Т Паркер - Swift Vengeance

Coincidences intrigue me. “Nine dead and nine siblings,” I said.

“I saw that, too,” Marah said. “I used to wonder if the repeating nines were a way to understand Dad’s fate or luck. Fate and luck are opposites, as you know. I went to my Qur’an for help. I used to read it to Ben, but I hadn’t picked it up in years. I remembered one of our favorite surahs, about free will and fate, chapter thirteen, Al Ra’ad. I opened to Al Ra’ad, closed my eyes like we used to — so, like, your blindness is fate and your finger is free will — that’s what Ben and I made up, anyway. And I blindly put my finger on the page. The verse was ‘The Messenger has companies of angels successively ranged before him and behind him. They guard him by the command of Allah. Verily, Allah does not change the condition of a people until they first change their ways and their minds.’”

As my pulse hammered, Caliphornia’s elegant calligraphy to Lindsey came crashing back to me: The thunder will come for you.

As did the name of Caliphornia’s knife: Al Ra’ad — the thunder, as handwritten to Kenny Bryce.

And the name of a horse owned by Rasha Samara and ridden by his son? The Thunder.

I looked to Taucher, her face flushed, her eyes sharp and pitiless as an eagle’s.

“What did that passage say to you, Marah?” I managed.

“That Allah is all-powerful, and people are free to change their ways and their minds. Both are true. It made me want to join Doctors Without Borders and go to Syria and continue Dad’s work.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked.

“I was afraid to die.”

“You made the right decision,” said Taucher. “Now, if you can just let us see that letter, we’ll get out of your hair.”

Marah left the room with a loud sigh. I heard her yellow flowered flip-flops slapping on the hallway floor.

“I can get a phone warrant for Ben’s bill stubs and personal papers in an hour,” said Taucher. “The FISA courts still love us. Unless you think you can sweet-talk them out of her.”

“I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,” I said. “Leave them for another day.”

Flip-flops in the hall on their way back. With an almost palpable reluctance, Marah handed her brother’s letter to me. I set it on the desk. The envelope was a good-quality, cream-colored paper, and Marah’s name was written in a hurried-looking printing in black ink. The return address was legible. I pulled the letter out, set the envelope aside, and held the letter open in the good sunlight coming through the window.

Elegant Arabic-styled calligraphy.

Slanting neither backward nor forward, but upright.

Feet and tails raised like candle flames.

Taucher’s hawk eyes unblinking.

Dear Marah,

I hope this note finds you well. Look at my calligraphy. I’ve been practicing for months. So much has changed since those happy times I spent with you. I’ve found a new passion. Bigger than me. Bigger than Allah. Maybe I will introduce you someday. I am well and strong. I am still in need of money, but I know that you’re not exactly rich working for the county. We are only as strong as the walls we climb.

Love,

Marah broke the silence. “Ben found something,” she said softly. “He was always searching. ”

“Who the hell is Adams?” asked Taucher.

“Ben makes up names for himself,” said Marah. “Sometimes I do it back to him. Since being kids. Adams is one of his favorites. And Anderson, and Abraham. Always with an A .”

I thought: Whoever he’s calling himself, he needs money .

“You would have to know him,” said Marah.

“I think I’m beginning to,” said Taucher. “May I photograph this? Better yet, can I take it?”

I watched another dispute play out on Marah’s face. Family versus duty? Love versus fear?

“Take it,” she said. “Go.”

“And that picture you showed us,” said Taucher. “The one of Ben and his dark-haired lady friend? Will you text it to me?”

“When I get a chance.”

“How about now? I’ve got my phone right here. The woman is Kalima, correct? The one he wants to marry? How is it spelled?”

Marah spelled out the name.

“Last name?” Taucher demanded.

“I don’t know,” said Marah. “We’ve never met. But I do know that I’m sorry to have met you.”

We spent the hour’s drive south to Santa Ana in discussion of the brothers Azmeh. I was very interested in Alan’s aggravated assault three years ago — around the time of his father’s death — and his clear and present anger. Family man or not, his anger was real. Was it real enough to take him on a journey to Bakersfield? Taucher thought Alan was a “pissy hothead” and was more intrigued by baby Ben’s several mysteries. Most of all, his sudden silence after his father’s death, his handwriting, and his need of money.

Then miles of silence as we barreled south into Orange County. For a long while I didn’t read the road signs. Didn’t listen to the news. I was chewing on the big question: Whoever he was, one of the Azmeh brothers or not, how to get Caliphornia to come out into the open?

I worked long and hard on it, like a dog on a chew stick.

Kept chewing. That’s what PIs do.

Ben Azmeh’s address was a Santa Ana apartment not far from the Civic Center. The street curbs were dense with the cars of working people home for the weekend. A lunch truck was doing slow business in the shadow of the jail. Taucher and I ate standing up, burning through the napkins, watching the occasional jail visitor come and go. I think she caught me looking for the fabled hematoma under her makeup.

“Fifty bucks this address is a shell,” said Taucher. “Like World Pizza.”

“I’ll bet it’s a good address.”

“You’re such a Boy Scout.”

“Indian Guides. Comanche.”

“My mother wouldn’t let me join the Girl Scouts because they were too soft.”

“Maybe not a good fit for you, Joan.”

“I wanted soft. I was a girl.”

Del Sol Apartments was two short blocks south. Ben Azmeh’s unit was ground-floor, at the end of a two-story building. Taucher and I stopped well short, standing beneath skinny palms with shaggy heads. Some of the apartments were strung with Christmas lights. I looked along the sunlit stucco wall of the building, at the first-story patios and second-floor decks crowded with barbecues, bikes, toys, potted plants. Poinsettias in gold- and red-foiled pots, strings of lights on the balconies. The grass along the sidewalk was foot-trampled, and I thought of Blevins stepping in Zeno’s business. Felt happy.

“Follow my lead here, Roland,” she said. “If he’s cooperative, it’s just a friendly FBI talk with old Ben. We’re wondering how he’s doing. Wondering if he might have any concerns to share with us. Like, about fellow Muslims. I’ll get him onto Doctors Without Borders, Aleppo 2015. My guess is he’ll blather heatedly about that, if he’s anything like his brother. If we get inside, it’s strictly a plain-sight. Don’t touch, whatever you do. Don’t, don’t , put on any heat. Nothing about Lindsey, Kenny, or Voss. Nothing about knives, calligraphy, ammunition, or Hector Padilla. I lead. Let him answer my questions. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Taucher gave me a brittle grin. “A short leash for you, Roland. Just like they give me. Now, if Ben won’t cooperate, we’ll be back to fight another day. If he resists, threatens, or makes any kind of aggressive move — I’ll accept your physical help. If this is the guy who killed Kenny Bryce, then I’ll need it. We cuff his butt and call the nearest resident agency, which is less than half a mile from here. We can hold him seventy-two hours as a domestic terror suspect, no Miranda needed. You’ve got a gun back in the truck?”