“Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. Just a bunch of backflips and somersaults we do to convince headquarters, main Justice, and a federal judge that we can sneak into a terrorist’s house when he’s not around. And a few other things. You have time for lunch?”

“I was just heading to the cafeteria.”

The key didn’t work. They had changed the locks. Ghazi paused. Maybe Mourad and Heather didn’t live there anymore. It certainly would have made sense to give up the shithole. He put his ear to the door. Nothing. But the lights were on. He had to know about Aziz. He knocked.

The taxi honked. The driver wanted out or in. Ghazi put up two fingers. When he turned around he saw that someone had lifted up a blind from the living room window, then let it fall back fast.

He heard running inside. The first lock opened. Then the second. Then the long steel rod on the floor.

Heather swung open the door.

“Ghazi!” She threw herself onto him.

He didn’t recognize her. Maybe she was a friend of Heather’s.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” Ghazi said, pushing her away. She wouldn’t let go. She was, he realized in dismay, crying.

“Hey, hey. Calm now. Calm.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Maybe we go inside a little.”

He gave the cabdriver, who was bringing suitcases out of the trunk, a hundred-dollar bill. He went inside.

Rafik was fed up. At the U-Stor-It, Kamal was useless. He was on his cell phone to his new girlfriend the whole time. Rafik was so pissed off he almost took the revolver out of his waistband and fired a warning shot. Instead, he took the phone out of Kamal’s hand and started yelling. “Look, you stale dank pussybitch, this is work; we are working, enough!” It was no girlfriend on the line, however. It was Dhakir.

“Rafik, are you stoned?”

Rafik dropped his chin. “Dhakir?”

“I told you, none of that. None of that.”

“I am not stoned.”

“What are you doing?”

“We are taking care of the stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Dhakir, I thought you were this piece of ass he likes. That is all.”

“Kamal was listening to me.”

“Right.”

“This is not play.”

“No. Not play. No.”

“These are serious things.”

“I am with you.”

“If you don’t fear me—” Dhakir stopped. “What about hellfire? How will that be for you? It burns, I tell you, it burns.”

“It burns.”

Rafik rolled his eyes. Kamal rolled his eyes back.

“Make your ablutions.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Peace be upon you.”

“Peace upon you.”

Rafik looked at Kamal. “He is fucked up.”

Kamal shrugged. “It happens.”

12 October 2000

Mourad Arkoun
Security Services
c/o Boston Logan Airport
Boston, Mass. 02128

Dear Brother,