And they say, “Our Lord, why have you prescribed fighting for us? If only you would defer us to a near term!” Say, “The enjoyment of the present life is little, and the Hereafter is most charitable for him who is pious, and you shall not be done an injustice even as a single date-plaiting.

What was date-plaiting? His mother would probably know. She was a devout woman, in her way.

He began copying the verse into his letter.

There had been a long discussion about whether they should make arrests or wait for translations. None of them, except April’s deputy, had Arabic. Then there was the need for foreign intelligence. Algeria had promised help three months ago and given none. French intelligence had given so much—twenty-three boxes of files—no one had read more than a small portion. British intelligence was helping but halfheartedly, in the opinion of some at the table. The thing April worried about was the intercepts the language specialist had not yet translated. He said he had incriminating exchanges between Dhakir Yahyouai and Taffounnout Belghazi, but five pages of notes were all he could give them right now.

Her deputy opposed arrests. The Boston cop supported them. She would make the final call, but not until the prosecutor gave her more hints and signs than he was giving her. Her tinker of a bell— yes or no—would ring up to headquarters, where it would be considered if not exactly heard by the section chief for counterterrorism, the assistant director for national security, and the FBI director himself, in conjunction with the attorney general, the National Security Council, and the White House.

Aziz had a new plan. The coffee, the cups—they had worked in Brooklyn. Boston might like them too. He asked in Cambridge at the large magazine stand how they got their Arabic papers and could he get some too. They gave him a phone number. Maybe he could buy newspapers—not stolen from boxes—from the Globe. He asked Mourad if he would help.

“At least until you find another security job,” Aziz said.

Mourad’s old job at the airport was gone. But his boss said there might be an opening in January.

“I do not see the money in it,” his brother said.

“I swear to you, each day I made twenty dollars, sometimes twenty-five dollars in Brooklyn. And I did not even have Arabic newspapers. You go seven days”—Aziz thought for a moment— “that is one hundred seventy-five! Times four: seven hundred a month!”

“You must buy the coffee, so you take that out of the seven hundred,” Mourad said. “And a coffeemaker. And the cups. And you must sit in the cold, in December, outside.”

“I want to do it,” Aziz said.