There was an extended silence, as if everyone in the café had knowledge of the conversation and was waiting for the pronouncement.
“The earth, water, and fire operations must wait,” Naimi calmly ordered. “You may attack America’s airlines. If Akil succeeds, we will see about their meat.”
“Those who happily leave everything in Allah’s hand will eventually see Allah’s hand in everything,” Al-Aran whispered. “I leave for Atlanta tomorrow.”
“It is in his hands,” Naimi agreed. “But the destruction of four passenger aircraft will require four drones.”
“Six. One will be tested, and one will be kept for future… assessment.” Al-Aran smiled. “There are twelve waiting in a Georgia Tech research lab next to my office.”
“I wager two or three will achieve success,” Naimi said, folding the newspaper under his arm and rising from the table. “Guard yourself, Faiz. May Allah bestow his blessing upon young Akil and this flying technology.”
Al-Aran methodically tapped his keyboard. A Gmail screen appeared with an interactive chat box. There was one contact name in the list, online and available. Al-Aran typed out a message.
PartyLuvr30308: Dude, the party is set for the eighteenth of May. I’d like to finalize things around noon on the fourteenth. I really have a taste for some good barbecued pork.
The return message came moments later.
Toothdoc2b: Sweet. Sounds like fun. I know a restaurant where the meat falls right off the bones. Can’t wait! C U soon. Best.
Chapter 2
Akil Doroudian closed his laptop.
He lowered the window of his 2003 Toyota Camry and peered across the parking lot. Satisfied that the East Layton Avenue address matched the one in the newspaper ad, he shut off the engine. The stiff spring wind was making his eyes water. A tear ran down his cheek. A rare event — he never cried for anyone or anything. He wiped it away.
Akil lifted his Milwaukee Brewer’s baseball cap and fingercombed his lengthy, red-brown hair. He drew out a small white book from his jacket and rubbed his thumbs lovingly across the gold-leaf lettering. He pulled on the end of a thin cloth ribbon, and the Holy Qur’an split open. Transfixed, he digested the text with passion, as if he were rededicating himself to some lover or deep cause. In essence, he was.
Surah 9. Repentance, Dispensation
1. A declaration of immunity from Allah and His Messenger, to those of the Pagans with whom ye have contracted mutual alliances:
2. Go ye, then, backwards and forwards, as ye will, throughout the land.
3. And an announcement from Allah and His Messenger, to the people assembled on the day of the Great Pilgrimage, that Allah and His Messenger dissolve treaty obligations with the Pagans. If then, ye repent, it were best for you; but if ye turn away, know ye that ye cannot frustrate Allah. And proclaim a grievous penalty to those who reject Faith.
4. Then fight and slay the Pagans wherever ye find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem of war; but if they repent, and establish regular prayers and practice regular charity, then open the way for them: for Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.
Akil kissed the book and tucked it away.
He dialed his cell phone. After four rings, an answering machine picked up. A female voice spoke.
“You’ve reached the Russian Star Tattoo Parlor. We’re located at 2460 Kettner Boulevard just off West Laurel Street across from San Diego International Airport. We’re open from noon to ten o’clock. Remember, no matter who you are, you must be special to wear the Russian Star.” Beeeep.
Akil looked at his watch. “Hello. This is Eddie Ginosa again.” His voice was young, confident, educated with a Midwest American accent. “I left a message yesterday. I just want to make sure you got my deposit check for the apartment. I’m in Milw… Minneapolis doing some last-minute packing. I’d like to move in a few days early to clean. If it’s all right with you, I’ll even pay for paint. I’ll try and call late—”
“Hola… um, hello,” a soft-spoken Spanish voice answered.
“Who is this?” Akil asked.
“Marissa. It’s early here, señor. Everyone is asleep. Can you call back?”
“You’re not sleeping,” Akil said flirtatiously.
She yawned. “I know. My kids woke me up. They’re hungry.”
Akil frowned into the phone. “Is this the Russian Star?”
“Sí. I mean, yes. I work here, but I also live here. It’s just temporary. I don’t exactly have my own place.”
“That’s cool,” Akil said. “Um, I need to leave a message for Viktor Karkula. I mailed a money-order down payment for an apartment. Do you know if he got it?”
“Viktor is the owner. I think he did, but I’m not sure. You’ll like the place; it’s right above us. The last tenants weren’t real quiet, so Viktor made them leave. He gets really mad when people party and make noise. He has a bad temper.”
“Thank you, Marissa. That’s good to know.”
“Don’t mention it. I hope it works out for you. Maybe I’ll see you when you get to California. You sound like a nice guy. We don’t get too many around here. Bye-bye.”
“Wait — I am a nice guy. And I really like kids,” Akil said. There was silence on the other end, and he realized he was talking to no one.
He dialed a second number.
“Cohen Commercial Leasing,” a receptionist answered. “May I help you?”
“Dennis Cohen, please,” Akil replied. The transfer rang once.
“This is Denny.”
“Hey, Denny. John Ghoacci. I wanted to follow up on my lease?”
“Johnny, baby,” Cohen sung. “My Paisan. How are you? Or more importantly, where are you? Still in Minneapolis? I heard you got snow. Hey, listen… the owner signed the lease at eight bucks a square foot for twelve months. We got your deposit, so you’re good to go on the first. O’Hare Aerospace Center Office Complex Suite 200 West. You have a really great view of the airport sunsets. We just opened a new fitness center. You need housekeeping?”
“Not right away,” Akil lied, “but I’d like the option.”
“No problemo, Paisan. You can sign up anytime. When ya comin’ down?”
“Next week.”
“That’ll work,” Cohen assured. “Always a pleasure to have a new tenant. The lobby code is the two-digit current month and year. You’ll get your office door code in an email. You need anything else, you call me, okay? And, hey… no more Twins. You’re a National League Cubbie fan now. Have a good one.”
“You too.” Akil clicked off and dialed a third number.
After eight rings, a woman picked up. Her voice was grandmother-sweet.
“Kenny? By the saints, are you still in Minneapolis, lad? How is your poor mother?”
“There’s good news, Mrs. Timmons,” Akil announced. “The pneumonia’s under control. She’s home now and resting. I need to stay a few more days.”
“Take your time, lad. I won’t run away…” There was a loud rumble in the background. “… Oh, that LaGuardia,” Mrs. Timmons cursed. “It’s near to the end of the world with those jets. As sure as Jesus rode a donkey, one day they’ll take my hearing, and I’ll sue that airport for its millions. Then and only then will I go back to Ireland. And this old neighborhood will be the sadder for it. The colored are taking over anyway. I should’ve given this place up after poor Dermott passed. My brother Bernard is here. He’s come all the way across the Atlantic to finally visit that Statue of Liberty. He’s the only thing I’ve got in the world now. I sure hoped the two of you might meet.”