The Wrong Man

97

I stood in the plaza of the state building, looking up at the all-glass building, wondering if it would still be standing in fifteen minutes, when my cell phone rang. It was Lee Tucker.

“Two trucks down, no casualties,” he said. “You were right, Jason. You were right all along. They had enough material to take out half the downtown. Time-delayed fuses hidden under the seats, state-of-the-art blasting caps, very sophisticated stuff. But we got them. We fucking got them!”

My heart pounded. Relief swept over me, followed by the churning of my stomach as the obvious statement hung out there between us: “Where the hell is the third truck?” I asked. We’d thought the third truck was destined for the Hartz Building, but that hadn’t come true. So where was it?

“I don’t know. Satellite hasn’t picked up anything. We don’t know. I’m out.”

I hung up my phone and stared, helplessly, at the screen. It showed a missed phone call from eleven fifty-one this morning. Right, I remembered that. I was pretty sure it was another call from Dr. Baraniq, asking about scheduling of the trial this week. I’d forgotten to call him yesterday.

I stared a little longer.

Dr. Baraniq had been concerned about the scheduling this week because he had a conflict.

A religious obligation, he’d said.

My body went cold. I clicked on the number that had called me at eleven fifty-one as my heart started pounding.

“This is Sofian Baraniq.”

“Dr. Baraniq, Jason Kolarich.”

“Yes, Jason, oh, I wanted to know when you-”

“Doctor,” I said. “Doctor. Is today that religious obligation you had?”

“Yes, it is, as I mentioned.”

“What is that religious obligation?” I asked, as I started walking.

“You want to know-what is the particular obligation?”

“I do.”

“Well, it’s the first day of Muharram, which is the first month of our calendar,” he said. “We have a different, shorter calendar than the American calendar. This year it’s December seventh on your calendar.”

I broke into a jog. “What are we talking about, Doctor? Some big deal?”

“To some, yes,” he said. “Not so much for the Shia-”

“Where are you, Doctor?”

“Where-well, I’m parking my car near the mosque.”

“That giant one on the west side where they protested after Nine/ Eleven? The al-Qadir mosque?”

“Yes, of course.”

“There’s some kind of service?”

“Yes, Jason. But why-”

“Starting at one o’clock?” I asked, the panic unmistakable in my voice.

“Yes,” he said, picking up on my concern.

“Tell everyone to get out, Doctor! There’s a bomb! Do you hear me? Tell everyone to evacuate right now!”

I punched out the phone and dialed Lee Tucker. By now I was in a full sprint westward.

“Lee,” I said when he answered. “That giant mosque… on the west side,” I managed, panting as I ran. “On… Dayton?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s truck number three, Lee. Get over there now!”

“How do you know?”

“It’s the largest mosque in the entire Midwest, Lee-”

“But how do you know the attack is there?”

I split through two people on the sidewalk and ran over the bridge that spanned the western leg of the city’s river. I was now about two miles away from the Masjid al-Qadir.

“Because today isn’t just Pearl Harbor Day,” I said. “It’s the Islamic New Year!”