?”
“This is real,” Marty whispers.
“Yeah, but nothing to worry about.” I try to act like I mean it. “Yonge and Bloor, it’s a public street corner. There’ll be people around. You guys can blend in, be on the lookout for trouble.”
“But what if they take you somewhere?” Marty says.
“Follow me, idi
ot. You’ve got legs, right?”
Marty starts to rock in his seat. “But what if they stuff you into a car or something?”
“I’ll stay in the Chevy,” Andy volunteers. “I’ll park a few yards from the corner. If they drive you anywhere, I’ll follow. I’m good at keeping up in traffic.”
“And I have a cell phone, remember,” I say. “If I get in over my head, I’ll use it.” That almost calms me down. Then I flash on me tied up in the trunk of a car, trying to fumble it out of my pocket. Help. Breathe. Breathe.
“Sammy, if we lose you, we’ll call for help too,” Andy says. “On foot, you won’t be far off. Even if you’re in a vehicle, we’ll have the license number, make, and model, plus we’ll be within a few blocks.”
“Hold on,” I panic. “If I disappear, don’t call right away. I could be totally safe, just not able to phone. Like, if I’m talking with Hasan.”
Marty’s eyes pop. “You’re kidnapped and you want us to do nothing?”
“But I might not be kidnapped. They might just have taken me someplace secure. You get the cops involved, things could get ugly. I could become a hostage. If you leave me alone, I could be fine.”
“Could be,” Andy underlines grimly.
Marty blows between his hands. “We should walk,” he says. “We should walk, we should walk, we should walk.”
No. We’re too close. We’ve come too far. Dad, I won’t let you down. Not this time.
I fake a smile. “Take a pill, Marty. Remember, Hasan has no reason to hurt me. That’s as true today as it was yesterday.” And how true was it yesterday? Hasan’s a terrorist. What if he thinks I could give him away?
Andy whittles his ear with a flurry of fingers. “Okay, Sammy. If we lose contact, we’ll cross our fingers that you’re safe. But you have to promise you’ll meet us by nine o’clock at the latest, at the plaza, Yonge and Dundas. It’s on the map I gave you. The red star. If you’re not there, we go to the cops.”
Borderline Page 14
