“Najid … this is your lucky day!”
“I don’t feel very lucky right now.”
“Well you should. Ashley is recovering nicely after her operation at Harborview. They wouldn’t give me anymore details over the phone except that she is doing well.”
“Oh, thank God! And thank you, LaTisha!” She reminded him of his mother. “You have been such a help. What can I do for you when I get out?”
“Nothing! That smile is my reward. If I can brighten your day, it makes my day. God bless you, Najid. I hope I don’t see you here tomorrow!”
She moved to the next cell, chuckling.
Chapter 16
The black sedan’s tires screeched as it skidded to a halt outside the police station, where Najid languished in boredom and fear. A very tall, well-built man in a dark suit hurried in, flashing his card to LaTisha before stepping into the detective’s office. “Gordon Appleby, FBI.” He realized they had expected him. The man behind the desk rose slowly, extending his hand without smiling.
“I’m Richard Hunt, detective for Seattle Police, assigned to the synagogue bombing.”
After a perfunctory handshake, Hunt began:
“About Najid Haddad, we’ve checked everything we can: university records, his advisor there, his computer, and his cell phone. We’ve sacked Najid’s apartment for paper files, talked to his roommates, Libyans. Nothing, squat, no evidence of anything suspicious.” The detective threw up his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m not sure why we’re keeping him.”
The FBI agent frowned. “We have nothing either. We’ve checked the Watch List for terrorists, contacted U.S. Immigration, and even called the Israeli intelligence service for Northern Israel where he lived. State Department and Homeland Security have nothing on him. They don’t think anyone shipped in explosives.”
“So where could the bomb material have come from?
“Good question. We know it’s similar to what has recently been used in bombings in Europe and India. But no tips, no unusual events on the airlines. Where could whoever bombed the synagogue have gotten the C-4? We’ve checked the markers on the explosive residue in the synagogue and traced it to a manufacturer on the East Coast, but their company has no knowledge of any missing explosive material. They supply legitimate needs to a number of companies like mining outfits, and we are checking each of these for evidence of missing material. That hasn’t finished yet.”
“Actually,” Richard shrugged his shoulders, “Najid seemed like an innocent man in my interrogation yesterday. We have no evidence to charge him even as an accomplice. So he remains a person of interest only. As you know, by law we can’t hold him any longer than twenty-four hours. We’ve got to let him go. We know how to reach him if needed.”
“I’d like to meet him. That would help in my report to FBI headquarters. Impressions can be valuable.”
“No problem. I’ll take you back.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Gordon added. “I could recommend to FBI headquarters that they contact the State Department to put a hold on Najid’s passport for sixty days if he’s at risk to flee the country. But assuming he’s innocent, it could trigger airport security computers long into the future.”
Richard bit his lower lip, shaking his head. “He’s here on a Fulbright Scholarship in graduate school at the University of Washington. We can check on him periodically. I think he’s clean and I would rather not do that to him. Let’s go.” They walked to the hallway and the holding cells.
Najid lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. His arms were folded over his chest. Time passed so slowly. He had nothing to read, no radio, no contact with the outside world. He wondered what it would be like to remain in jail for months, or years. Several of his West Bank friends had spent years in “administrative detention” just for throwing a stone at an Israeli army tank. Now what would they do with him as a foreigner? His eyes closed. Then he heard footsteps. Najid rose on seeing two men opening his cell door.
“Najid, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself when we first met. I’m Richard Hunt, Seattle Police Detective, and this is Gordon Appleby, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Najid extended both hands to shake with each man, bowed slightly, and said nothing. His hands clammy with cold sweat embarrassed him. Had they found something to make them charge him with the crime?
“I’m pleased to meet you, Najid.” Gordon Appleby smiled. He towered over Najid’s six-foot frame. “I hope you understand that we in the United States have experienced another terrorist attack and are quickly investigating every possible lead to find who did it.”
“I understand, sir.” He looked the FBI agent in the eye and shook his head. “But I didn’t do it.”
“I sympathize with you. It must seem very unfair to you to be singled out for incarceration when you are a guest in our country and a Fulbright Scholar. I would like to hear a bit of your story, how you happened to come to America, and what you are doing at the university. Please, sit down.”
Najid wondered what they were trying to get out of him. But his best defense seemed to be the truth. So he began his story, including how he came to be standing in front of the synagogue when the bomb went off. He told of his friendship with Ashley. And he detailed everything he remembered about what he’d seen and heard before the explosion, which wasn’t much. He desperately wanted to help them find whoever hurt Ashley. He shook his head and grimaced. “I wish I had been paying more attention.”
The FBI agent then had a few questions. After several minutes he seemed to be satisfied and Najid began to relax.
“Well, Najid, we appreciate your being forthright with us.”
“Forthright? I don’t know that word.”
“Honest,” Richard spoke up. “You have cooperated fully with us, and now we have some good news for you. We have found nothing to incriminate you and are not bringing any charges. You are free to leave, and I will drive you home.”
Najid sighed, his shoulders and head dropped. He closed his eyes to blink back the tears, shook hands with both men, and walked out to the car into freedom.
Chapter 17
Robert had rarely used the room he still leased in a small Victorian home on Capitol Hill. He decided to move back to his room quietly and gradually. None of the brothers, including Ali, knew the address. The large bedroom up the narrow stairs served as a studio apartment. It looked and smelled old, with faded floral wallpaper. But it would do to keep him out of view. He would show up at the brothers’ house occasionally to not arouse anyone’s suspicion. But he’d gradually disappear, even from Ali. His plan included taking classes at Seattle Central Community College so he would have student credentials. He decided to stay away from the Islamic Center or any other mosque that could be targeted for investigation.
So Robert moved back, out of the brothers’ house, to his rented room. His jihadist fervor and hate of the establishment was tempered by a constant nagging fear of discovery. That the country boiled with anger didn’t help. No effort would be spared to find him. He rehashed the scene of the bombing in his mind, going over and over it, trying to remember all the details. He had briefly exchanged glances with the girl. She probably couldn’t see his face with the hood covering some of it, or the red birthmark on his forehead. Too far away. He still didn’t know for sure whether she survived and had no way to learn that since she had dropped out of the news.
History and psychology interested Robert, so he asked whether he could pay to audit courses already underway for spring quarter at the Seattle Central Community College on Capitol Hill. He began to sit in on two classes. The first morning he sat next to a girl in the psychology class and struck up a conversation. That led to an invitation later in the week for coffee in the student cafeteria. He led her to a table in the corner, away from most of the students. The noise of conversations seemed loud. Jenny, a short, dark-haired girl with a pixie haircut, smiled a lot. She seemed quiet, but friendly. Robert learned that she wanted
to transfer to the UW next year when she completed her associate degree.
“What then, Jenny?”
“I’m thinking of a counseling career. But that takes years of training, so I don’t know. God must have something in mind for me.”
“You must be religious.”
“Oh, maybe. But I do believe that God leads us somehow. Do you, Robert?”
He thought for a minute. What to reply? Didn’t he try to fit into Allah’s plan? “I, um, guess I do. You probably go to church somewhere.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s one I’ve discovered that is quite interesting. Partly because they teach about Israel and believe that we are close to the end times.”
“I don’t get it. Why would they care about Israel? And what do you mean, ‘end times’?”
“Oh, that’s easy! They believe that Israel becoming a nation in 1948 represents the beginning of the end, you know, when Messiah returns.” Jenny smiled, but with a quizzical furrowed brow.
“So they are all supporters of Israel?” he asked.
“Right. We even wave Israeli flags once in a while. There is an association of churches who support Israel in every way they can. They are all over the country.”
“I had no idea churches like that existed.”
“Would you like to come sometime? I’d be glad to take you.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt, you know. Why not? I’ll look at my calendar and get back to you.”
Watching television news in the living room of his landlord’s house, Robert realized the intensity of the national frenzy. He understood the corresponding determination of the FBI to find the bomber. What should he do to lie low? No way could he get out of the country without raising suspicion, not with a Pakistan visa in his passport. They would have that in their computers even in the process of getting a new passport.
OK, he would avoid any close contact with anyone. He would not even eat dinner at the brothers’ house. The FBI could be tracking them, or Imam Jabril. He would miss seeing Ali, but it would be better that way. With his small refrigerator and stove, he’d cook his own food in his room or eat out occasionally.
Then he thought of Jenny’s invitation to visit her church. He smiled. What could be better for his cover than attending a church that is known to be pro-Israeli? What a great idea for a jihadist looking for a place to hide.
The psychology lecture droned on, explaining the significance of conditioned responses. Robert had learned of Pavlov’s dog in junior high school. He spotted Jenny across the lecture hall, and she smiled when their eyes met. After class, they spoke in the hall, revisiting her invitation to church. Her eyes sparkled.
“Next Sunday will work for me,” Jenny said.
“Sounds good. Where do we meet?”
“How about right in front of the college where the flag and benches are located? On Broadway. Maybe nine-thirty in the morning? You driving?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll pick you up and you can show me how to get there.”
Chapter 18
Najid listened to the news on his radio while he hurried to dress. It felt good to be home and showered, and he was anxious to see Ashley. He had solved the puzzle of riding the buses in Seattle and had no trouble arriving at Harborview Medical Center. He checked at the nurses’ station on Eight North before tiptoeing toward Ashley’s room. The door was partially open, and Najid eased his way in to find Ashley asleep. Beeping monitors and the screen showed changing numbers. Fluid ran into her arms through the IV tubing. He didn’t know what he should do. He didn’t want to hurt Ashley by waking her. So he sat down in a chair by the window to wait.
He watched over Ashley, beautiful and almost smiling in her sleep. His heart ached as he saw her, so open, generous, and loving—so seriously hurt. He wanted to hold her hand, to kiss it. He found a recent newspaper from Oklahoma City on the sill with headlines about the bombing in Seattle and immersed himself in it. So he didn’t notice when Ashley opened her eyes and turned her head toward the window.
“Najid, Najid! Oh, you’re OK!” She flung her arms upward, forgetting about the IVs and cracked ribs. Najid leaned over the bedrail to join in the hug. “I’m so glad to see you.” She jerked and grimaced with pain suddenly. “It seems like every time I move, my chest hurts. They tell me I have some broken ribs. I asked about you but no one seemed to know if you survived the blast.”
“And I didn’t know about you after they took you away in the van with the flashing lights. You were bleeding on the sidewalk and couldn’t answer me. I didn’t know what to do except shout for help.”
“Did you get hurt too?”
“Just scratches on my arms. You took the force of the explosion and I was behind you.” Najid’s voice broke. “You … protected me.” He swallowed several times and couldn’t speak.
“I did? Well … that’s good. But tell me exactly what happened and what you did, where’ve you been. Nobody tells me anything, and I have so many questions.”
Najid stood by the bedrail and looked into the eyes of the most beautiful person he could remember meeting outside his family. He shook his head and smiled. Their eyes met as his face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. “Ashley … I prayed for you to live.” He became silent, nodding as she smiled. Then he began to grin. “So you want to know everything?”
“Everything, Najid.”
That began a long account of all that had happened to a bewildered foreign student in a faraway land who had become a terrorist victim along with Ashley. She had additional questions about his confinement as a “person of interest” and legal questions, many of which he couldn’t answer.
Then Ashley asked about the bombing itself: What had happened? She continued, “I don’t remember much at all. Being at the synagogue is a big fog. I must have been stunned if not knocked out. A policeman came briefly yesterday asking about what I remember, and I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. He said that people who lose consciousness in an accident often have no memory of the events just before it happened. The doctor confirmed it and called it ‘retrograde amnesia.’ ” She grew silent for a moment. “Maybe it’s best that I can’t remember anything.” She seemed to gaze beyond the opposite wall in silence. “But what about the reaction in the United States? I’m too sleepy to watch the news on TV.”
“I know a bit about that. It’s international news as well. I’ve been isolated too, Ashley. But I did hear a bit on the radio this morning. And I found a paper from Oklahoma City just now with a lot of information. Someone must have left it.”
“Oh, that would be from my parents. They flew in to be with me. They should be here soon. My dad is a news junkie, and he’ll know the latest.”
“Junkie? Is he on drugs?”
“No,” Ashley laughed. “My dad getting high? No, he’s just hooked on news. Junkie’s another American slang word meaning he’s addicted, in this case to reading the newspapers.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“You will. Both Mom and Dad should be back soon.”
“OK. Now tell me how they treated you here in the hospital. You could have died. I thought you might not be alive.”
So Ashley related all she knew of her injuries and what Dr. Thompson told her about what had happened in the OR. Her memory remained clouded for most of the time after the blast, until today. “Pain medicine, I guess. I keep falling asleep.”
Ashley answered a soft knock on the door. “Come in. Oh, Mom and Dad! I’m so glad you came so you can meet Najid. You remember we spoke of him yesterday, and we didn’t know whether he survived the bombing. Najid, these are my parents, Frank and Dorothy Wells.”
Najid bowed slightly and shook hands with both parents as they approached Ashley’s bedside. “I am so happy to meet you. You must have been very worried for your daughter.”
“We were,” Dorothy said. “But I’m pleased that you both survived. It must have been a frightening experience for you.”
“Yes. But especially seeing Ashley lying
on the sidewalk, bleeding and unable to speak. She protected me from the blast.”
“Really? Did you escape any injury?” Frank asked.
“I have a few scratches on my arms, that’s all. But I didn’t know what happened to Ashley. We are friends and classmates in graduate school at the University of Washington.”
“I understand that. So what have you been doing since the explosion?”
Najid briefly described his detention as a “person of interest” and then asked Mr. Wells for any current information from national or international news.
“You would be blown away by what is happening around the world. Ah … ,” he paused, “that’s probably a bad phrase to use.”
Dorothy grimaced at her husband’s choice of words.
“Anyway, intelligence agencies all over the world are investigating to determine where the explosives came from and who might be involved. It has triggered alarm also in Europe and of course, Israel.”
“It clearly targeted Jewish people,” Ashley said.
“No question, Ashley. Jewish organizations are up in arms. Everyone in the country wants to find the bomber. The departments of Homeland Security, the State Department, the FBI, and the White House started taking hits for not detecting the plot before it happened. They seem to have no idea who or what organization perpetrated the bombing.”
“It’s no wonder you were detained,” Ashley added, looking at Najid. “The authorities are desperate to find who did it.”
“Al-Qaeda has claimed responsibility, but the intelligence people in the United States doubt that,” Frank continued. “It could have been a homegrown terrorist or organization as they have not been able to identify anyone from overseas. They’ve poured over the Watch List here in the U.S. to find leads, but that has proved a huge undertaking and takes time.”
The conversation turned to other subjects, including how Najid came to U Dub. He realized Ashley needed to visit with her parents. “I’ll come back tomorrow after classes.” He shook their hands, walked out, and tried not to wonder what Ashley’s parents might think of him. For some reason, their opinion mattered … a great deal.
Living Stones Page 6
