Adam hadn’t ever lived up to his parents’ high hopes, and at 35, he felt he’d pretty much wasted his best years being lazy and uncommitted. Now, for the first time, he’d started feeling like he was getting old, and wondering what he’d do with his life to make it more meaningful. He figured he was more than halfway through, considering how overweight he was, and death had started to be more than a faraway concept – something that happened to someone else. It loomed in his future, getting closer all the time. Even if he reported this to the police and got wiped out by that masked man, wouldn’t that be better than going on as he had been? At least he’d die for something meaningful. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Hello, this is Officer Polanski. How can I help you?”
Adam had called the non-emergency line of the local precinct of the Chicago Police Department. He figured it was better than calling 911, considering the crime was two weeks ago.
“Yeah, officer,” Adam said. “I want to report a…” He had to think. It wasn’t really a robbery that he was reporting. The man had broken in, but hadn’t taken anything.
“Report a what, mister? Look, I’m pretty busy over here. What do you want?”
“I want to report a break-in at my apartment,” Adam said firmly.
“All right. It happen today?”
“Actually, no,” Adam replied, feeling sheepish. “It was a couple weeks ago.”
“Aw, give me a break, buddy,” the cop replied. “Is this a joke? What the hell are you calling me for two weeks later? Why didn’t you call then? How am I supposed to help you now? Huh?”
“Well, the guy basically threatened to kill me if I said anything,” Adam said. “I thought about it for a while, but I decided to report it.”
“Good for you, buddy, good for you. But look, because this happened so long ago, you’re going to have to go to Area headquarters and explain it over there. We’ve got crimes goin’ on today, not two weeks ago.”
Adam got directions to the Area headquarters and thanked the cop. An hour later, he was sitting on a plastic chair in a police department waiting room that smelled strongly of body odor. Adam sat there trying to read the book he’d brought. It was a courtroom thriller by Scott Turow, his favorite author.
It was lucky Adam didn’t have other obligations, because he ended up waiting three hours to see a cop. The policeman he finally spoke to sounded impatient at first, but took down Adam’s information and his contact number and promised to call him if anything came up. He didn’t seem too interested in Adam’s description of the activities he’d seen at O’Hare, or in his description of the intruder, but he raised his eyebrows a bit when Adam said the man had left him $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills.
“You still have the money?” the cop asked in his gruff but friendly Chicago accent. He was graying and probably in his fifties, with sagging skin on his face and bright red cheeks that were rough from too much washing and drying. He looked tired and used up, but his green eyes still twinkled.
“Yeah, right here,” Adam said. He dug the envelope out of the front pocket of his black and red Chicago Blackhawks jacket and placed it on the desk. The cop opened it up, thumbed through the bills and gave an admiring whistle.
“This is quite a stash, buddy,” the cop said. “I’ll tell ya’ something, I admire you for bringing it here and doing the honest thing. Let me keep it for now, and we’ll see what we can find out from the serial numbers. Oh yeah – we’ll test it for drug residue, too. Hold on a second – I need to register this.”
Adam waited while the cop picked up his phone, and daydreamed through the policeman’s quick conversation. Another cop came in moments later with a metal box. The first officer handed him the envelope. “Thanks, Mitch,” the first officer said. “No problem,” the second cop said, placing the envelope in the box and walking out of the room.
“OK, buddy,” the first officer said, turning again to Adam. “We’ll have those bills checked out. Now you realize if this is stolen, you won’t be getting it back, right?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Adam replied. “Anything else I can tell you?”
“No, no, we’re good,” the cop said. “I’m going to pass this story around and see if anyone’s investigating anything similar. I got your number if I find anything out. OK?” He offered his hand and Adam shook it.
“Thanks,” Adam said. “I hope it’s just some kind of drug thing. I’d hate to think it’s more serious.”
“What do you mean, more serious?” the cop asked, staring at Adam intently with his green eyes.
“I don’t know,” Adam said, feeling flustered. “It’s just that, you know, with airports, you think of a lot of bad stuff that could happen.” He felt a wave of guilt, as if the cop might suspect him of some sort of malicious act.
“Right, right,” the cop said. “OK – I’ll let you know what we find. Keep your phone with you the next few days.”
“Thanks, officer,” Adam replied, hoping the cop wasn’t now suspicious he was involved in some sort of criminal activity himself.
He mentally replayed the conversation as he trudged slowly along the empty sidewalk to the bus stop in the chilly December air, his breath coming out in misty clouds, and figured he hadn’t said anything that would point suspicion his way. He’d avoided mentioning Bob, since Bob wanted nothing to do with telling anyone about this. Which might have been a mistake since Bob could corroborate his story – or maybe he wouldn’t, considering how afraid Bob was of the masked intruder he had met. And if Bob refused to corroborate, that would make Adam look like a liar. He shook his head and told himself not to be so paranoid. “You’ve read too many crime novels,” he said aloud, feeling slightly amused.
The bus dropped him two blocks from his apartment and he zipped up his jacket and started walking. The wind whipped down the street right at his face, cutting into his exposed skin like an icy knife, and he cursed himself for not bringing his hat and gloves. He suddenly had a frightening sense he was being followed. He turned around, but no one was there. More paranoia, he guessed. Now that he’d told the cops, he was probably going to feel this way for a while. That fellow at his apartment had certainly seemed to mean business. Maybe he should have asked the police for protection. He hadn’t thought about that in the warm, safe glow of the police station, but now, out here in the dark, he felt stupid for not saying something then.
It was now fully dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie glow over the pavement. There were few other pedestrians out, and Adam supposed most people were home eating dinner. The few huddled figures he did pass walked quickly, eager to reach their warm apartments. He was on a side street lined closely on both sides with 1920s two- and three-story gray stone apartment buildings, each with its own little stairway to the front door. Anyone could be hiding in the shadows of any of those buildings, or in a dark alley, he thought, and shivered.
He sped up, glancing behind him now and then, and eventually reached his own building, a four-story affair with a long first-floor hallway leading back to an elevator that was often broken. Adam normally took the stairway, but tonight that didn’t seem like the safest idea. He decided to wait in the well-lit hallway for the elevator. He fumbled for his keys to the lobby door, and that’s when someone grabbed him around the neck, wrapped a scarf over his mouth and dragged him into the alley that ran between his building and the next.
Whoever it was shoved him against a wall in the dark alley, and Adam’s head hit the brick with teeth-rattling force. His arms were pinned against the wall by the person’s large body, and he couldn’t cry out with the scarf now wrapped tightly around his mouth a couple times. He swiveled his head frantically but saw no one on the sidewalk to alert.
The man holding him against the wall wore the same black ski mask as last time, but this time also wore a dark jacket with a hood over his head, and black gloves.
“That wasn’t too smart, big guy,” the man said quietly. “I thought we had a deal. You’re some kind of wel
sher, aren’t you? Do you know what happens to welshers?”
“Oomph,” was all Adam could get out. The man reached inside his coat for something, and Adam was sure this was it for him.
The man pulled out a long, sharp knife and Adam screamed silently through the scarf. Just then, two men appeared out of the darkness, grabbed the perpetrator from behind and wrestled him to the ground of the dark alley. The knife fell out of the attacker’s hands during the struggle and rattled on the pavement, falling a few feet away “Don’t move!” one of the men yelled. “FBI!” He pulled out a gun and the perpetrator lay still on the ground, hands in the air.
Adam froze in place and watched the two officers hold the man down on the ground with their knees and handcuff him. One of the officers stayed on the ground with the attacker and radioed for assistance, and the other approached Adam and put his hand on Adam’s shoulder. The officer used his other hand to unwrap the scarf from around Adam’s face.
“You OK, Adam?” the FBI man asked, breathing hard.
“I… I think so,” Adam stuttered, trying not to hyperventilate. “Man, you guys got here just in time. I think… I think he was going to kill me.” He found himself shivering all over. The man wrapped his coat around Adam and patted him on the back.
“You just try to get yourself together,” the FBI man said, patting Adam on the back again. “I’m sorry it had to come to this. We’ve been tracking you for a while and we wouldn’t have let anything happen. We knew we’d never find this guy if he didn’t try to get you first, so we had to let things take their course. We figured you’d go to the cops eventually and this guy would go gunning for you. But we didn’t think it would happen this fast.”
“You’ve been watching me?” Adam asked, dumbfounded. He was still trembling. How close to death had he just come?
“Yeah,” the cop said. “We’ve been tracking you ever since that blog post you made about activities at O’Hare. That got the government’s interest. We need to get to the bottom of this case. Sorry we had to use you as bait, but hopefully this guy we’re arresting can tell us more about what kind of shenanigans he’s been pulling at the airport.”
Two police cars pulled into the alley, lights flashing but without any sirens, and several cops stepped out, grabbed the handcuffed man and pushed him into the back seat of one of the cruisers. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk to watch.
“You the guy he attacked?” another cop asked, approaching Adam and the FBI man.
“Yeah, I am,” Adam said, feeling oddly like he’d stepped into an episode of Law & Order. This wasn’t really happening to him, was it?
“OK, then,” the cop said. “We’ll need you to come to the Area headquarters with us and make a statement. You can get in this car here.” He pointed to the cruiser behind the one holding Adam’s attacker. Adam looked questioningly at the FBI man.
“It’s OK,” the FBI agent told him, nodding. “Go on with them. We’re working with the police on this. We don’t think this guy is the leader of the little gang. We think he’s been paid off to get you out of the way. We’re hoping he leads us to whoever’s in charge.”
“Do you think they’re doing some sort of drug deal?” Adam asked. The FBI guy and the cop were walking him toward the cruiser.
The FBI man shrugged his shoulders. “You know as much as I do right now,” he said. “We’re hoping your friend can tell us some more.”
Adam climbed shakily into the cruiser with the cop, and the FBI man waved goodbye. The two police cars again put on their flashing lights, pulled out of the alley, and headed quickly toward the station through the dark streets. Adam leaned back in the seat, and his mind began racing. Was that really the FBI, or was this still part of some crazy scheme? He’d certainly become paranoid, he decided, but perhaps that’s what comes of having your apartment invaded and then being accosted on a dark street. Ah, nothing to do except go to the police and make his statement, he supposed. He wondered if he’d have to testify in court. Maybe they’d give him a new identity or something. “How did I get mixed up in all of this?” he thought.
CHAPTER 17
Going Home
The day after her lunch with Jarrah, Alev sat in the window seat of a 747, gazing out the window as the big plane lurched itself heavily from the runway and climbed quickly into the deep blue sky. Minutes later she could see the dramatic Chicago skyline framed by Lake Michigan. How strange that a lake should be so big, Alev thought, as the plane cruised thousands of feet above the water. She couldn’t see the other side at all. It looked like the ocean. But it was fresh water, Ziad had told her. Now, in early December, the water was still liquid, and brilliantly blue in the sunshine. But Ziad said it got icy by mid-winter.
In the end, she couldn’t convince him to come home with her, and she couldn’t convince herself to call the authorities and share her suspicions about what he might be up to. She wasn’t quite sure what she could say. After all, she had no proof he was actually up to anything. She hoped Jarrah wouldn’t get mixed up in any plan that might hurt others. And she couldn’t turn the police onto someone so close. In the world they both came from, family and tribe came before everything. Somehow, she still felt connected to him, and couldn’t do anything that might hurt him.
But she had given up on the idea of a long-term future with him. She’d meant what she said, and when he dropped her off at O’Hare, she’d told him it was the last time he’d see her. He’d embraced her awkwardly in the front seat of the cab, and then got out to help with her luggage.
“Please, Ziad, consider one more time,” she said as he gently placed her luggage on the sidewalk. “Will you come back with me now? You can just double park your cab here and never come back.”
He shook his head. “You know I can’t do that, Alev,” he replied, putting down the last piece of luggage and coming back to where she stood at the cab’s passenger door. “But you will hear from me again. I’ll call you.”
“There’s no point, Ziad,” she said, shifting her purse to her other shoulder. “I meant what I said yesterday. If you can’t commit to me, I’m not taking your calls.” This time she successfully held back her tears. If he felt like crying, he didn’t show it. His face remained a blank.
“OK, if that’s how you feel,” he said, in a curiously flat voice. He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek and then walked quickly around to the driver’s door of the cab, not looking back. She picked up her luggage and walked quickly into the terminal, forcing herself to look straight ahead. She knew this chapter of her life was over.
As the plane cruised up above the clouds, Alev closed her eyes. Though she felt certain she was through with Ziad, she didn’t feel quite right leaving without trying harder to understand what he was involved in. She wanted to relax and fall asleep, now that she had eight hours with nothing to do, but the itching sense that she hadn’t fulfilled a responsibility, not to herself, but to others who might be in danger, kept her awake. She knew she had to do something.
CHAPTER 18
A Change in Plans
“Majdoube!” the Director yelled from the back of the cab, punching the driver’s seat in front of him and startling Jarrah, who almost steered into another car. There was a loud honk from the other vehicle, and Jarrah gave the driver his middle finger. The Director had just called Jarrah an idiot. That was never good news, and this time, Jarrah was pretty sure the Director was right. Jarrah had been calling himself similar words for several days now, ever since the FBI sting that nailed the enforcer as he tried to catch the spy. Why the enforcer hadn’t nailed the spy on the man’s way to the police station instead of on his way back was a head scratcher, and now it was biting them all in the butt. The man obviously hadn’t realized where the spy was going until it was too late. The Director was not a happy man, and his anger, coming so soon on the heels of Alev’s departure, had turned this into a very bad week for Jarrah.
With the Director and Hanjour in back, Jarrah drove aimlessly aroun
d the city, taking one expressway downtown and then getting on another one and heading out toward the airport where he’d picked the two up earlier that day. It was dark now; the sun set early in the Midwest in December, and snowflakes danced in the air. The highway was jammed with rush hour traffic headed home, and the headlights of semis flashed in Jarrah’s eyes, momentarily blinding him as they passed on the other side of the median. His heart still felt frozen, as it had ever since he’d dropped Alev off at the airport the day before. Part of him had truly wanted to go back with her and give all this up. But something had repressed that desire all through her visit, and he never let himself open up to her. Deep down, he supposed, the mission still took precedence.
Jarrah and Hanjour had brought the Director up to speed on where things stood, and the Director’s mood grew blacker and blacker. He didn’t say much, just let out an annoyed grunt now and then and sometimes cursed in Arabic - a bad sign. Now he punched the seat again, spewing several more curse words. Jarrah knew the Director didn’t drink, but it sounded almost as if he were drunk.
“So here’s how it is,” the Director said, in a sneering tone, still in Arabic. “Make sure I understand. The FBI figured out what was going on at the airport. That’s mistake number one. And then you – Jarrah – weren’t able to take down the web site in time. Mistake number two. Third problem – the spy went to the cops, and number four, they arrested the enforcer. Am I right? Did I miss any of your fuck-ups?”
“That’s the situation,” Jarrah said quietly as he drove. He opened his mouth to say more but the Director wouldn’t let him speak.
“Who knows what that guy might tell the FBI now that they’ve got their hands on him!” the Director barked. “He doesn’t know all of our plans, does he? Does he?”
“No, no,” Jarrah replied quickly. “We’d never tell the fucking Americans our plans. He thought it was a drug deal.”
“I see you did something right,” the Director said, sarcastically. “How nice. But this man – you call him what – the enforcer? Ha. Some enforcer. Anyway, this man, he’s going to tell the FBI that a bunch of Arabs worked with him to get materials onto planes. He could be telling them this right now! Our plans could be destroyed! Such sloppiness! Unacceptable!”
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