Jihad

CHAPTER 96

When the men he had sent to assassinate Asad failed to meet him near the grocery store as planned, Marid Dabir took a bus to the downtown bus station they had set as a backup. But as he neared it, the al-Qaeda organizer began to consider the possibility that Asad had somehow managed to turn the men against him. If that were the case, it was very likely that the police would be waiting to arrest him. He got off as soon as he could, walking down several blocks until he found a coffee shop where he could consider the situation.

Dabir had personally recruited the brother who had met him in Ontario some years before; the man was a mechanic working for the city police, a valuable source of information who had also been able to supply an old police car for the project. The other two men had left the mosque a year ago in a dispute with the imam; while the mechanic vouched for them, Dabir did not know them personally. They said the right things, however, proclaiming allegiance to the cause and hatred for puerile traitors like Asad.

Unable to locate Asad, he’d had to resort to having the brothers watch the mosque. They’d seen him enter but not leave and had almost given up when Allah struck him down on the pavement a few blocks away. When Dabir heard the news, he thought that God truly had marked Asad bin Taysr as the traitor and had chosen Dabir as his executioner.

Now he was not so sure. It was possible that the incident on the sidewalk was merely a ruse to get Asad safely away. Perhaps his men had been ambushed at the hotel. Or perhaps they were involved in a plot to trap him.

The latter, it seemed, was much more likely. Asad knew he was the only one dangerous enough to expose him and bring him to justice.

It came down to a matter of trust. Did Dabir trust the men he had sent well enough to believe that they would not betray him? When he found he couldn’t easily answer the question, he realized that he must not, and therefore had to assume the worst.

Dabir placed the cup of tepid tea gently on the table, trying to remain outwardly calm, though his insides raged. Asad was not merely a traitor, he was a cancer, spreading throughout the movement.

The first thing to do was to find a new place to stay.

Pulling three dollars from his wallet to cover the bill and a modest tip, Dabir quickly counted the rest of his money. He had six twenties in the wallet and a pair of hundred-dollar bills in each sock, more than enough to find a room for the night. The thing he could not do was pay with a credit card, which would limit his choices.

When he asked if there was an inexpensive hotel nearby, the cashier stuck a finger into her hair and twirled it around, as if she were winding up her brain for the answer.

“Not reeeallly,” she said, drawing out her words in a way that made it hard for Dabir to decipher. “You could go down to Stephenson Street that way and see.”

Outside, Dabir walked in the direction she’d indicated. But there didn’t appear to be a Stephenson Street nearby. One-story houses the size of cottages sat among wide open lots, with an occasional two- or three-story brown brick building in between. After several blocks, Dabir turned around; two black youths who’d been behind him gave him a caustic glance as he passed. He quickened his pace, suspecting that they would follow him.

Two blocks later, he turned to the fight. Now completely lost, he found a small greengrocer on the comer and went inside to ask for directions.

The store had been a house not too long ago, and it still had family quarters up the steps that sat behind a partially open curtain at the right. A familiar smell wafted down the stairs — Middle Eastern-style lamb.

“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the cash register. Short and thin, he had a narrow, Egyptian face and a heavy accent.

“The lamb smells good,” said Dabir, using his Yemen-flavored Arabic.

“We are in America now,” said the man.

“You’re Egyptian?” Dabir guessed.

The man frowned. “I’m American. What can I get you?”

“I’m visiting a friend and I want to stay somewhere for the night,” Dabir said. “I was wondering if there was an inexpensive motel somewhere. So I’m not a burden for him.”

The man studied him for a moment. Then he yelled, “Robert! Robert, come here.”

A twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy bounded down the steps, parted the curtain, and ran into the middle of the store.

“Take this man over to Michigan Avenue,” the shopkeeper told the boy. “He’s looking for a place to stay.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Barakallah,” said Dabir. “May God bless you.”

The man frowned at him, then nodded and went back to his business.