“My name is Awari el-Baqua, as the papers say. I am in the country on a six-month visa, legally admitted. I have some education, but I am here as a laborer to work construction for my uncle, who is a builder. I hope to raise enough money to continue my education back in Syria. I have three brothers. Do you want the names?”

“No policeman will ask you that. A federal agent might. But if the papers are good, you should be all right.”

“The papers are good. They had been produced by the best forgers in Chechnya.

“Also, smile a lot. They like smiling.”

“I can do that.”

“They say you’re obsessed with rifles. Bury that part of your personality. Never mention a weapon, never look at one, never ask about one. Many people are frightened of them and consider them evidence of malice. Don’t read magazines about them or go to where they are sold and talk to people who own them. A brown man with an interest in guns is a problem.”

“I understand.”

They went over it, over and over, on their walks. At first, they walked on Warren Street and the streets just off it, which felt like his own culture to Juba. But, each day, the young man took him in a new direction, and he visited the large city of Detroit, he visited malls where the Americans consumed out of any possible proportion to whatever needs they could have, he went to a famous university town and felt its absence of fear, in stark contrast to the city itself. They took every form of transportation. They visited museums, restaurants, hospitals, office buildings, schools, pizza parlors. They dressed casually, in jeans and running shoes and T-shirts and the kind of sweatshirt with a hood that zipped up the front. They wore sunglasses. They admired monuments and went to the lakefront. They went to the stadium and watched the crowds file in, though Jared could not get Juba to actually attend.

“I won’t try to convert you to the religion of baseball. But it will be a sad day when Allah wipes it from the earth. This, alone, I do not like about jihad.”

“You are a blasphemer,” said Juba. “It is only because you are so negligible that Allah does not punish you. But you have been very good to me, so I forgive you. I will pray for you tonight, and perhaps Allah will extend your time.”

Jared’s phone rang.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Only the mosque has my number, and only for emergencies.”

He took it out, put it to his ear, and listened. Then he returned it to his pocket.

“They caught a spy,” he said. “A woman. Probably FBI. We’d better get back there.”

17

Dearborn

No heroics, Janet. You understand that?” said Nick Memphis.

“I do.”