Living Stones (8 page)

“Yes, I met Najid and we were talking on the sidewalk before going inside. But I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Apparently a terrorist bomber targeted the synagogue. You just happened to be in the wrong place at that moment . . . But you’re going to be OK.”

“Oh my gosh! But Dad, what happened to Najid?”

“Who’s Najid?”

“He and I talked out in front of the synagogue. He’s a friend. Oh no! Did he survive? Is he in the hospital here? Where is he?”

“I don’t know, Ashley. We haven’t heard anything about a young man being hurt or killed. Unfortunately, they found a rabbi’s body in the rubble of the building. It sounds like he died under the falling structure.”

Ashley stared wide-eyed out the window, shaking her head. “We had planned to visit that rabbi, attending their Friday evening service. So he is dead. And you don’t know what happened to Najid?” She began to nod, staring vacantly as the tears finally came.

Friday night passed slowly for Najid on the thin mattress. He couldn’t get comfortable. Hot and stuffy, with no fresh air, it smelled musty. He dreamed of the bomb and that he had tried to run into the synagogue to defuse it, but couldn’t. He woke up before it exploded. Who could have escaped all the security measures in place in the United States?

He lay awake thinking about Ashley. She had made him feel at home, like he belonged, like an American. She just naturally brought people together. Was she even alive? He shook his head.

What would his parents think if they knew he slept in jail for doing nothing wrong? Just like home. Why would they put him in jail with no evidence and no charges, like “administrative detention” in the West Bank? At least here they must let him out after twenty-four hours—instead of six months.

His watch moved slowly. Finally, at 7 a.m., a black lady dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt appeared, clipboard in hand. She stopped to chat. “I’m LaTisha. I supervise the jail cells and all the inmates in the holding area.”

Najid explained a bit of what happened. LaTisha mentioned
people’s shock and their sudden crisis of confidence in United States security measures.

“People have flooded the telephone lines of the Congress and the White House. The bombing news flew around the world, with al-Qaeda claiming responsibility for it.”

Najid stared at LaTisha. “Then they’d look for the bombers in the Middle East as well.”

“Probably,” she said. “They’re leaving no stone unturned. Local and federal law enforcement officers have combed Seattle and the entire state. A national alert has shut down all international flights for twenty-four hours until the FBI and other federal agencies have time to check the Terror Watch List for any links to the Seattle bombing. The say that list contains over ninety thousand names!”

Najid stared wide-eyed at LaTisha.

“Thank you for giving me all this information. I hope you realize that I am telling the truth. I am a victim myself.” He showed her his arms, still bloodied from multiple small lacerations. “And I don’t know what has happened to my friend. Her name is Ashley Wells. Do you know if she is alive?”

LaTisha gazed silently at Najid, and then smiled. “They would take her to Harborview Medical Center ER since it’s the major center for trauma in Seattle. Let me call there when I have the chance, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Najid’s eyes misted.

The detective came after a cold breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee. He asked Najid for additional information about his life near Nazareth, travels from Israel, and entry into the United States. They had searched his room, his papers, passport, cell phone records, and computer. The man never introduced himself, and left.

The hours dragged on interspersed with a sandwich for lunch. Najid longed for some hot tea and naan with hummus. The coffee tasted stale and cool. He lay down, waiting, waiting, waiting. No one appeared. Finally he heard footsteps approaching. LaTisha had a broad smile and laughed out loud, breaking the awful silence.

“Najid . . . this is your lucky day!”

“I don’t feel very lucky right now.”

“Well you should. Ashley is recovering nicely after her operation at Harborview. They wouldn’t give me anymore details over the phone except that she is doing well.”

“Oh, thank God! And thank you, LaTisha!” She reminded him of his mother. “You have been such a help. What can I do for you when I get out?”

“Nothing! That smile is my reward. If I can brighten your day, it makes my day. God bless you, Najid. I hope I don’t see you here tomorrow!”

She moved to the next cell, chuckling.

The black sedan’s tires screeched as it skidded to a halt outside the police station, where Najid languished in boredom and fear. A very tall, well-built man in a dark suit hurried in, flashing his card to LaTisha before stepping into the detective’s office. “Gordon Appleby, FBI.” He realized they had expected him. The man behind the desk rose slowly, extending his hand without smiling.

“I’m Richard Hunt, detective for Seattle Police, assigned to the synagogue bombing.”

After a perfunctory handshake, Hunt began:

“About Najid Haddad, we’ve checked everything we can: university records, his advisor there, his computer, and his cell phone. We’ve sacked Najid’s apartment for paper files, talked to his roommates, Libyans. Nothing, squat, no evidence of anything suspicious.” The detective threw up his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m not sure why we’re keeping him.”

The FBI agent frowned. “We have nothing either. We’ve checked the Watch List for terrorists, contacted U.S. Immigration, and even called the Israeli intelligence service for Northern Israel where he
lived. State Department and Homeland Security have nothing on him. They don’t think anyone shipped in explosives.”

“So where could the bomb material have come from?

“Good question. We know it’s similar to what has recently been used in bombings in Europe and India. But no tips, no unusual events on the airlines. Where could whoever bombed the synagogue have gotten the C-4? We’ve checked the markers on the explosive residue in the synagogue and traced it to a manufacturer on the East Coast, but their company has no knowledge of any missing explosive material. They supply legitimate needs to a number of companies like mining outfits, and we are checking each of these for evidence of missing material. That hasn’t finished yet.”

“Actually,” Richard shrugged his shoulders, “Najid seemed like an innocent man in my interrogation yesterday. We have no evidence to charge him even as an accomplice. So he remains a person of interest only. As you know, by law we can’t hold him any longer than twenty-four hours. We’ve got to let him go. We know how to reach him if needed.”

“I’d like to meet him. That would help in my report to FBI headquarters. Impressions can be valuable.”

“No problem. I’ll take you back.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Gordon added. “I could recommend to FBI headquarters that they contact the State Department to put a hold on Najid’s passport for sixty days if he’s at risk to flee the country. But assuming he’s innocent, it could trigger airport security computers long into the future.”

Richard bit his lower lip, shaking his head. “He’s here on a Fulbright Scholarship in graduate school at the University of Washington. We can check on him periodically. I think he’s clean and I would rather not do that to him. Let’s go.” They walked to the hallway and the holding cells.

Najid lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. His arms were folded over his chest. Time passed so slowly. He had nothing to read, no radio, no contact with the outside world. He wondered what it would
be like to remain in jail for months, or years. Several of his West Bank friends had spent years in “administrative detention” just for throwing a stone at an Israeli army tank. Now what would they do with him as a foreigner? His eyes closed. Then he heard footsteps. Najid rose on seeing two men opening his cell door.

“Najid, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself when we first met. I’m Richard Hunt, Seattle Police Detective, and this is Gordon Appleby, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Najid extended both hands to shake with each man, bowed slightly, and said nothing. His hands clammy with cold sweat embarrassed him.
Had they found something to make them charge him with the crime?

“I’m pleased to meet you, Najid.” Gordon Appleby smiled. He towered over Najid’s six-foot frame. “I hope you understand that we in the United States have experienced another terrorist attack and are quickly investigating every possible lead to find who did it.”

“I understand, sir.” He looked the FBI agent in the eye and shook his head. “But I didn’t do it.”

“I sympathize with you. It must seem very unfair to you to be singled out for incarceration when you are a guest in our country and a Fulbright Scholar. I would like to hear a bit of your story, how you happened to come to America, and what you are doing at the university. Please, sit down.”

Najid wondered what they were trying to get out of him. But his best defense seemed to be the truth. So he began his story, including how he came to be standing in front of the synagogue when the bomb went off. He told of his friendship with Ashley. And he detailed everything he remembered about what he’d seen and heard before the explosion, which wasn’t much. He desperately wanted to help them find whoever hurt Ashley. He shook his head and grimaced. “I wish I had been paying more attention.”

The FBI agent then had a few questions. After several minutes he seemed to be satisfied and Najid began to relax.

“Well, Najid, we appreciate your being forthright with us.”

“Forthright? I don’t know that word.”

“Honest,” Richard spoke up. “You have cooperated fully with us, and now we have some good news for you. We have found nothing
to incriminate you and are not bringing any charges. You are free to leave, and I will drive you home.”

Najid sighed, his shoulders and head dropped. He closed his eyes to blink back the tears, shook hands with both men, and walked out to the car into freedom.

Robert had rarely used the room he still leased in a small Victorian home on Capitol Hill. He decided to move back to his room quietly and gradually. None of the brothers, including Ali, knew the address. The large bedroom up the narrow stairs served as a studio apartment. It looked and smelled old, with faded floral wallpaper. But it would do to keep him out of view. He would show up at the brothers’ house occasionally to not arouse anyone’s suspicion. But he’d gradually disappear, even from Ali. His plan included taking classes at Seattle Central Community College so he would have student credentials. He decided to stay away from the Islamic Center or any other mosque that could be targeted for investigation.

So Robert moved back, out of the brothers’ house, to his rented room. His jihadist fervor and hate of the establishment was tempered by a constant nagging fear of discovery. That the country boiled with anger didn’t help. No effort would be spared to find him. He rehashed the scene of the bombing in his mind, going over and over it, trying to remember all the details. He had briefly exchanged glances with the girl. She probably couldn’t see his face with the hood covering some of it, or the red birthmark on his forehead. Too
far away. He still didn’t know for sure whether she survived and had no way to learn that since she had dropped out of the news.

History and psychology interested Robert, so he asked whether he could pay to audit courses already underway for spring quarter at the Seattle Central Community College on Capitol Hill. He began to sit in on two classes. The first morning he sat next to a girl in the psychology class and struck up a conversation. That led to an invitation later in the week for coffee in the student cafeteria. He led her to a table in the corner, away from most of the students. The noise of conversations seemed loud. Jenny, a short, dark-haired girl with a pixie haircut, smiled a lot. She seemed quiet, but friendly. Robert learned that she wanted to transfer to the UW next year when she completed her associate degree.

“What then, Jenny?”