“I’m going to run the Allah’s Revenge story tomorrow,” Scott said.
Quinn stayed silent.
“I can’t help him any other way except by getting Allah’s Revenge into the public domain.”
“It’s a clusterfuck no matter what you do,” Quinn said.
“What if Ghazi tries to get hold of him again?” Scott asked.
“Special Branch will intercept his e-mail and his cell phone. Scott, if Ghazi contacts you, promise me you’ll call.”
Scott watched from his window as the last of the police vehicles pulled away and turned the corner.
“I’ll call you. But not that prick, Browning… and Quinn, thanks for helping Abdul.”
“I hope I don’t regret it.” He hung up.
Scott pressed his intercom. “Amy, see if you can get Abdul’s father or mother on the phone, will you?”
“Sure.”
A few minutes later, his desk phone rang.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“Mr. Ahmed?”
“Yes.”
“This is, Scott Shearer, Abdul’s boss at the paper.”
“Hello, Mr. Shearer. Abdul has told me so much about you. What may I do for you?”
“Mr. Ahmed, I wanted you to hear this from me first. Five minutes ago, Abdul was arrested by the Special Branch Terrorist Response Team.” Scott didn’t wait for a response. What was the man going to say? “I called to assure you that your son is a remarkable young man and highly thought of at The Times. He has done nothing unlawful. This is a huge misunderstanding. I’ve scrambled our legal team, and they are working on getting Abdul freed.”
Abdul’s father still hadn’t spoken. Scott understood. He’d be shocked too if his child was snatched at work by a bunch of heavies.
“I’d like to give more details, but not on the phone. Will you be at home this evening?”
“Yes, of course, but what can we do? Where is he?”
“I’m going to give you the number of the paper’s attorney, Marcus Pearson. For Abdul’s sake, I advise you to speak to him before you talk to anyone else. Will you do that for me, Mr. Ahmed?”
Scott spent the rest of the day with Rafiq, preparing the lead for the morning edition. They polished Abdul’s Allah’s Revenge article from the thumb drive Amy had hidden, and Scott wrote an impassioned editorial vilifying the new British Police State. He argued that Abdul was more helpful to the nation as a free journalist, doing his job, than as an imprisoned innocent. He speculated that Abdul’s arrest was racial profiling. He took preprint copies with him and drove to the Ahmed’s home.
The narrow suburban road where Abdul lived with his family was crammed with police cars, TV news vans, dozens of reporters, photographers, and a sizable group of nosy neighbors. The TV cameramen were using the Ahmeds’ house as a backdrop for their talking-head shots. He pinned a press badge on his lapel and wandered through the crowd. A few reporters recognized him, most didn’t — TV news was a breed apart. He eavesdropped on a heavily-made-up blonde correspondent as she taped her segment.
“According to an anonymous source familiar with the case, this afternoon police apprehended the twenty-six-year-old son of Palestinian immigrants: Abdul-Haqq-bin-Wahid-bin-Tariq-bin-Khalid-Ahmed.” She struggled theatrically as she read Abdul’s complicated family name from a slip of paper in her hand. “Mr. Ahmed has been detained in connection with Monday’s terrorist attack when more than two hundred people lost their lives after a deadly gas was released on a London Transport tube train. Mr. Ahmed’s parents are both medical doctors working at Guy’s Hospital, London. They moved to England from the Palestinian territories thirty years ago. We’ve reached out to the family, but the Ahmeds refuse to comment on their son’s detention, although we believe they are at home.”
The camera zoomed for a few seconds to the front window of the brick-built semi-detached home behind her before panning back to the reporter, who now stood next to a sixty-something man in an ill-fitting blue suit.
“This is Mr. Jackson, a neighbor of the Ahmeds’. Mr. Jackson, how well do you know the family?”
“They’ve lived here longer than us, and we’ve been here twelve years.” His voice was shaky. “We never suspected anything like this. They kept to themselves, but they were always polite. Abdul seemed such a nice boy, smart as a whip. When he was younger he used to mow our lawn… makes you wonder what gets into them.”
“Mr. Jackson, when was the last time you saw, Abdul?”
“This morning. I wave to him most mornings. He walks by our house on his way to the train station.”
“What about Monday, the day of the tube train attack?”
“You know, I was just saying to the wife, I don’t remember seeing him Monday. I might have done, but I don’t remember him going by.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
The camera started a slow pan of the street as the reporter closed out the segment in voice-over.
“Yesterday, this was a quiet suburban neighborhood. Today, police suspect it may have been home to a man linked with the largest mass murder in Britain’s history. This is Maria Enderhoster, live in Twickenham, West London, for News at Six.”
Scott walked past three other news crews shooting similar pieces. He pulled off his press badge before speaking to the policeman guarding the front gate of the Ahmeds’ home.
“Scott Shearer. They’re expecting me.”
“Wait here please, sir.” The policeman strode down the path. Cameras flashed and video lenses followed his every step. He knocked on the front door, which opened a crack. After a brief exchange, he signaled Scott, whose walk was also recorded. As the door opened to allow Scott to enter, the photographers all fired at once, and for a few seconds the front of the home was lit as bright as day.
“Ugly crowd,” Scott said as he shook hands with Abdul’s father in the hall.
“They’re your people, Mr. Shearer. You should know.”
Scott didn’t feel as though they were. Abdul’s father took him through the hallway to a small living room, made smaller by too much furniture. The sideboard, mantle, fireplace, and an oak display cabinet were crammed with brass figurines. The room was wallpapered in ornate gold-leaf flowers. Five porcelain ducks flew diagonally across the wall toward a single sash window.
Abdul’s mother and sister perched stiffly on a floral-patterned couch. His younger brother sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, tuned to the local news station with the sound muted.
“I’m Scott Shearer, Abdul’s boss at the paper. Abdul is a good person and a great reporter. He’s done nothing wrong.” He spoke to them all. The eyes that looked back at him were full of mistrust and disbelief.
“So why did they arrest him? Because he’s a Muslim?” Abdul’s mother said.
“Well… look, I’ve brought copies of tomorrow’s edition of The Times. I think it would be more expedient if you read Abdul’s article and my editorial to get us on the same page.” He handed them each a copy. He kept one for himself and read with them.
He left their home two hours later, exhausted but gratified. He’d provided a spark of hope to a good family. The press corps outside had thinned. A few hopeful reporters asked him what he had been doing in the house. He froze them with his most poisonous glare.
“You can read about it in The Times tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
When Quinn got word Abdul was to be released, he called Scott. “I read yesterday’s Times. You didn’t pull any punches.”
“What did you expect? Anyway, what about Abdul?”
“He’ll be freed this afternoon. Can you pick him up?”
“Thank God.” Quinn heard the relief in Scott’s voice. “Is he all right?”