Borderline (9 page)

T
he agents grill me to a crisp. Questions about Dad, his work, who he knows, what he does. I hardly hear a word. My mind's all on that last picture. And I'm saying stuff like, “Dad shakes someone's hand, so what? What's he charged with? What?”

But Cigar Breath and Hairdo, they don't do answers. Just fire off more questions, like rounds at a shooting gallery. Question, question, question—

I'm filled with a sudden terror. What if Mom's been taken away too? When the agents leave, how will I find her? Or Dad?

Or what if—oh my God—a nightmare worse than the worst nightmare ever—

“We're Americans,” I blurt out. “Mom and Dad—you can't put them on a plane. You can't send them off to be tortured.”

“Answer the question,” Cigar Breath yells.

“Which one?”

“The lab. What has your dad brought home from the lab?”

“Nothing. How would I know?”

“You live here. You see things.”

“No.”

“Tell us!”

“You tell me first: Where's Dad? Where's Mom? What have you done with them?”

And suddenly I can't see or hear or think, and I'm trying to force myself out of the chair, only my legs won't work, nothing works, and I'm helpless, and that's when I realize the questions have stopped, and the woman has her hand on the man's arm, and they're staring at me, waiting for me to quit sobbing, heaving, to calm down, to, to—

“We know you're a good boy, Sami,” the woman says. “A good son.”

I'm not. I'm not.

“You'd do anything for your father, right?” She watches
me rock back and forth. “He's in serious trouble. The best way to help him is by helping us.”

“But I don't know anything,” I whisper. “I don't. I…” My voice drifts into silence.

The man gets a text on his BlackBerry, texts back, cracks his knuckles and neck. “We're done.”

The woman hands me a card: FBI, Squad 9, phone and e-mail. “Your mother's waiting for you upstairs,” she says quietly. “If you think of anything unusual about your father's behavior these past few weeks, no matter how small, get in touch.”

The agents get me to stand up, and follow me upstairs.

It's like a bomb went off in the kitchen. The drawers are all on the floor, dish towels and cutlery scattered everywhere. The cupboards, stove, and fridge doors are open. All the containers are gone: juice and milk cartons, canned food, spice jars. Why?

Mom's down the hall in the family room. Four agents stand at ease. The carpets are ripped up, the furniture's a jumble. When Mom sees me, she leaps off the ottoman and opens her arms. I try not to run to her, but I do anyway. She holds me.

Maybe the agents mutter something when they leave.
Maybe they don't. All I hear is Mom's heart, and the sound of the sleeve of her housecoat over my ear. Next thing I know, we're alone.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

I shiver a nod.

She puts a mohair blanket around my shoulders, the one she uses when she curls up to read, and sets me down on the sectional.

“You sit tight, while I make a few calls. Don't go near the end of the room. There's glass on the floor.”

I glance at the French doors. Somebody's closed the curtains, but I can see the smashed locks on the inside of the frames; the coffee table's been placed across them to keep the doors shut. I have this flash of the break-in.

“Can you call from in here?” I ask, pulling the blanket around me like I'm three years old or something.

Mom strokes my hair. “Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere.”

The phone is out of its dock, lying by the door. She picks it up and calls our imam.

It's barely six
A.M.
, but he's already up for predawn prayers. I watch Mom's face as she tells him what's happened. The muscles are tight around her eyes and lips, but her voice is calm. It's the same as that time last winter,
when she was driving me home from a day of sledding in the country and we got caught in a whiteout.

“I don't know where they've taken him,” Mom says into the phone. Her eyes are locked on the Qur'an, rooted, like if they moved, they'd tear from their sockets.

The Qur'an's the only thing in the room that hasn't been touched. Or maybe it was, and it's the one thing Mom's put back in place. Whatever—it's on its pedestal next to the prayer rug shelves. The rugs are on the floor in a heap, along with Mom's hijab. Our flat-screen TV's propped against them. Everything's off the walls: the art, the sconces, the ceiling lamps, even the switch plates. Everything's away from the walls too, and not just the sectional, chairs, and corner tables. The bookcases on either side of the fireplace have been yanked out, hardcovers and paperbacks torn apart, tossed aside. As for the fireplace, the grill's upside down on the carpet, the fake logs smashed.

What was the FBI looking for? What did they think Dad was hiding? And what's his connection to Hasan?

The imam must be saying something important. Mom's eyes have left the Qur'an. They're darting like finches. Her free arm waves in a circle. “Sami. Paper. Pen.”

I scramble for the scratch pad and ballpoint next to the upended corner table. Mom grabs them out of my hand, presses the phone between her ear and shoulder, and scribbles. “Thank you. Thanks so much. I'll be waiting for his call.” She hangs up.

“And?” I say.

“The imam's getting us a lawyer.” She gestures vaguely at the room. “And someone to make repairs.”

“What about Dad?”

“Don't worry. The lawyer'll find out where he is, and when we can get him home.”

Out of nowhere, Mom's face goes strange. She reaches out and touches the door frame for balance. It's like she's lost, like she's stepped out of a car crash into a fog.

“Mom?”

The light clicks back in her eyes. “Wait just a sec,” she says, and marches upstairs. Next thing I know, she's got out her whisk broom, dust pan, and vacuum.

I give her a look. She tosses it back: “You think this glass is going to disappear by itself?”

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing, but sitting on my butt isn't it. I get up and wander down the hall to the living room. There's some kind of commotion outside. I glance out the bay window.

My stomach lurches.

Our yard is marked off with crime-scene tape. There's a cruiser across the driveway and another by the curb. A couple of cops are keeping people to the opposite side of the street. Mostly it's clusters of neighbors in dressing gowns, holding coffee cups. But there's two camera crews too. I see their vans parked a few doors down, and a third coming up the street.

I turn out the living room light so they can't see inside. Because that's exactly what everyone's trying to do. I wish we had curtains, but no, we're stuck with sheers and this stupid window-treatment thing Mom saw in a magazine.

I press against the side of the bay and peek out. I spot Andy and Marty in hoodies and track pants. Andy's jumping up and down waving his cell.

I race downstairs to find mine; no way I'm going outside to get mobbed. Last I remember, my cell was in my jeans. And they'd be where, exactly? Oh right, in a ball in the corner. My clothes are the one mess the agents had nothing to do with.

I get Andy and Marty right away. “You been up all night?”

“No kidding, dude.” Andy's totally wired. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Is it true about your dad?” from Marty.

“Is what true?”

“Turn on your TV,” Andy says.

“My TV?”

“Yeah, you heard me. Pick a channel. Your dad's famous.”

“Crazy's more like it,” Marty says. “At least the way he looks in the video.”

“What video?”

“I think Hutchison took it, the asshole,” Andy says.

Hutchison's this crusty gun nut who lives across the street. He's one of the neighbors who tried to stop Mom and Dad from buying here. The Shriners kicked him out for being too embarrassing, but he's still got the go-kart. Every summer, he gets tanked up and races it around the crescent in his idiot Ali Baba costume.

“Hutchison's blabbing his face off,” Andy says. “He was getting back from a party when the FBI hauled your dad out. He recorded it on his cell and sold it.”

I hear a strange woman's voice in the background. “They say you two are friends with Sabiri's son. Could I talk to you?”

“Reporter,” Andy says into the phone. “Don't worry.
We'll put in a good word.”

“No! Don't say anything!”

But Andy doesn't hear me. In fact, nobody hears anybody. The whole world's turned into this loud, throbbing whirr.

I know that sound. It's a chopper.

T
he chopper belongs to the local news station. They use it for morning traffic reports. Today there's a major snarl around our subdivision. You know how cars slow down to check out crashes? Well, guess what they do when the FBI arrives on a terror bust?

Mom and I are on the floor, bunched together, backs pressed to the sectional, staring at the TV. It's also on the floor, still propped against the prayer rugs. When I told Mom that Dad was on all the morning news shows, she plugged it into the nearest socket. We've been glued here ever since, trying to find out what's going on.

It's seven thirty in the morning now, and still nobody knows anything for sure. All that's certain is whatever's
happening is big. It involves an international terrorist cell in Toronto. And Dad.

Authorities have released photos of twelve guys in their twenties. They're all bearded and scruffy. One of them is Tariq Hasan, looking way less
GQ
than in the FBI's 8x10s. In some shots, the men are in traditional Islamic dress, apparently at various locations around a Toronto public housing project. In others, they're out in the countryside, marching in camouflage through woods and across fields.

We see the grainy video of Dad too, taken from Hutchison's cell phone. The buttons on Dad's pajama top are popped open. His eyes are glassy, hair wild, face contorted. Agents struggle to force him into their van. He looks crazy to kill.

According to unconfirmed reports, the cell calls itself the Brotherhood of Martyrs. Experts can't say if it's a rogue operation or an offshoot of Al Quaeda. Whatever, eleven of its members were arrested by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in a predawn sweep, coordinated with the FBI's arrest of Dad. A couple are landed residents and refugee claimants, but most are illegals operating on expired student visas or fake passports.

The exception is cell leader Tariq Hasan. A reporter
stands outside a narrow blue door in a wall of storefronts. He says Hasan lived in one of the apartments upstairs. Someone must've tipped him to the raid, because he's escaped without a trace. Authorities say he's armed and extremely dangerous. A woman, face covered by a niqab, pushes past the reporter with a bag of groceries. The reporter yells questions about Hasan. She disappears behind the blue door.

This stuff gets repeated nonstop along with shots of our house, taken from both the traffic helicopter and street-level TV cameras. There's also interviews with our neighbors: “We've never had a terrorist in Meadowvale.” “Sabiri, a quiet guy, but strange. Belonged to the golf club, but never played.” Those kind of interviews.

Andy and Marty have maybe three seconds of face time per network. Each time, Marty bobs his head like an idiot, while Andy shifts around, hands sunk in his pockets, saying crap like, “Sammy, he's a great guy. Great guy. Yo, hang in there Sammy.” Gee thanks, Andy. Let the world know my name, why don't you.

Around seven forty-five, the phone rings. Mom puts it on speaker so I can hear too.

“Hosam Bhanjee, here,” the man says. It sounds like he's just woken up. In the background I hear kids
complaining about their breakfast cereal. “I just listened to a voice mail from Imam Habib,” Mr. Bhanjee says. “I understand your husband needs some legal assistance. I'm booked with other clients all morning, but I'll make time this afternoon. With your husband's background, I expect whatever the problem is will sort itself out fairly quickly.”

Mom clears her throat. “Mr. Bhanjee, have you been watching the news?”

“No. Why?”

“Watch the news.” She hangs up, closes her eyes.

So do I. Hosam Bhanjee is a lawyer who goes to our mosque. He specializes in immigration hearings, especially since 9/11. He's got a good reputation. But this is
so
beyond anything that's happened around here.

“Mom,” I say, trying not to panic, “Mr. Bhanjee's office can find Dad. And Bhanjee has all sorts of contacts, in case he needs, well, special help.”

Mom tries to smile, but the TV snaps out a drum roll. It's a Breaking News Alert.

The news anchor's face is stern: “According to our inside sources, alleged terrorist Dr. Arman Sabiri is research director at Shelton Laboratories. The lab, a category-four facility outside Rochester, stores anthrax,
smallpox, and other viruses and microtoxins. For viewers joining us, Dr. Sabiri is reputed to be the American link to the Brotherhood of Martyrs, an alleged terrorist cell based in Toronto, Canada.”

We see live footage from outside the lab. Police, firemen, and paramedics are on standby. Men in white sci-fi bodysuits are entering the doorway. Clusters of people are being herded into trailers.

“Workers at Shelton are being interviewed by law enforcement agents,” the anchor continues. “The lab will be on lockdown, pending an audit of all bio-units, canisters, and other containers. Off the record, authorities confirm that the Brotherhood is believed to have planned cross-border biological attacks targeting mass transportation and food and water supplies.”

The phone rings. Mom answers. “Hello?”

“Is this the Sabiri residence?” a pleasant male voice asks over the speakers.

“Yes,” Mom says. “Are you Mr. Bhanjee's assistant?”

The voice goes twisted: “Your family's going to die, whore dog, pig fuck!” Then it starts screaming obscenities about the Prophet and Islam.

Mom freezes.

“Look asshole,” I yell at the phone, “our phone line is
bugged. Got it? That means you're on record. Do anything to us, you're busted!”

The phone goes dead.

Mom looks at me in wonder. I shrug.

But there's no time to worry about obscene phone calls. Science types are popping up on all the channels, discussing Dad and bioterrorism. Like, which organisms he worked with are airborne or waterborne. And which viruses can infect a handful of innocent people on subways, buses, and planes, who can then infect hundreds more before they show symptoms—at which point those hundreds have infected thousands, who've infected tens of thousands, and on and on. They talk about swine flu and bird flu, and how in an age of air travel, pandemics can sweep around the world in days, killing us all before we know it.

Five minutes of this, I'm afraid to go outside. The anchors say that talk of a biological strike is still speculation. “But with Hasan on the loose, authorities are scrambling to discover what he's received from Dr. Sabiri.” It's like, Good morning, America. You're going to die, but don't panic.

Networks go to a live feed from Toronto, where Canadian police are showing off a room full of evidence
they collected in their raids. There's tables of drugs, fake passports, and weapons—guns, rifles, ammo, machetes—plus camouflage gear, a door with bullet holes, and five shot-up mannequins. Worse, there's marked plastic bags with batteries, phones, cameras, wire cutters, electrical devices—and five lead-lined boxes supposedly filled with sealed containers of unidentified powders. How it all fits, the authorities don't say, but it's scary.

By now, our phone's ringing every few minutes. None of the callers are listed. Who cares? We're not answering anyway. After the first crank, Mom called Mr. Bhanjee's law office to light a fire under his butt. It was already lit. He'd turned on the news, dropped his morning clients, and been working to find Dad ever since. “The case is more complicated than I'd anticipated,” he said. Jump to the head of the class, Brainiac.

Andy and Marty try to phone me, but I turn off my cell. I just want to be quiet with Mom. I look at her face. She's thinking the same as me: Where's Dad? What are they doing to him? Why was he in that photo with Hasan?

At ten
A.M.
, the networks go on standby for a Homeland Security press briefing in Washington. There's shots of government buildings and limos and people with security badges talking into headsets.

All of a sudden the news cuts to a media room. A man with a buzz cut and a dark suit is standing behind a podium. Behind him, a row of other men in buzz cuts and dark suits, like copies off a printer.

The man keeps it short. He confirms the detentions, and the escape of cell leader Tariq Hasan. “These detentions follow an international surveillance investigation, code-named Operation Patriot Action. The investigation targeted the Brotherhood of Martyrs and Dr. Arman Sabiri. Dr. Sabiri is a research director at Shelton Laboratories, the category-four bio lab near Rochester, New York.”

Blah, blah, blah. Then a bombshell:

“E-mail correspondence and cell phone records between Brotherhood leader Tariq Hasan and Dr. Sabiri reveal that Dr. Sabiri was about to provide Hasan with secret materials. These materials are classified information.”

Classified. Right. Dad's director of a lab with live anthrax, smallpox, viruses, and microtoxins. Figure it out.

“The FBI and Homeland Security, in cooperation with Canada's Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, conducted their early morning raids the day before Dr. Sabiri was scheduled to make the drop-off at a motel on the outskirts of Rochester.”

An explosion of flashbulbs. The man puts up his hand for order.

“The Brotherhood of Martyrs is now in custody. It is no longer a threat. However, cell leader Tariq Hasan remains at large. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Until his capture, the country remains at Orange Alert. We urge the public to remain calm. Thank you.”

The man steps back from the podium. He turns to the exit.

Reporters wave microphones. “Tariq Hasan! Have you found Tariq Hasan?” “Do you know where Hasan is hiding?” “What were his plans?” “Do you know what he's got?”

“No questions,” the man says. “No comment.” He heads out the door.

Shouts from the reporters. Alarmed news analysis from the TV anchors.

Dad. What have you done?