The old man learned this in one day.

T-H-E A-D-D-R-E-S-S

He could not say it. There were no th sounds. He could not write it either. Aziz switched the to an.

A-N A-D-D-R-E-S-S

Problem solved.

F-O-R Y-O-U-R F-I-R-M

Company, after many tries, was rejected.

T-O S-E-N-D

Send was a disaster. To mail worked.

T-A-X I-N-F-O-R-M-A-T-I-O-N

What was he thinking? Info was good enough.

After a week, the Yemeni in the well-washed djellaba had it. He held forth at the cell-phone store for the men working. They agreed to pass honest comments and suggestions. Most felt that info was too informal, yet no one could get him to say the tion until Aziz saw that spelling it shun was completely readable in Arabic.

With information conquered, the old man was ready. “It is my boyhood again,” he told Aziz. “Like memorizing sura from the Qur’an.”

There was one other comment. It was about procedure, not pronunciation. The store owner persuaded Aziz that his original plan of taking the phone from the old man immediately after he said information—so Aziz could write down the address—was mistaken.

“We have here a machine that can put a rubber ear on the phone receiver. This rubber ear is connected to a tape recorder. The address will be recorded. You will have an actual tape of this address.”

There would be no charge to use the machine. Everyone at the cell-phone store wanted Aziz to reach his brother. Not wanting to offend, Aziz still had to insist the rubber ear, which was more like a rubber cup on a wire, go through a trial run. He was annoying everyone, he felt, but he would not accept it until a series of calls was made that was clearly recorded.

The door, someone was pounding it. Lahouari rolled over. He waited; the noise went on. He looked at his clock radio. It was 6 a.m. He pulled on boxers and a sweatshirt. His brothers were at work. It was morning chilly. He was going to put on socks but then he heard someone yelling at the door. Maybe it was that crazy girl his brother Ali had slept with last weekend. She had done this already once this week. What was her name? Kathy.

He opened the door, which always took forever with all the locks and burglar stops. “Kathy,” he said, when the last one gave way, “you—”

There in the dark were a crowd of men. Some had on coats and red ties. Others had windbreakers. They all had short hair. One of the ones in a windbreaker had a holster with a black gun in it. Handcuffs dangled from another’s waist.

“Lahouari Khaled,” said one of the red ties.

Who were they? Police, but what kind?

“May we come in?”

Lahouari stepped backward numbly.

“Your passport, Mr. Khaled?”

“It is back, in kitchen. I get.”

“Officer Melhaney and Special Agent Brown will accompany you,” said the red tie in charge.