So April was advocating sending Linda Ricco, wearing a wire, to get Heather, once a close girlfriend, to talk. April needed a real live person. She was lost in the smog of reports. There still were no transcripts of the intercepts.

It was early Sunday. Aziz walked into the living room. A flashlight, still on, had fallen on the floor. Beside it was Ghazi, asleep, in briefs. Aziz went to turn off the flashlight and picked up a book lying beside Ghazi. It was opened to a page. He was surprised to see it was written in Arabic. It was the Qur’an. Ghazi had paper-clipped a passage:

And it is not for a believer to kill a believer, except it be by mistake, then (let him set) free a believing neck, and blood-money is to be handed (unimpaired) to his family, unless they donate it.

Aziz felt his chest tighten. A believer doesn’t kill a believer except to set free a believing neck. Kill this neck, but not that neck. Donated, blood-moneyed. Aziz could hear Antar on his hammock, reciting his favorite ayat:

Whosoever does not believe in Allah and His Messenger, then surely we have readied the Blaze.

He wanted to kick Ghazi. He did push him, roughly, on the shoulder. It had no effect. Aziz took the flashlight, turned it off, and went to strike Ghazi’s head with the palm of his hand but pulled back. Just then, Ghazi opened his eyes.

“Coffee?” Aziz said.

“Aziz.” Ghazi started to sit up.

“Uncle, you have been reading,” Aziz said, on his way to the kitchen. He could not look at Ghazi. He had no intention of making coffee. He took a step. He slammed an open cabinet door shut. He threw a fork in the sink.

“I do not want coffee,” Ghazi said from the living room.

“Good. There is none,” Aziz said.

Aziz returned to the living room, a menace. Ghazi was pulling on his pants.

“No prayers?” Aziz asked.

He waited. Ghazi looked up and met his eye.

“You read this,” Aziz said, pointing to the Qur’an, “but no salat.”

“Don’t call it this.”

“Just the shahada for you. Why pray five times a day when you can grab a key to the garden with one sentence?”

“I will go.”

“To where?” Aziz raised his voice.

“Farther than you, ever.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Maybe. Maybe Chechnya.”

“You know nothing.”

“You do not know me.” Ghazi was pulling open the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Mourad will be up.”

“You fucked Heather,” Aziz called after him. “Is that what started this?”

Aziz went to the door and looked down the street. There Ghazi was, moping down the sidewalk. He had to go after him. He pulled on a coat.