“I’ll try, Mrs. Timmons. Bye now.”
Akil got out of his car and approached the Legion’s entrance, giving a wary glance to the full-size M-60 tank and Apache helicopter guarding the building’s flanks. Across the street to the south, Mitchell International Airport was layered in fog. An unseen jet thundered into the air. He could just see the top of the control tower, and for a moment it reminded him of the Makkah-al-Mukarramah Mosque.
When she was alive, his mother, Sonia, painted Montreal’s cityscape as a hobby.
Akil had neutral feelings for the female that had resided in his home. She seemed to be a doting woman-servant who cooked, cleaned, laid out his clothes, and constantly hugged him. A pale-skinned, short, and dowdy Czech with drawn, chubby cheeks and auburn hair, Sonia worked as a clerical assistant in downtown Montreal’s La Tour IBM-Marathon Office Building. A shy introvert, she rarely offered anything about her life or family unless it was about her beloved son. When coworkers questioned her husband’s occupation, she said she didn’t know. When pressed, she said she thought he bought buildings, and they ridiculed her even more. Cruelly, they labeled her as mentally slow.
Her husband, Reza, lived an ultra-conservative Wahhabi Sunni lifestyle and trained his son in that course, controlling every facet of Akil’s upbringing, including a special school — a daily Tahfidh Qur’an (Holy Qur’an memorization). He taught his son a well-known rule: memorizing when young was like engraving on stone, and memorizing when old was like engraving on water. Reza also taught Akil that Islam had three enemies in the world — Shiites, Israelis, and Americans — and anything that he did to harm them was favorable in Allah’s eyes.
When Akil was eight, Reza took the boy and disappeared, giving no warning, itinerary, or contact information. For reasons unknown, Sonia never called the authorities — only a former IBM supervisor who offered no help. Four days later, distraught and near zombielike, she arrived at work, pried open a window on the forty-seventh floor, and leaped out. For his part, Reza returned to Montreal with Akil thirty days later, satisfied that his pilgrimage to Mecca had forged the solid foundation of a young religious zealot. He purged their home and Akil’s memory of Sonia’s existence and never mentioned her again.
Akil stared suspiciously at a vintage pineapple hand grenade cemented to the Legion’s door and pulled the pin. A return buzzer sounded, and the door popped open. A musty stench filled his nostrils, and he immediately felt sickened. Akil believed that of all the Satanic beings Americans worshipped, alcohol was equal in power to their god of sex.
He recalled the teachings of his cultural mentor. An Egyptian writer and educator, Sayyid Qutb (pronounced Koo-Toob) was the father of modern Islamic rage against America. In 1949, he studied at what would become the University of Northern Colorado. What he witnessed prompted him to condemn America as a sinful, materialistic hell devoid of morals and thus unfit for any Muslim.
Qutb determined that America was obsessed with alcohol, sports, body perfection, and open sexuality. America’s women were seducers who relished dancing, exposing themselves, and enticing men with desire. Qutb taught that the world consisted of two groups: those who followed Allah and those who followed Satan. Believers versus infidels. As such, jihad was a total and complete duty to be carried out by all Muslims — men and women, young and old. All infidels in any community, group, or race were to be confronted, fought, and annihilated by any means possible.
Qutb returned to Egypt and rose to power as the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood movement. In 1966, he was convicted of treason and executed for plotting the assassination of Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser. Qutb’s writings formed the core beliefs of modern radical Islamic groups, including al-Qaeda.
Akil drew one more breath of fresh air. “Hello? Marianne?”
“She’s off today, and we don’t open ’til ten,” a raspy male voice sang out. “Who wants to know?”
“Michael,” Akil said, stepping inside. “I spoke with someone named Marianne last night about renting an apartment. Was it your wife?”
“Not unless you called heaven. She’s been dead four years.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Sorry for what? Everybody dies sometime. Marianne’s one of our bartenders. Pleased to meet you,” the man said, tucking his black POW-MIA T-shirt into Marine utility fatigues that hugged a trim waistline. He extended his hand. “I’m Jerry Watts, but you can call me Chief. Sit down. Be with you in a minute.”
Akil straddled a stool. He surveyed the long, dim room. An elevated stage, a side alcove, a pool table. The solid wood bar top held a collage of foreign coins and heroism medals embedded in a thick layer of clear varnish. The walls were covered with camouflage netting, military photographs, flags, rifles, and handheld weapons. A shoulderfired missile launcher hung from the ceiling. Next to the cash register, an empty 155mm artillery shell collected tips.
Watts returned with a rental application tucked in his back pocket.
“What’s your name again?” Watts asked, studying Akil’s face.
“Waleu,” Akil answered. “Michael Waleu. I’m from Quebec.”
“You sure look like Sean Penn, that Hollywood commie actor. You’re a lot younger, but you got that same kind of baby-baboonish, monkey face.”
“Excuse me?” Akil bristled. “Did you just call me a monkey?”
“Relax, kid. I didn’t mean anything. I was a police chief for twenty-seven years. A heckuva lot of people look like animals. I used to tell my officers to identify suspects that way. Let’s see… long hair, clean hands, backward ball cap, and worn blue jeans. I bet you’re a college student with a little hippie mixed in. University of Wisconsin?”
“Marquette Dental,” Akil answered, irritated, but also impressed by the man’s perceptiveness. “I got accepted right out of high school. It’s a new seven-year program. Two more years, and then I move into orthodontics. I have a crazy schedule. My girlfriend goes to Winona State in Minnesota, so I’m gone a lot. You know how that is.”
“None of my business,” Watts assured. “You come and go as you please around here. Nobody keeps tabs except at the bar. Case closed.”
“Is it still available?” Akil asked.
Watts carefully added three scoops of horseradish to a large plastic jar filled with red liquid. He tightened the cover and shook it vigorously. “The apartment? I’ve been trying to rent that sucker all year. It’s just an efficiency, but today’s your lucky day. I’ll throw in the utilities and give you half the garage if you take it. You want a drink?”
“No thanks,” Akil said. “Can I see the apartment?”
The two men walked through the bar, into a hallway, past the restrooms, and up a narrow set of stairs. The bottom three creaked. Watts opened the apartment door and sniffed. Thankfully, there was no stale beer odor.
“There’s another entrance in the kitchen off the porch. Doesn’t bother me which one you use. Four hundred a month including utilities and appliances. But I’ll be honest, with all the planes coming and going, it’s not real quiet for studying. Not to mention us veterans can get pretty rowdy, especially with live music. I gotta warn you, my birthday’s coming up, and I’m throwing a heckuva bash. This place’ll be rocking like crazy.”
“Really? How old?”
“The big six-oh. I can’t believe it myself.”
“That’s awesome, Chief. When’s the party?”
“May seventeenth. Karaoke starts at eight sharp.”
“That’s a Sunday night,” Akil said, hiding his disappointment. “I suppose all your police buddies will be here?”