Only Wrong Once: A Suspense Thriller

by Jenifer Ruff

  Al-Bahil put Kareem in charge of every step of the project. He gave him all the support he needed, and everything he requested as soon as he asked. That alone was empowering. In his new lab, Kareem worked hard, focusing on scientific goals, not the man or the objectives driving the work. But the minute he injected Aamaq with the virus in Aleppo, he catapulted the hypothetical secret project into the real world. One step closer to no turning back. Instead of feeling powerful, Kareem felt like a small rat caught in a trap.

  Al-Bahil continued to emphasize that everything Kareem was doing was predestined. Allah had chosen Kareem and provided him with the skills necessary to wage a holy war. Kareem had no choice but to believe. How else could he wake up each morning, get dressed, and go into the lab to continue the work? How else could he have directly infected Aamaq and sentenced the strongest Aleppo villagers to death?

  And now, he had to get to moving if he was to meet Al-Bahil in time. Alone inside his state-of-the-art laboratory, fully covered in his PPE, personal protective gear, he stood in front of the monkey cages. The monkeys were more agitated than usual, a result of their physical discomfort. They shook the bars of their cages and paced. One large male hissed and snarled at Kareem. Most of their food lay untouched inside the cages. The female with the blue band lay curled in a fetal position in the corner of her cage. Her fever was advanced. A thin trail of blood emerged from her nose. She had been infected the same day as Aamaq. The powerful virus replicated faster than Kareem originally predicted.

  “You don’t know it, girl, but you just might be part of something amazing. Genius level amazing. Let’s see if this makes a difference for you.” He gripped her limp arm in his glove and injected a syringe of cloudy colorless liquid. The monkey didn’t try to pull away, not like she had when Kareem first infected her.

  The other monkeys watched his every move. They weren’t as sick as the blue-banded one. They would be soon. They had already learned Kareem wasn’t their friend. Aamaq had always fed them. Kareem only prodded them with needles and made them sick.

  Kareem backed away from the cages. The monkeys watched him go, releasing their tight grips on the metal bars and slumping to the bottom of the cages. He transcribed some notes into his data recorder and left the room to begin the decontamination process. He was about to head out and meet Al-Bahil, when he heard a voice calling from outside the locked door. An old man’s desperate face pressed against the window, peering inside, scanning the room. He leaned back from the window to knock a second time. The worried face belonged to Aamaq’s father. Kareem closed his eyes, summoning the strength he needed to lie again. Head down, he walked to the lab door and opened it.

  “Aamaq hasn’t been home all week. Are you sure you don’t know where he went?” Aamaq’s father clasped and unclasped his fingers.

  Kareem shook his head. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t shown up here for work either. I promise I’ll call you if he does.”

  “Something happened to him.” Aamaq’s father pulled at strands of hair from his beard.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll pray for him.”

  The father’s eyes darted around the lab, as if he might find his son hiding under one of the long tables.

  “He’s not here,” Kareem said, his voice gentle.

  Aamaq’s father left, muttering or praying to himself, Kareem wasn’t sure which. He finished his work, turned off the lights, and left the building, locking the outer door behind him.

  The subject Al-Bahil called him to discuss—recruiting—weighed heavily on Kareem’s mind. He’d told Kareem to find recruits willing to join the jihad. Recruits with American passports. Kareem wasn’t a salesperson. He could teach microbiology principles with his eyes closed, but he had no experience convincing people to fight a holy war. Especially when he was weakly clinging to his own conviction like holding on to a thread in a strong gust of wind. He’d already found three Americans willing to give up their lives and travel to Syria, which surprised him. But they hardly needed convincing of anything; they were already on board. Kareem was simply their connection. Based on his limited communications with them, one, an airport employee, seemed to have an IQ far below average. Another was a quiet professional, an engineer, and Kareem had no idea where or how the man developed his convictions. The third, Dylan Redman, the most motivated, troubled, and possibly insane, had mysteriously stopped all communications.

  Kareem knew Al-Bahil was going to ask for a status update. He would be disappointed with Kareem’s report. He would insist Kareem find more people.

  There was one person Kareem knew in America who could help him. Someone who might, someday, welcome the mission, if he could only be convinced of its merit. The man was Kareem’s own cousin, Amin. He lived in Charlotte, North Carolina.

  But how could Kareem convince him when he wasn’t himself convinced?

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  September 21st

  After a long but typical day at Continental Bank, Amin Sarif held his kitchen cabinet door open and stared at the nearly empty shelves. A can of sardines he couldn’t remember buying, a can of soup a year past its expiration date, stale crackers—he should throw them out once and for all—along with packets of sugar and ketchup. He opened his freezer again to make sure he had run out of frozen pizzas. Empty. It was too late to be eating dinner anyway. He could skip it. He hadn’t intentionally fasted since he was in high school. Why not give it the old college try? But the growling inside his stomach got the best of him. He could try fasting another day. He was undeniably hungry. He would go to the grocery store and stock up, fill an entire cart.

  He removed his white dress shirt and striped tie and changed into a short-sleeved polo. He grabbed an umbrella, but didn’t open it. His car wasn’t far from his apartment. Head down, he ran through the rain toward his Chrysler 200, opened the door, and slid inside. Drops of water fell from his short dark hair. He lifted the edge of his shirt to wipe his glasses dry before turning his key in the ignition. The car turned over, but didn’t start. He tried again. Same result. The lights were on, the windshield wipers were going, but the engine wasn’t running. Amin groaned, dropped his head against the steering wheel, and shut his eyes. He knew nothing about fixing cars. He listened to the rain pattering his roof. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a glowing red light near the gas gauge. The needle pointed to E. Impossible. He had filled the tank yesterday on his way home from the bank. There had to be something wrong with the gauge. But his car wouldn’t start, and an empty tank provided a good explanation. He turned on his phone’s flashlight, climbed out of the car, and bent down to look underneath for a leak, a drip, or a puddle of gas. Nothing under the car looked or smelled like gasoline.

  He stood up and saw the circular gas door sticking straight out, open. The gas cap dangled from its cord.

  He screwed the cap back into place and assembled the evidence in his mind. Had every drop been siphoned? How? Some special vacuum for stealing other people’s gas? Was that a thing you could buy on Amazon? Was the theft random, or did someone have a problem with him? Not him personally, but his nationality. These days, he was never sure what others thought he represented. He was a long way from being a devout Muslim. He hardly ever went to mosque, hadn’t since he started college, unless he was visiting with family. Anyone who thought they knew what Amin stood for was most likely wrong, since he hardly knew himself.

  His stomach rumbled. There was no one he felt comfortable asking for a ride to the gas station. No one he knew well enough to trouble. He opened his umbrella and walked the four blocks to the nearest convenience store telling himself it wasn’t his fault. He was a nice guy. People liked him. But he was shy. And he spent too much time working and not enough time doing anything else.

  Inside the Mini Mart, Amin selected a plastic container with a sandwich. Stocking up on groceries would have to wait until his car was running again. He looked around for gasoline containers and didn’t see any.

  “
That all?” a woman not much older than himself asked in a flat voice from behind the register. She looked at Amin and yawned before turning toward the door to watch another customer enter. Women generally treated him that way, even though he was always neat, clean, close-shaven, and well-dressed. The woman who worked at the men’s grooming salon said he was a good-looking guy. So how come it seemed like he wore an invisibility cloak when women were around?

  “I couldn’t find the gasoline containers. Do you know where they are?”

  “The red plastic ones?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re out.”

  “Then this is all, thank you.”

  He tried not to notice the magazines stacked behind the counter. Bold women stared down at him from glossy covers. They certainly looked interested—half-naked and practically begging him to come closer. He should be disgusted, that’s how he had been raised, but he honestly didn’t care, aside from being curious.

  Amin walked back to his apartment with a tightening in his throat, glancing over his shoulder when the light of the streetlamps failed to reach him, half-expecting whoever stole his gas to pop out of the darkness and assault him. Had he ever felt this lonely before? Maybe his first two days at the University of Michigan, when his insides cramped from the pain of missing home. When he had to sit alone in a corner of the library in case he accidentally allowed a tear to fall. But he recognized homesickness then. His anguish was temporary. Normal, even. He’d waited for it to pass, and it did. What he now felt was different. Instead of dissipating, it had accumulated at a slow and steady pace. At twenty-seven-years old he shouldn’t feel so empty. This was his life. He wanted to change it. But how?

  He returned with his dinner at the same time his neighbor, Julia, unlocked the door to her apartment. Julia was around his same age. She had light brown hair and light freckled skin which suggested she was at least part Irish. She wore a low-cut blouse to accentuate her bosom and she wasn’t alone. The hand on her elbow belonged to a tall, gangly man with long sideburns.

  “Hey, Amin.” She always had a big smile and it made Amin uncomfortable for reasons he didn’t understand.

  “Hey,” her male companion echoed, grinning. Amin had seen him around the last few weeks, Julia’s latest boyfriend. Amin had heard amorous sounds traveling through his thin bedroom walls on more than one occasion. He had to blast his music and wrap a pillow around his head. The sounds involved her current companion and at least two others over the past few years—a stocky red head and an intellectual-looking man from Jamaica. Julia didn’t seem to prefer a type.

  “Hello,” Amin answered, leaning away from Julia and her friend. He unlocked his door and entered his quiet apartment, unsettled by the melancholy feelings Julia had aroused.

  His apartment gave off the faint, indescribable odor of absence, as if no one really lived inside. He sat down at his kitchen table, shoulders slumped forward, and turned on his personal computer. By the time his old Dell booted up, all that remained of his sandwich were unwanted onions, pushed to one corner of the container. His work laptop was newer and faster, but he didn’t use it because he wanted to check for new emails from his cousin in Syria. Continental Bank monitored employee internet activity and some of his cousin’s messages were, well, …questionable.

  Amin and his cousin were close when they both lived in America, until Kareem’s family moved back to Syria before the start of high school. Kareem went to college in Damascus, majoring in bio-chemistry before completing a Ph.D. in microbiology. He was now an accomplished research scientist working to find a cure for some of the most dangerous viruses on the planet. He’d already been recognized in a magazine called Virology Today, although no one except other virologists and Kareem’s family would ever see the article. Being a finance guy himself, Amin understood little about what Kareem did from day to day in his lab.

  Amin welcomed the opportunity to become close friends with his cousin again. Family was forever. Their conversations became more frequent, though some of Kareem’s comments alarmed him. Maybe they were supposed to be sarcastic, but they might be construed as extreme. A brief glance at their last string of instant messages reaffirmed Amin’s worries.

  Kareem: I’m concerned for you. How can you find spiritual purity surrounded by lust and greed in America? I think you should come here.

  Amin: It’s not so bad. We shower every day. That helps with the purifying. Ha-ha.

  Kareem: Americans waste water like they waste everything else. It’s disgusting. I know what’s on your television. I remember.

  Amin: Then I guess you don’t want to know what the bachelorette supposedly did in the fantasy suite this season. Ha-ha.

  Kareem: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Amin: It was a joke. Never mind. I’ll get you the complete season box set for your birthday. Maybe it’s a little sexualized and materialistic here, but it’s not the “Great Satan” like you wrote in a previous message. And I’m so busy with work, it keeps me out of trouble.

  Kareem: Our main focus should be fulfilling Allah’s prophecy.

  Amin: Unfortunately, I also have to listen to my boss, if I want to stay employed.

  Kareem: Forget your boss. Your future depends on living according to Allah’s word. It’s hard for you to see clearly because corruption is too prevalent there. You have to move past your fears, get out of your box. Be brave. Live the life you’re supposed to live.

  Amin: What fears? What box?

  Kareem: I’ll pray for you. I have to go now.

  Amin: Back to the lab?

  Kareem: I’m in the lab now. Working miracles here. But this is something new. Recruiting. It’s only temporary.

  Amin: Like for a pharmaceutical company?

  Kareem: Check out the link I sent you. Must go. Later.

  Those messages were a few days old. After reading them for the second time, Amin made an important decision, one that made him feel brave. He would speak with his aunt and uncle, Kareem’s parents and tell them his concerns. He planned to share some of Kareem’s recent opinions about America being an “evil cesspool”. As far-fetched as it sounded, he worried his cousin might become one of those radicals who despised Western civilization and joined a militant group. How would his aunt and uncle respond when he told them? They might be shocked, or worse—offended. Or did they have some of the same concerns? He wasn’t sure, but a pressing sense of duty compelled him to speak with them and find out. Sooner rather than later.

  He found his most recent email from Kareem and opened the link inside—he had nothing else to do; the Bachelorette was being recorded. The link opened a website, in English, called Muslims Unite. He explored tentatively, as if the site was booby-trapped and one wrong click would sink his operating system. He searched for information to help him understand Kareem. If he gained a better understanding, he could voice his concerns to his aunt and uncle. Listen and learn. Help Kareem. That’s what he was thinking when something did capture his attention—a man interpreting the Quran.

  The Quran has the solutions to everyone’s problems, regardless of their complexity or when they occurred. Its message comes straight from Allah.

  The words reminded him of the Iman he grew up with at mosque. Most of the services went right over his head, but some memorable snippets offering wisdom and guidance managed to sink in, only to be forgotten in recent years. He might need wisdom and guidance now more than ever. He listened and a sense of hope grew inside him—until Julia’s moans traveled through his living room wall, surrounding him, as if they were coming from his own bedroom, growing louder and more urgent. He reached for his iPad and earbuds and had just cranked up the volume when Kareem contacted him via Skype. Amin pulled out his ear buds and pushed a button, allowing music to blast through his kitchen before accepting Kareem’s call.

  “I can barely hear you,” Kareem said. “Why is your music so loud?”

  Amin considered turning off his music and letting Kareem hear evidence
of his amorous neighbor’s sexual activity. Was it possible Kareem would be more intrigued than incensed? Would they have a good laugh like they would have when they were younger? He didn’t want to find out. Amin hardly needed to provide Kareem with more evidence of America’s immoralities. Kareem already had his share of ammunition.

  “I’m unwinding,” said Amin in explanation.

  “Oh. Hey, it would be great if you came to visit me. I have a lot I want to talk about with you. We could work together on this project I’m involved with.”

  Chapter Six

  Los Angeles

  September 21st

  The Los Angeles Counterterrorism team sat at technology-covered desks in a windowless open area, called the War Room, focused on their computer monitors. Except Rick. He stood behind Rashid, asking questions, most likely. His body swayed from side to side and he fiddled with a pen against his thigh. The kid, Quinn couldn’t help thinking of Rick that way, was good-natured and brought a new sense of eagerness into the department, but he needed to tone everything down. Although he had some valuable work experience, internships acquired through powerful connections, he was the youngest member of the team. Only twenty-four.

  Ken stood up, stretched, and walked over to Quinn. “He’s not up to the job,” Ken said quietly, tilting his head toward Rick.

  Quinn made eye contact with Ken and held it. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Rick isn’t going anywhere. So, all of us will have to help him wise up before he messes up. Clear?”