by Jenifer Ruff
A knock startled Amin from sleep. Instantly alert, he felt around in the dark for his phone. Eleven pm. No one knocked on his door this late. In fact, no one knocked on his door ever, except for the time Julia showed up in her pajamas at night. She’d gotten locked out of her apartment and needed to use his phone. He flicked on the light and grabbed his glasses, shorts, and a T-shirt. After hurriedly dressing, he tiptoed halfway to his door, stopped, and walked normally the rest of the way. He peered through the peep hole and saw Kareem.
He had expected this moment could happen. He had thought about what he would do when and if it happened, so it could hardly be considered a total surprise. He’d mulled over scenarios in his head, asking himself if he should act like their last conversation never occurred or if he should confront Kareem and demand answers, like he wished he had done before he left Syria. Despite all his previous ponderings, it was hard to believe the moment had now arrived. Kareem stood outside his door, looking much changed—younger and more hip— in jeans and a black hooded college sweatshirt. He looked so…normal.
Amin opened the door wide and stood aside. “Hey.”
Kareem’s eyes roamed over what he could see of the apartment.
“Well, come in,” Amin said. “You’ve come all this way. Come in. We need to talk.” Up until now, he hadn’t decided how he would behave toward his guest. It was happening in real time.
“I wasn’t sure if you would welcome me. And I did leave you a message earlier today. Maybe you didn’t get it.” Kareem finally stepped forward. “Big place.”
Amin felt awkward greeting his cousin without an embrace, but he couldn’t. Not until they resolved things. “Sorry there was no one to meet you at the airport with a car and stack of cash, but you didn’t tell me when you would be here. And I guess you managed to find your own way.” He hoped his tone relayed his sarcasm. “Where are your bags?”
“You’re looking at them.” Kareem let his backpack fall to the floor. His gaze settled on Amin’s couch. Amin gestured toward it with a tight smile, sensing his cousin’s fatigue.
Kareem crossed the room and dropped into a slouched, seated position. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead and cheeks. He folded his arms across his stomach. “Before you say anything. Let’s just forget about what happened before you left. Our conversation.”
“It’s not something to forget about. We need to talk about it.”
“When you came over, I thought things would be different. I thought you might be more interested in committing to our faith. It was my mistake and I’m over it.”
“I was committed. I am, I mean—committed to deepening my faith and finding some purpose. I believe Allah wants everyone to live peacefully. And I could never stand back and allow anyone to jeopardize innocent lives. Not that you actually ever said you were going to harm anyone, but it seemed like you were hinting at it.”
Kareem crossed his arms and leaned forward, rocking slightly forward and back. “Okay. Okay. So, let’s just forget about it.”
“Huh? Seriously? I can’t pretend it’s not a huge thing. Can I even trust you, or should I be calling the police?”
Kareem didn’t answer. Instead, he kneaded his fingers against his temples.
Amin spoke again. “Look, normally, I would be happy about having you here. But right now—I’m leery.”
“Me too. I’m not exactly feeling welcome. Look, you’re my only family and I don’t want bad blood between us.”
“Neither do I. But this isn’t an argument over who broke the window or something.”
Kareem looked up and laughed and it sounded genuine. “I remember the argument. Fourth grade.” He laughed again. “I broke the window.”
“I know you did, because I knew I didn’t.” Amin allowed himself to smile briefly. “I don’t know what it is you were talking about doing. But I’m prepared to stop you if there is something. I already know who to call.”
Kareem looked sorrowful when he spoke. “There’s nothing to stop. I’m not going to blow up anything. You have my promise.” Then he smiled. “I want to make the most of my time here. Explore the city. Eat some greasy food. Have a good time. Like we used to.”
Amin held Kareem’s gaze and believed he was sincere. “Okay, then. Good.” He sighed, relieved to hear Kareem say he wouldn’t be blowing up anything, which was a very strange thing to be relieved about. Had the situation become that out of hand, or had he overreacted, imagined something that wasn’t even true?
Kareem yawned. He shook his head like he was trying to stay awake, but the shake turned into a visible shiver and traveled down his body. His shoulders drooped forward. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
“You’re exhausted,” Amin said. “We can talk in the morning. I have an extra bedroom, but I use it as an office. It doesn’t have a bed. Do you mind the couch?”
“The couch is fine.” Kareem patted the cushion beside him.
“I’ll get some blankets and a pillow. The bathroom is over there. Help yourself to whatever you need. There’s not much food. I never have much food. It’s a problem I need to work on. We can shop tomorrow. By the way, you look good without the beard.”
Kareem nodded. He stood up but lost his balance. Amin extended his hand and helped him up. “Whoa, careful there. The bathroom is that way.” He pointed. “I’ll see you in the morning. Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll get cleaned up and pray. I’m beat.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. An envelope came for you. The one you sent. It’s on the table there.”
Kareem glanced over at the envelope. “Perfect. That’s my thank you gift for you.” He left the envelope on the table and walked to the bathroom.
Amin retrieved his extra bed linens and proceeded to make up the couch as best he could—stretching a fitted sheet around the cushions and smoothing down a flat sheet. Things were a little weird, but he believed they could also be smoothed out in the morning. His circumstances were improving. The prospect of a new job, Isa still available, and a reconciliation with his cousin. His future looked promising after all. Life is good.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Los Angeles
November 4th
By the time Rick and Ken returned to the field office from Pivani’s house, their team was aware a man-made virus had killed Pivani. Their investigation ascended to a new level of urgency. The pace of their work quickened and they ignored their minds’ and bodies’ need for sleep. Rick and Ken delivered Pivani’s cell phone and computer to Rashid and Stephanie, who would comb through all the files, activity, and communications, looking for an explanation of how he ended up dying from a weaponized virus. Rick carried everything else in the collection boxes to an evidence room.
“I guess our showers have to wait,” said Rick.
“Yeah,” said Ken. “But before we start sorting through the trash, do you have any aspirin?”
“Not on me. I could use some myself. I’ll grab some. I’ll be quick. Be right back.” Rick left the room and walked briskly toward the kitchen where the team kept an adequate supply of basic over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. He waved his hand at Quinn when he walked by his office.
“Rick, wait. Come in here for a minute,” said Quinn.
Rick walked backward a few steps and leaned against the doorjamb.
Rick reminded Quinn of a puppy. His hair looked damp and mussed as if he’d just finished a hard work out. His tired eyes still beamed with eagerness. He might as well have been wagging a tail.
“How did it go at Pivani’s?”
“Great. We were careful if that’s what you mean. And now we’re going through his stuff.”
“How much do you know about hemorrhagic fever?” said Quinn.
“Some, and I just googled it earlier.” Rick grinned. “Something specific you want to tell me?”
“I was about your age when I had my first real life encounter with bioterrorism. The situation didn’t end well. But it’s why I’m here. It’s
one of the reasons I do this job.” Quinn’s tiredness allowed his memories to come flooding back.
Quinn had volunteered for a tour in Iraq and spent weeks patrolling a Turkish border. He had witnessed the rampant black market sales of food, oil, and even, he suspected, people. Walking through a Kurdish refugee camp, he understood the origin of the words “huddled masses.” The refugees slept crowded together on bundles of filthy clothing, exhausted by their current conditions. Some of the men stayed awake through the nights, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hard ground. They spoke Farsi and Hudu in hushed voices. The foul and unforgettable stench of the camp overwhelmed his senses. Yet he marveled at the strength reflected in hundreds of ravaged faces.
One night, as Quinn and his close friend, Owen, readied for their night shift just outside the main gates of the refugee camp, their commander ordered them to his headquarters.
“Listen up,” said the commander. “New intel says a pro-Saddam militant has plans to infiltrate the refugee camp. We had eyes on him this morning, leaving Kachivan. He should be here by tonight, if he makes it this far. Word is, he’s not in good shape. Keep watch for him.”
“How will we know it’s him?” Owen asked.
“He has a bad limp. A useless left leg he drags along.”
“Sir, too many of the refugees fit that description with their missing limbs and injuries,” Owen said.
“He’s not even five feet tall,” the commander added.
“Should we apprehend him when he arrives, sir?” said Quinn.
“No. Don’t stop him. Your orders are to follow him into the camp, if that’s where he goes, and see who he communicates with. Let him walk in like we know nothing about him. They think he has a message to deliver. Find out who he’s coming to see.”
Hours later, Quinn’s night vision goggles cast an olive-colored shade over the rickety gate topped with barbed wire and the long rows of canvas tents that served as temporary homes for the refugees. The wind stirred up the dry ground and sand blew into his ears, nose, and mouth, making the goggles a necessity even without the night vision they provided.
“Shit, it’s cold,” Owen said, shivering.
“It’s colder at home,” said Quinn. “You said you grew up in Michigan.”
“Yeah, but at home I don’t stand around outside freezing my balls off,” Owen said. “So, what do you think is the deal with this guy we’re watching for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s a courier delivering a message to someone important. Maybe one of Saddam’s henchmen is hiding inside the refugee camp.”
“Yeah. That could be. Like a spy who is supposed to get intel from the military. We’ll probably never know. Anyway, the commander doesn’t like us,” Owen said. “He knows we volunteered for this tour, and he doesn’t understand why anyone would do that. And he’s not the brightest bulb out there.”
“You’re right. Let’s just help make sure he doesn’t drop the ball on anything.”
“Like that game against Navy when you fumbled at the twenty?” Owen jabbed Quinn in the arm as he laughed.
“Where did that shit come from, buddy? Out of nowhere you thought reminding me of a major fumble would be a good way to pass the time? I’m so glad you watched all my games.” Quinn shook his head, but kept scanning his surroundings.
Owen laughed again. “I only saw you when you played Navy, since my brother was there. Most of it was good.”
“Oh, ya think?”
Owen lowered his voice. “Hey. Over there.” He tilted his head toward the right while stepping farther back into the shadows.
Step-drag, step-drag, step-drag. In their eerily colored view, someone in barefeet moved slowly over the border like a Zombie in a horror movie. Narrow shoulders slumped forward under a tattered coat several sizes too large. The word pitiful entered Quinn’s mind. He or she, it was impossible to tell, stopped momentarily to lean against a post before staggering through the camp gates.
“Fits the description, but I don’t know. It looks like a child in bad shape.” Quinn frowned. “How on earth did he make it this far?”
Owen shook his head. “He’s about to collapse.”
The person eventually reached the gatekeeper and fell against the makeshift table. His head hung to one side as if he lacked the strength to keep it upright. The gatekeeper pointed deeper inside the camp. He stood up to help the new entrant turn and move in that direction. A group of refugees noticed the newcomer’s condition. They quickly surrounded him, offering a shoulder to lean on and an arm to steady himself. They waited patiently while he stopped, overcome by a fit of coughing, only moving on when he could breathe again.
“Probably taking him for medical attention,” Owen said. “I’ll follow and see if he’s our guy. Sure not what I was expecting.”
Owen stopped at the gatekeeper’s table. “A boy. Alone. Very sick,” the Kurdish gatekeeper told Owen in his broken English.
“Be right back,” Owen shouted to Quinn. He walked further inside, his gun pointed down so he wouldn’t frighten any of the refugees.
Was it Quinn’s imagination, or was the chatter inside the camp increasing? Yes. Something was happening. The ever-present buzz of an unfamiliar language morphed into a broiling crescendo of noise. He thought he detected fear. He heard shouts. Accusatory voices.
What was going on?
Looking over his shoulder as he left his post, Quinn entered the camp, striding in the direction he had last seen Owen.
Up ahead, the boy lay on the ground. Two women knelt next to him. A man pulled at one of the women’s garments. They looked like they were arguing. Both women stood up and stepped away, clutching at their own clothes and looking worried. Quinn tried to make sense of the scene.
Owen stepped into the space the women vacated and picked the boy up, cradling him in his arms.
Another woman grabbed Owen’s arm. Small and frail, she spoke urgently into his face, her features scrunched with the need to make him understand. Owen’s body tensed, even as he held the boy in his strong arms.
Something’s wrong here, thought Quinn. Why is that woman touching Owen? What’s she saying? The woman moved aside and was replaced by a man, his face smudged with dirt. He spoke to Owen with that same imploring look.
Quinn stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
The man’s eyes begged Owen and Quinn to understand him. He spoke barely passable English. “The boy. He tell sorry, send here sick. Make sick. Kill us.”
The boy was dead. Quinn could see that now. His glassy eyes were open and unblinking like a doll’s. Broken red vessels surrounded his irises.
“Oh, shit,” said Quinn, taking a step back. He and Owen locked eyes until Owen looked down at the child in his arms.
“What was wrong with him?” Quinn said.
“I don’t know. He’s bleeding from every opening. Shit. I didn’t see it at first.”
“That’s not good,” said Quinn out loud. “If he was sent here to kill us, he must be contagious.”
“Shit,” said Owen.
“We have to separate everyone who touched him.” Quinn looked around. “That’s what we should do.”
Owen nodded, still holding the child.
Quinn blocked a strong urge to flee the camp and concentrated on what he thought needed to happen. “Who touched the boy?” he said. “Move over here to this side if you touched him. Or if he touched you.”
Owen, moved to the side with the child. “Can you get me a sheet or a blanket to put over him?” Owen asked the man who spoke some English. The man nodded and turned away.
“Everyone who touched the boy needs to move over here,” Quinn said, pointing to where Owen continued to stand, alone, his head dropped forward.
Quinn was bigger than all of them, menacing-looking with heavy boots and a large rifle. The refugees looked anxious to do whatever he was telling them to do. They looked to each other for clues, but only ended up staring back at Quinn with confused expressions. He pointed to th
e boy and began acting out his words as if he was playing a game of life and death charades. No one moved. Quinn looked around frantically for the man who spoke some English, wishing Owen hadn’t sent him away to find a sheet.
“There you are,” Quinn said when the man returned carrying a blanket. “Tell everyone who touched the boy to move over there.” He pointed to Owen. “They need to be separated.”
The man who spoke some English turned to the growing crowd, waving his arms and shouting instructions.
“I’ll be right back,” Quinn shouted to Owen.
Quinn was breathing hard when he reached the gatekeeper. “The boy died. He said something to convince the refugees he was infected on purpose and sent here to spread disease. We can’t let it spread. Close the gates. Don’t let anyone else in or out? Clear?”
The gatekeeper nodded, his eyes wide, and began pulling the rickety gates closed from inside until they screeched and clanged shut.
“Put the locks on,” said Quinn. “While we figure out what to do.”
The gatekeeper secured the locks. He looked at Quinn and opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it and turned away.
“What is it?” Quinn narrowed his eyes.
“I touched him too.”
“Oh. Um, okay. Then come with me.”
He hurried back to the center of the camp with the gatekeeper. Owen stood next to the small group of refugees who had come in contact with the boy. Most of them were women. The boy lay on the ground again, a small blanket-covered mound surrounded by unoccupied space like a moat. The refugees wrung their hands and stared at the tiny bundle as if the boy might rise from the dead. Owen kept his hands down and away from his sides, attempting to distance the rest of his body from contamination.
There were hundreds of refugees inside the camp. Quinn wondered what they would do when they learned he had locked them inside. He radioed his commander and told him what had happened.
“Are you inside or outside the camp?”
“Inside, sir. Owen and I are both inside. I closed and locked the gates, but if people get scared and try to get out, the gates won’t be able to stop them.”
