What would the others do? They could barely fit in the living room. Maybe they would open drawers. Or take letters. He glanced nervously at the mail.

He went back to the kitchen and got his passport with its long-expired visa. Others had told him to get a fake one, but he wouldn’t. Overstaying the visa, everyone did this, but fake papers? That was too much. Now he wished he had. He gave the passport to the one in a tie, who handed it to the one in a windbreaker.

“This visa expired two years ago, Mr. Khaled.”

“I am sorry for that one.” Lahouari was fully awake, fully afraid. “I am sorry. Please.”

“Step back into the living room, Mr. Khaled.”

He inched back there, red tie and windbreaker close by his elbows.

“Please have a seat,” another red tie said. It was their apartment now.

He sat down, and three of them, two ties and a windbreaker, sat down too. The rest stood straight and watched.

He looked down at his hands. They were stained from the auto shop, the nails cracked. His bare legs were bony. He couldn’t even look at these confident men and their well-laundered prosperity.

“You are in violation of eighteen U.S.C. nine eleven, ten zero one, fifteen forty-six, and sixteen twenty-one; eight U.S.C. thirteen twenty-five. Fraud and Misuse of Visas, False Personation, Unlawful Entry, Failure to Depart, Failure to Report, Working Without a Permit. To name a few sections of the statute that come immediately to mind.” This was delivered by a windbreaker. He was angry.

“These are serious violations, Mr. Khaled, each of which carries a prison sentence of fifteen years. Given the nature of your case, the government would seek jail without bond pending final adjudication. Deportation, after serving your sentence, is virtually a certainty.” A planned pause stretched.

“However, Agent Pelton and the Immigration and Naturalization Service might be willing to overlook these violations, Mr. Khaled, if you were able to assist us,” said a red tie, not the one in charge. “We have reason to believe there is a terrorist cell operating here in Boston,” he continued. “Information I’m not at liberty to disclose indicates this is an Algerian cell. It has ties to operatives in Germany, Pakistan, Great Britain, Yemen, and Afghanistan.” Another red tie said, “Do you know the GSCP?”

Lahouari had not heard of such a thing. Was it a United States police? He shook his head.

“The Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat.”

Lahouari knew it. Salafists, yes, everyone knew of them. The other words, he wasn’t sure. They called them Afghans. Or khandjiya. Algerians who came home from Kandahar and were crazy.

“I read about those ones.”

“We would like you, when you are at the mosque, to help identify for us those individuals.”

“I do not go.”

“You don’t go to the mosque?”

“No. I work every day. There is no mosque for me.”