Drone Games (4 page)

“Thank you, Marissa. That’s good to know.”

“Don’t mention it. I hope it works out for you. Maybe I’ll see you when you get to California. You sound like a nice guy. We don’t get too many around here. Bye-bye.”

“Wait—I am a nice guy. And I really like kids,” Akil said. There was silence on the other end, and he realized he was talking to no one.

He dialed a second number.

“Cohen Commercial Leasing,” a receptionist answered. “May I help you?”

“Dennis Cohen, please,” Akil replied. The transfer rang once.

“This is Denny.”

“Hey, Denny. John Ghoacci. I wanted to follow up on my lease?”

“Johnny, baby,” Cohen sung. “My Paisan. How are you? Or more importantly, where are you? Still in Minneapolis? I heard you got snow. Hey, listen . . . the owner signed the lease at eight bucks a square foot for twelve months. We got your deposit, so you’re good to go on the first. O’Hare Aerospace Center Office Complex Suite 200 West. You have a really great view of the airport sunsets. We just opened a new fitness center. You need housekeeping?”

“Not right away,” Akil lied, “but I’d like the option.”

“No problemo, Paisan. You can sign up anytime. When ya comin’ down?”

“Next week.”

“That’ll work,” Cohen assured. “Always a pleasure to have a new tenant. The lobby code is the two-digit current month and year. You’ll get your office door code in an email. You need anything else, you call me, okay? And, hey . . . no more Twins. You’re a National League Cubbie fan now. Have a good one.”

“You too.” Akil clicked off and dialed a third number.

After eight rings, a woman picked up. Her voice was grandmother-sweet.

“Kenny? By the saints, are you still in Minneapolis, lad? How is your poor mother?”

“There’s good news, Mrs. Timmons,” Akil announced. “The pneumonia’s under control. She’s home now and resting. I need to stay a few more days.”

“Take your time, lad. I won’t run away . . .” There was a loud rumble in the background. “. . . Oh, that LaGuardia,” Mrs. Timmons cursed. “It’s near to the end of the world with those jets. As sure as Jesus rode a donkey, one day they’ll take my hearing, and I’ll sue that airport for its millions. Then and only then will I go back to Ireland. And this old neighborhood will be the sadder for it. The colored are taking over anyway. I should’ve given this place up after poor Dermott passed. My brother Bernard is here. He’s come all the way across the Atlantic to finally visit that Statue of Liberty. He’s the only thing I’ve got in the world now. I sure hoped the two of you might meet.”

“I’ll try, Mrs. Timmons. Bye now.”

Akil got out of his car and approached the Legion’s entrance, giving a wary glance to the full-size M-60 tank and Apache helicopter guarding the building’s flanks. Across the street to the south, Mitchell International Airport was layered in fog. An unseen jet thundered into the air. He could just see the top of the control tower, and for a moment it reminded him of the Makkah-al-Mukarramah Mosque.

When she was alive, his mother, Sonia, painted Montreal’s cityscape as a hobby.

Akil had neutral feelings for the female that had resided in his home. She seemed to be a doting woman-servant who cooked, cleaned, laid out his clothes, and constantly hugged him. A pale-skinned, short, and dowdy Czech with drawn, chubby cheeks and auburn hair, Sonia worked as a clerical assistant in downtown Montreal’s La Tour IBM-Marathon Office Building. A shy introvert, she rarely offered anything about her life or family unless it was about her beloved son. When coworkers questioned her husband’s occupation, she said she didn’t know. When pressed, she said she thought he bought buildings, and they ridiculed her even more. Cruelly, they labeled her as mentally slow.

Her husband, Reza, lived an ultra-conservative Wahhabi Sunni lifestyle and trained his son in that course, controlling every facet of Akil’s upbringing, including a special school—a daily Tahfidh Qur’an (Holy Qur’an memorization). He taught his son a well-known rule: memorizing when young was like engraving on stone, and memorizing when old was like engraving on water. Reza also taught Akil that Islam had three enemies in the world—Shiites, Israelis, and Americans—and anything that he did to harm them was favorable in Allah’s eyes.

When Akil was eight, Reza took the boy and disappeared, giving no warning, itinerary, or contact information. For reasons unknown, Sonia never called the authorities—only a former IBM supervisor who offered no help. Four days later, distraught and near zombielike, she arrived at work, pried open a window on the forty-seventh floor, and leaped out. For his part, Reza returned to Montreal with Akil thirty days later, satisfied that his pilgrimage to Mecca had forged the solid foundation of a young religious zealot. He purged their home and Akil’s memory of Sonia’s existence and never mentioned her again.

Akil stared suspiciously at a vintage pineapple hand grenade cemented to the Legion’s door and pulled the pin. A return buzzer sounded, and the door popped open. A musty stench filled his nostrils, and he immediately felt sickened. Akil believed that of all the Satanic beings Americans worshipped, alcohol was equal in power to their god of sex.

He recalled the teachings of his cultural mentor. An Egyptian writer and educator, Sayyid Qutb (pronounced Koo-Toob) was the father of modern Islamic rage against America. In 1949, he studied at what would become the University of Northern Colorado. What he witnessed prompted him to condemn America as a sinful, materialistic hell devoid of morals and thus unfit for any Muslim.

Qutb determined that America was obsessed with alcohol, sports, body perfection, and open sexuality. America’s women were seducers who relished dancing, exposing themselves, and enticing men with desire. Qutb taught that the world consisted of two groups: those who followed Allah and those who followed Satan. Believers versus infidels. As such, jihad was a total and complete duty to be carried out by all Muslims—men and women, young and old. All infidels in any community, group, or race were to be confronted, fought, and annihilated by any means possible.

Qutb returned to Egypt and rose to power as the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood movement. In 1966, he was convicted of treason and executed for plotting the assassination of Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser. Qutb’s writings formed the core beliefs of modern radical Islamic groups, including al-Qaeda.

Akil drew one more breath of fresh air. “Hello? Marianne?”

“She’s off today, and we don’t open ’til ten,” a raspy male voice sang out. “Who wants to know?”

“Michael,” Akil said, stepping inside. “I spoke with someone named Marianne last night about renting an apartment. Was it your wife?”

“Not unless you called heaven. She’s been dead four years.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Sorry for what? Everybody dies sometime. Marianne’s one of our bartenders. Pleased to meet you,” the man said, tucking his black POW-MIA T-shirt into Marine utility fatigues that hugged a trim waistline. He extended his hand. “I’m Jerry Watts, but you can call me Chief. Sit down. Be with you in a minute.”

Akil straddled a stool. He surveyed the long, dim room. An elevated stage, a side alcove, a pool table. The solid wood bar top held a collage of foreign coins and heroism medals embedded in a thick layer of clear varnish. The walls were covered with camouflage netting, military photographs, flags, rifles, and handheld weapons. A shoulderfired missile launcher hung from the ceiling. Next to the cash register, an empty 155mm artillery shell collected tips.

Watts returned with a rental application tucked in his back pocket.

“What’s your name again?” Watts asked, studying Akil’s face.

“Waleu,” Akil answered. “Michael Waleu. I’m from Quebec.”

“You sure look like Sean Penn, that Hollywood commie actor. You’re a lot younger, but you got that same kind of baby-baboonish, monkey face.”

“Excuse me?” Akil bristled. “Did you just call me a monkey?”

“Relax, kid. I didn’t mean anything. I was a police chief for twenty-seven years. A heckuva lot of people look like animals. I used to tell my officers to identify suspects that way. Let’s see . . . long hair, clean hands, backward ball cap, and worn blue jeans. I bet you’re a college student with a little hippie mixed in. University of Wisconsin?”

“Marquette Dental,” Akil answered, irritated, but also impressed by the man’s perceptiveness. “I got accepted right out of high school. It’s a new seven-year program. Two more years, and then I move into orthodontics. I have a crazy schedule. My girlfriend goes to Winona State in Minnesota, so I’m gone a lot. You know how that is.”

“None of my business,” Watts assured. “You come and go as you please around here. Nobody keeps tabs except at the bar. Case closed.”

“Is it still available?” Akil asked.

Watts carefully added three scoops of horseradish to a large plastic jar filled with red liquid. He tightened the cover and shook it vigorously. “The apartment? I’ve been trying to rent that sucker all year. It’s just an efficiency, but today’s your lucky day. I’ll throw in the utilities and give you half the garage if you take it. You want a drink?”

“No thanks,” Akil said. “Can I see the apartment?”

The two men walked through the bar, into a hallway, past the restrooms, and up a narrow set of stairs. The bottom three creaked. Watts opened the apartment door and sniffed. Thankfully, there was no stale beer odor.

“There’s another entrance in the kitchen off the porch. Doesn’t bother me which one you use. Four hundred a month including utilities and appliances. But I’ll be honest, with all the planes coming and going, it’s not real quiet for studying. Not to mention us veterans can get pretty rowdy, especially with live music. I gotta warn you, my birthday’s coming up, and I’m throwing a heckuva bash. This place’ll be rocking like crazy.”

“Really? How old?”

“The big six-oh. I can’t believe it myself.”

“That’s awesome, Chief. When’s the party?”

“May seventeenth. Karaoke starts at eight sharp.”

“That’s a Sunday night,” Akil said, hiding his disappointment. “I suppose all your police buddies will be here?”

“Nah, the Legion’s a private club. Just vets and their wives.” Watts raised the window blinds. “I’ll take care of you, pal. I’ll make sure you get tucked in if you drink too much. Another nice thing up here is the view—if you’re into flying, that is. That runway is only a stone’s throw away. Jets line up for takeoff just beyond that fence. There’s a radio in the kitchen. You can hear pilot chatter on 88.5 FM.”

Akil briefly glanced outside and then turned away, seemingly more interested in the cleanliness of the bathroom.

“It’s yours if you want it, but I’ll need an answer today,” Watts pressed. “I’ll even give you a break on meals. We cook some good chow for a bar. Where else can you get homemade soup for two bucks a bowl? Tomorrow night’s dollar tacos. What do you think?”

“I love Mexican,” Akil admitted. He walked into the kitchenette and observed a chained door that led onto a small porch. A rusted barbecue grill hid the fact that half the railing was missing. He opened the refrigerator and turned the cooling dial to high. The compressor kicked in with a mild hum. He reached into his pocket. “You got a deal, Chief. Here’s May’s rent plus a deposit. I’ll just need a receipt.”

“Sold,” Watts announced, stuffing the keys and the rental application into Akil’s hand. “You can move right in. I’ve gotta get ready to open. We’ll do the paperwork later.”

Akil listened for the stair creaks and then returned to the front window. He lifted a pair of binoculars. The departure point on Mitchell’s Runway 19R was just five hundred feet away. The morning traffic on East Layton Avenue was mild. It would be less traveled at dawn. The proximity was more than excellent—it was a gift from Allah.

He knelt on the floor.

Surah 84. The Sundering, Splitting Open

19.
Ye shall surely travel from stage to stage.

20.
What then is the matter with them that they believe not?

21.
And when the Qur’an is read to them, they fall not prostrate,

22.
But on the contrary, the Unbelievers reject it.

23.
But Allah has full knowledge of what they secrete in their breasts.

24.
So announce to them a Penalty Grievous.

Washington, DC

National Transportation Safety Board

Office of Aviation Safety

Monday, May 4

TOM ROSS, NTSB acting division chief of Aviation Engineering, squinted at his reflection in his computer screen. He licked his palm and tried to smooth down an unruly hair lump. Ross was tall with sandy-blond hair and a fair complexion, and his face blushed every time he felt embarrassed. His female coworkers teased him unmercifully. They said he looked like a boyish Harrison Ford.

He reached into a drawer for a small red bag of Indian brand pumpkin seeds that he had ordered online from a vintage candy site. The white coating fed his salt addiction and, in some quirky way, methodically eating the seeds one by one lowered his stress level. That’s how he rationalized it. The medical facts disagreed. He didn’t want to think about that.