Enemies Among Us Page 8

  “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She kissed him. “You are so reassuring.”

  “I’ll be fine. It can’t be any more dangerous than organized crime or gangs.” He paused, then added, “I have to do this for them.”

  “I know you think you do. I wish you didn’t feel that way.”

  “I owe it to Scott and the others.”

  “I know,” said Caitlin, as she gave Matt another kiss. “Just be careful. I still have a few plans for us before I start collecting that retirement check.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not checking out early and leaving you with a tax-free income the rest of your life so you can run off with some boy toy.”

  She pinched his cheek. “You are such a romantic. Did you remember we have bumper bowling tonight?”

  Matt was confused. “Bumper bowling?”

  “Matt, don’t tell me you forgot. You promised. I told you the other night. Tonight we are bowling with my kids who read five books this month. Sound familiar?”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to remember.” Matt looked to an empty chair. “Your honor, the prosecution would request permission to refresh the witness’s recollection.” Matt turned back. “Permission granted.”

  With that Caitlin walked over and threw her arms around his neck and gave him another kiss.

  Matt smiled. “Now I remember. How many of these little darlings succeeded in the challenge?”

  Caitlin winced, “All of them.”

  “What?”

  “Next time remind me to make it ten books.”

  They finished dinner, changed into casual clothes, and headed to the bowling alley.

  TWENTY-ONE SECOND-GRADERS EAGERLY AWAITED Caitlin’s arrival. Matt had been to her class one afternoon earlier in the school year. He knew names because almost every evening Caitlin came home with a school day tale. It was difficult putting faces from that one afternoon visit together with names, but he was thrilled to see how much his wife was loved. As Mrs. Hogan’s husband or “sweetie” as one little girl called him, he enjoyed celebrity status.

  The children came in all sizes and colors. It looked like an international children’s enclave in the adult world of the bowling alley. Caitlin’s class consisted of twelve girls and nine boys. Four children were born in Mexico, one in Afghanistan, one in Egypt, and one in China. Three girls and one boy were African-American. One father was a doctor. Two fathers were farm workers. One child was homeless and lived with her mother in government-subsidized motels for two-week intervals. Caitlin had quietly done a great deal for that family, and few people were aware of their circumstances. It was just one more reason Matt loved his wife; she had a compassionate heart full of love and hope.

  The energy these twenty-one youngsters generated could power a small city. Factoring in the noise of a bowling alley with the noise of her overly enthusiastic class, it was at an earplug decibel level.

  Three lanes had been set aside for Caitlin’s class. Inflatable tubes were placed in the gutters of the alleys to prevent gutter balls, and eight-pound balls were brought out from under lock and key. The kids were more than ready. The only requirement now was to generate enough strength to power the ball down the alley so it would at least knock over a pin or two.

  The kids had a blast. One girl, the largest in the class, was actually pretty good. Most of the time she was able to knock down a few pins without taking advantage of the bumpers.

  Caitlin was at her best, encouraging the children, laughing with them, and celebrating their successes. Several mothers were also in attendance. Three mothers, all Hispanic, sat together in the back and watched. A fourth mother sat by herself.

  Matt reluctantly joined the women in the back, believing he was obligated to play the dutiful husband. He introduced himself to each of the Hispanic mothers, who praised Caitlin and her work with the children. After a few minutes of small talk, he walked over to the lone mother, who was Middle Eastern. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have even bothered, but in light of his undercover assignment, he thought he might at least learn something culturally beneficial.

  “Hi, I’m Matt, Caitlin’s husband.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Matt? I am Nahid Anwari. My daughter is Jaana. She is the one rolling the ball.”

  Matt turned and saw a little girl hobble as she tried to roll the ball down the alley. It was a weak two-handed effort. Jaana was one of the smaller students, which might explain her lack of strength. The ball bounced off the bumper several times before knocking down two pins. When the pins eventually fell, the seven-year-old pixie with raven black hair, big brown eyes, and a perfect olive complexion, let out a childish squeal.

  “Your daughter’s beautiful,” said Matt.

  “You are most kind. My daughter has not been well, but she insisted on coming. She probably should have stayed home and rest. She begged to come, so my husband and I agree. We love your wife. She is fine teacher and has welcomed us to your country.”

  Matt was always uncomfortable asking nationality questions in such a setting. He was never quite sure how to ask without offending. One time he asked someone with a heavy accent about his citizenship, and the person, who was highly offended by the question, had been born in the United States. But Nahid opened the door.

  “Where’s your family from?”

  “We are from Afghanistan.” She paused then added, “My husband came to your country in 2006, and we were able to join him two years ago.”

  Matt wanted to walk away. He had no desire to talk to anyone from Afghanistan, at least not on his own time. The bile churned in his stomach. Man up and at least do it for Caitlin.

  Nahid smiled uncomfortably. “It was very difficult to stay behind, but I knew some day we would be together again. Your country is so great. We are very thankful to be here.”

  “Tell me about your country.”

  “It is about the size of your Texas. Our family lived in Kandahar, but I grew up in the Helmand province. In the spring time it is like a lush garden.”

  A lush garden . . . your poppies produce more opium than Colombia produces cocaine or coffee.

  “The invasion by the Soviets changed our world. I was only two when that happened, but ever since we have been a country at war.”

  Yeah, you’re a war-torn country transformed into a narco-state. You don’t have black streams flowing up from the desert so you feed the world its other addiction, heroin.

  “Our towns and villages have been destroyed.”

  At that moment a loud roar, from a group of men several lanes over, drew the attention of all. A large, overweight man with a few too many beers rolled a strike, capturing a victory for his team of drunks. Their yelps made it appear as though they were celebrating the destruction of Afghanistan. But Matt might celebrate that as well.

  The yelling distracted Nahid momentarily, then she continued. “After the Soviets were driven from our country, civil war broke out between our many tribes. The Taliban came into power, but poverty and disease were everywhere. Then the United States attacked. My world, as I have known it, was destroyed first by years of war, then the Taliban, and then more war. Many members of my family died. All I have left are my husband and my Jaana.”

  Matt showed little reaction. “But it’s been better for you in the United States?”

  “Yes, of course. But I think many here are afraid because we are Muslims. They think we are terrorists. I see their looks.”

  Matt’s eyes almost bored through her.

  Nahid went on, “Many people have the wrong idea. Muslims are very traditional people. We oppose the use of alcohol. We believe in marriage. We oppose pornography and believe abortion is wrong. Those who did the attacks on your World Trade Center were not like most Muslims. They were t
he Wahhabi from Saudi Arabia. They were not even from my country. We are not terrorists. We do not know any terrorists. We came here for a better life. We hope someday to be Americans. I want someday to vote. I want to participate in your government. Do not hate me for my country or my accent.”

  Matt looked at her, shaking his head. “Nahid, I just met you.”

  “No, no, Mr. Matt, I did not mean you. I meant the people who look at me like I am bad. I say to them, ‘Get to know me. I am like you.’”

  “What kind of work does your family do?”

  “In Afghanistan we were merchants, trading with many English companies.”

  “That explains why your English is so good,” said Matt.

  Nahid blushed. “Thank you. Sometime it is not so good.”

  “So what do you do now?”

  “We are merchants in your country also. My country placed its hope in the Taliban, but it was still difficult to earn a living. They ruled under the sharia, the Islamic law. But that rule was harsh. Thieves’ hands were cut off. Adulterers were stoned to death. Murderers were executed by their victim’s families.”

  “It seems like a solution to the recidivism rate,” said Matt, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “I don’t understand that word.”

  “It means the person will not repeat his crime.”

  “You are right. I know of no one who repeated their crime.”

  Matt’s cynicism confused Nahid, and for a brief moment he was embarrassed he had taken advantage of her elementary language skills.

  “The Taliban demanded so much. Hamid Karzai’s government could not protect us either. I hoped by coming here we left that behind. But even in America, we get telephone calls from organizations wanting help. They want us to donate money or goods. Sometimes we do. I am afraid not to help. The callers sometimes are very frightening. But I tell them I have very little. I can only give a little. The callers then tell me about all the suffering in the Middle East because of the West and I should help. They say if I don’t help, then I am on the side of Satan.”

  Just as the conversation began to touch on a subject of immediate interest to Matt, Caitlin announced it was time for the children to get ready to go home. The confusion taking place as the second-graders gathered up their belongings made it impossible for Matt and Nahid to continue their discussion. Nahid excused herself to make a phone call to her husband who was picking them up following the event. Matt thanked Nahid and went over to help Caitlin. He never told Nahid what he did; she never asked.

  JAANA SAT ALONE ON the semicircular bench surrounding the lane, waiting for her mother to finish making the call. All the other students left.

  Caitlin gathered up the usual forgotten items—a small purse, a pair of socks, and several scrunchies. They would go in the lost-and-found box in the classroom joining thirty other misplaced items.

  Caitlin walked over and sat next to Jaana. “Did you have fun?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hogan, but the ball was very heavy. It really made me tired.”

  Caitlin laughed. “I imagine it did seem like a very heavy ball to you, but as you get older, it will seem light and easy to roll.” Caitlin looked up and saw Jaana’s mother standing by the tables. “I think your mother is ready to go.”

  Jaana stood up but just as quickly sat down.

  “Are you okay?” asked Caitlin.

  “I feel kind of dizzy. Sometimes tonight I have been cold and other times I felt hot.”

  Caitlin signaled for Mrs. Anwari and then put the back of her hand to Jaana’s forehead. Her temperature seemed normal.

  When Jaana’s mother walked down the steps toward the alley, Caitlin stopped her. “Jaana just told me she felt dizzy and has been alternating between chills and a fever. It may just be the excitement of a night out with her classmates, but you might want to keep an eye on her. She may be coming down with something. At this age children are exposed to so much. Just about every bug comes through the school during the year.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hogan. Yes, she has been complaining for several weeks of not feeling well and that her leg hurts, but she insisted on coming tonight. We have taken her to the doctor, and he gave her some medicine. I think she is afraid to say too much because she thinks we will make her miss school.”

  As Nahid helped Jaana to her feet, Caitlin knelt down and gave her a hug. “Now, you take care of yourself. Listen to your mother and take your medicine. You’re my best helper and I need you healthy. It’s okay if you have to stay home in order to get better.”

  Nahid held Jaana’s hand as they walked up the steps toward the large automatic sliding glass doors. Jaana had a slight limp and turned to wave as she exited the bowling alley. Caitlin returned the wave with a smile.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matt survived the first few weeks of the undercover assignment and was beginning to reach a comfort level with the staff and volunteers. Since Omar and Ibrahim were the only two Middle Eastern workers at the clinic, he concentrated his efforts on them. Neither was receptive to Matt’s overtures, but many successful undercover operations result from baby steps.

  Most of Matt’s work was more labor intensive than he assumed the assignment would entail—assisting the doctors and therapists. In fact, he was more a handyman than a medical practitioner. Had he been a true volunteer, he might have gone in to renegotiate his contract or simply quit, but he accepted a certain amount of garbage assignments to complete the mission successfully. Once the children arrived, he hoped the work might be more palatable.

  Matt was standing by the loading dock waiting for a shipment that was several minutes late. The doctor delivering the supplies called the front desk stating he was a few minutes out, but that had been almost ten minutes ago. Just as Matt was about to go back inside, a dark blue 2008 Range Rover Sport pulled into the alley. The driver hopped out of the vehicle, extended his hand, and displayed an engaging smile.

  “I am so sorry to be late. There was construction on Santa Monica Boulevard, and I had to take a detour. I am Dr. Ubadiah al-Banna, but please call me Dr. U. You must be Matt.”

  “I figured you got hung up in traffic. Nice to meet you.”

  Dr. Ubadiah al-Banna, Wadi’s medical contact at Mount Sinai Medical Center, had short black hair, was clean shaven; and his long powerful fingers delivered a strong, impressive grip. Matt was surprised the doctor was Middle Eastern and assumed him to be Muslim. After the two shook hands, the doctor opened the rear hatch to the SUV.

  “Everything goes,” said the doctor, referring to the six large boxes in the back of the vehicle. “We were most fortunate to have two pharmaceutical salesmen donate many samples to the clinic. Do you know if the good doctor is in?”

  “Dr. Ibrahim is at the Children’s Hospital all day.”

  “No, I meant my friend David.”

  “He’s here. I just saw him.”

  “Good. Then I must step inside and see my friend. Can you unload it yourself?”

  Matt smiled, agreeing to the doctor’s request, but Matt’s motives were less than altruistic. Being alone with the car gave him the chance to copy down the license plate, check the vehicle registration in the glove compartment, and search the interior, all while appearing to unload the boxes.

  “Sure, that’s not a problem, but do you mind leaving the keys so I can move your car once it’s unloaded? We’re expecting a second delivery a little later this morning.”

  Dr. U tossed the keys to a smiling Matt. I guess we can forego the consent to search form.

  WADI, RASHID, AND BABUR were sitting around the lone table in the small, one-bedroom West Hollywood apartment. They were taking a break from the morning telephone solicitation efforts. Using Los Angeles as a base of operations made sense. The West Coast time differential allowed the men to contact merchants in the middle of an East Coast businessman’s
afternoon and still contact West Coast merchants throughout the day. The solicitations were a valuable vehicle for maintaining a connection with Middle Easterners living in the United States and for eliciting support for the cause. The telephone contacts allowed Wadi and his cell to assess U.S. residents who supported the efforts of those seeking to eradicate Israel and its allies. Even businessmen who refused to support terrorism supported the humanitarian charities the solicitors claimed to represent. In truth, all the donations aided the cause of the radical Muslim movement, a cause in which the three truly believed. Wadi, who initiated this venture, was successful in managing yet another avenue for raising much needed funds.

  “Did you enjoy the basketball game last night?” asked Wadi.

  “I am not a fan of basketball,” said Rashid. “But I was able to get a seating chart and visited most of the restrooms.” He handed Wadi the chart with the notes he made of the arena.

  “Good, we may need this some day.”

  Babur’s nicotine-stained fingers grabbed a cigarette from the Chinese-manufactured pack. The chain-smoking terrorist had been through half a pack, and it wasn’t even ten. Just as he was about to light the counterfeit Marlboro, there was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” offered Babur as he rose from his seat. He peered through the security peephole and turned toward Wadi, whispering, “It’s Yasir.”

  “Wait, let me hide the doughnuts. Then let him in.”

  Wadi closed the lid on the box of Krispy Kremes and placed them on the shelf behind a stack of dishes. He closed the cabinet door just as Babur released the dead bolt and opened the door.

  Yasir, who was well on his way to obesity, waddled in and headed straight for the scratched, compressed-wood cabinet over the sink. Opening the door, he reached behind the dishes and pulled out the box.