The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (12 page)

“Wrong?” Derek barked. “My parents watch this channel. I have to contact them and let them know that I’m safe.”

“Sorry, but that can’t happen.”

“Why the hell not?”

“FBI agents are probably pulling into your parents' driveway as we speak. They’ll have a ton of questions for your parents. Right now, your being dead is the best thing for you.”

“But not for my parents.”

Juan stood up and plowed his hands into his pockets. He lowered his head and faced Derek. “The FBI knows about your suicide attempt,” Juan said softly. “They may start assuming that you were emotionally damaged and being assigned to this case was too much for you to handle. They already know that Abdul called your name out right before he blew himself up and now that your hotel room was blown up, they’ll assume you pushed a little too hard in your investigation and pissed off the wrong people. I guarantee that Henderson and his team are retracing your every step. Who knows, your dying may be a good thing for this case.”

“How so?” Derek asked.

“Henderson knows who you met with, right?”

“Right.”

“Considering that you only met with two suspects and all that has happened since you started the case, they’ll start looking at Badr Irani hard. They may put the same pieces together that I did and figure out that since Badr’s mosque is one of the UN sponsored mosques, they should start sniffing around the IUIEEO.”

“And in the meantime?” Derek asked.

“You play dead. That means no more calls to your assistant in Columbus. What's her name, Victoria?"

"Call her that and you'll regret it. Crown. Her name is Crown."

Aahill tried very hard to hide his fear and confusion. After all, wasn’t that man he just killed a Muslim like he was? And weren’t the two men who killed him also Muslims?
 
And, as Aahill was led out through the back door of the warehouse and into a waiting car, he wondered if his decision to join this small group would result in him being tied to the same chair in that warehouse and having the same two men beat him until his brains spilled through his nose.

As he sat in the backseat of the vanilla-looking Toyota Camry, Aahill wanted to ask a hundred questions to his three car-mates. He wanted to know who the person was that he just saw beaten to death. He wanted to know who the man sitting next to him in the backseat was, and why the man sitting next to him and the driver of the car, said nothing while they killed that man in the warehouse. He wanted to know who the well-dressed and well-spoken man who showed up was, demanded that he be left alone with the soon-to-be victim, then had left in a rush. He wanted to know why he was picked up at his small apartment in the Bronx so early in the morning, told to bring enough clothes for 3 days, then politely told to not ask any questions.

He knew what was planned for him and believed that being chosen was a great honor. Badr Irani had taught him so many things; things that, without Badr, he would never have known. But now Badr was quietly sitting in the passenger's seat, almost intentionally avoiding any eye contact with him. Aahill trusted Badr and had grown to love him. Aahill knew what he was and he knew, even without the frequent reminders, where his life was heading.
 

Aahill struggled through school. His grades were seldom above the Mendoza line, and his attempts at sports, encouraged and prodded by his parents, could only be described as feeble. He wasn’t as smart as others, and he knew it. He didn’t have the physical skills as most of his classmates, and he knew it. He lacked charm, good looks and the magnetic personality that the popular kids commanded, and they made sure he knew it. He was, if ever there was one as such, overlooked and was destined to be swallowed up by the American culture that rewarded only those gifted in ways that he would never be.

That was his life until he met Badr Irani.

It was foreign at first, walking into an Islamic mosque, seeing the people who, though resembled him in the color of their skin, appeared to be so different. Aahill wondered as he walked into the mosque that very first day, if those in attendance would somehow be able to tell that he was a Christian; an infidel. His parents raised him to believe that there was only one God, one religion and one way to eternal life. After he had accepted the invitation from the man handing out pamphlets on the street outside of his school, Aahill wondered if walking into a mosque would destroy his one chance at eternal life. If even the action of admitting that other beliefs existed caused a stain on his soul that no amount of praying could scrub out.

He sat, quietly in the back of the mosque, and watched with curious interest as the men in the room chanted, bowed, then, after less than 10 minutes, stood, embraced one another and welcomed him so warmly. He wasn’t identified as being an infidel as he feared, instead, he was embraced and welcomed as if he belonged.

“Welcome, young man,” one of the men said. “What is your name?” The man’s accent was strong, though Aahill could only place accents of those from Britain and the Southern US States.

“My name is Kevin,” he answered. “Kevin Washington.”

“And what brings you here to join us today, Kevin?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Kind of had nothing to do, and I got this paper from a man outside of my school last week.” He held the paper up for the man to see, but lowered his raised arm when he noticed that the man wasn’t interested in the pamphlet. “It said that are all welcome. Is it okay that I came here?”

“It is more than just okay, Kevin. It is wonderful. You know, you are the only young man who accepted the gift of this pamphlet. No one else in your entire school, no other young men had the insight to take the pamphlet. And you,” he said, his arms extended wide, “you listened to your insight and heard the voice of Allah telling you to read the pamphlet and to join us here. You must be a gifted young man. Just and upright in all things.”

He had so much to learn, so many things to understand. His life in Queens quickly began to lose the little draw it had. His parents, though kind and caring people, seemed to have expected that their only son would one day drop out of school and become one of the many who live on the margins of society. At first, his parents questioned why he was gone so much and inquired about where he was spending so much of his time. But their questions abated as they recognized a new and longed-for confidence in their son. He would smile when he would tell them about his new religion. He seemed to bust with pride when he told them that he had been hired as a caretaker of the mosque he attended.
 

Kevin was a 16 year old high school sophomore when he first walked into the mosque. For the first year, he was overwhelmed by the continuous outpouring of support, praise and love that those that attended the mosque and the mosque’s Imam showed him. He remembered one day, as he entered the mosque after school, that he was greeted by several of his brothers, all wearing tight smiles and holding small gifts.

“Today,” Badr began, “marks one year since you enhanced our lives with your presence. One year ago today, Kevin, you took your first steps.”

As the weeks and months rolled past, Kevin became less interested in going to school. He began cutting classes in order to spend more time at the mosque with his new family. When his junior year was drawing to an underperforming conclusion, Kevin was asked by Badr to join him in his office. Being asked to sit, one on one, with Badr was an honor. Though Kevin had been in the Imam’s private office numerous times to clean it, he had never been asked to sit across from Badr’s modest desk, have the door closed and speak alone with Badr.

“You have captured the attention of many. Some of whom are very learned in our ways. You are gaining great favor.”

“What have I done that was so good?” Kevin asked.

“Very few have displayed your devotion. In America, you would be called a rising star.”

Kevin had heard that term before, but never heard it associated with him. He felt that his star was more muted, diffused as it struggled to be seen over the brighter, more vibrant ones that surrounded him. “What does that mean?” he asked Badr.

“It means that those who have received favor, as you have, are called upon to do great things. Wonderful things, Kevin. Things that will find your name written alongside the great ones in the history of Islam.”

He was finished with his old life. It offered nothing for him. A few distant, pleasant memories could not provide enough draw to keep him where he was. He wanted more. He wanted his name written alongside the great ones. He wanted to understand and feel what it was like to be a shining star.

The summer before his senior year in high school began, Badr again invited Kevin to sit across from his desk in his office.

“Kevin,” Badr said, “I have wonderful news. Our leader has chosen you to be our first pupil. We have received multiple blessings and now can provide the education that you deserve.”

“What does that mean?” Kevin asked.

“It means that, as long as you feel that you are devoted and ready, that the rest of your education will be completed here.”

“No more high school?”

“And no more dealing with others that lack your gifts. No more hearing their ignorant insults. No more being led astray by their supposed education. You have been chosen again, Kevin. Truly, you are just and upright in all things.”

Though neither of his parents agreed with his decision to leave school, they acquiesced when he told them that he was attending a different school.

“But I am going to school still. Just a different one. And I will have my high school diploma before I turn 19.”

Kevin’s parents were relieved. His father,
 
Daniel, a manager of a fast food restaurant, believed, as did
his
father, that a man’s job was to support his family financially, and the mother’s role was to offer comfort, caring and emotional support. Daniel never questioned his beliefs about how to raise a child since things worked out just fine for him. His father, an immigrant from Lebanon, instilled in him the importance of hard work more so than any other value.
 

Neither Daniel or his wife, Maryanne, ever held any lofty expectations for their son, and both were too busy with their own lives to get as involved as they felt others thought that they should be in Kevin’s. When they saw how happy and content he was, they felt that, somehow, they had done their jobs as parents. After all, their only son was happy.

 
When it was suggested that he change his name from Kevin Washington to Aahill, he was confused.

“Why do I need to change my name?” he asked, as he again sat across from Badr’s office desk.

“Aahill means someone who is just and upright. What does Kevin mean?” Badr asked. “I will tell you what it means; nothing. It represents a boy that society shunned. It means that the holder of the name is one that is intended only to blend in, as best as he can. To accomplish only what he is allowed to accomplish, to dream only what those around him deem worthy of dreaming. You are much more than that name, Aahill. You are one that believes in justice. One who stands taller than so many others. You remember that first day when you walked into this mosque?”

“I do. Of course I do.”

“You were surprised, weren’t you, at how welcomed you were. Tell me, do you remember?”

“I do.”

“I never told you this, Aahill, but you were the only young man to whom we gave an invitation to that day outside of your school. You were the only one that possessed the just and upright ethics that we needed. You, young Aahill, are destined for things far greater than you, your parents or anyone who has ever known you could ever possibly imagine.”

He became Aahill.

***I***

Aahill was unaware of where he was being taken. He battled against his rising fears that, perhaps, Badr had received other instructions and that he was no longer needed.
“But how could that be?”
, he thought?
“I am the chosen one. The one that sets everything in motion.”
His fears quelled when, at last, Badr turned to him.

“Your time of greatness draws near, Aahill. He has given you his blessing and praise. I am envious of you, Aahill. All of us are,” Badr said.

Aahill saw the driver and the man sitting beside him slowly nod their heads in agreement with Badr’s statement.

When the driver finally pulled the car into a garage and shut the engine off, Badr again turned to Aahill.

“Please, wait for me inside the car. I need only to make a phone call to my superior. You are comfortable?”

“I am,” Aahill answered, a look of appreciation crossing his face.

“Five minutes.”

Badr Irani disappeared through a door on the far side of the garage. He walked up a short flight of stairs, knocked softly on the door before having the door opened for him.

“He is waiting for you in his office,” a man told Badr.

“Very good.”

Badr made his way down a narrow hallway, passed several men, some sitting, some standing, all holding AK 47’s, and walked until he reached a door-less office. The man sitting behind the desk smiled when Badr entered.

“Things are progressing much more quickly than expected,” the man said to Badr.

“They are expecting something,” Badr offered.

“The second bombing? Beyond our control.”

“My sources can give me no information. The first, yes, of course, but the second is unknown.” Badr was nervous. He knew how precise his host expected things to be and would certainly not tolerate any interruptions. Having Abdul end his life in such a dramatic and public way was Badr’s idea. He reasoned that since the authorities were suspecting a bombing, that he would give them one. While Abdul was his friend, he also was compromised and neither Badr, nor the man sitting across from him in the office, fully trusted that Abdul would keep his mouth shut.

But the second bombing, that was unplanned. It was potentially disruptive in the way it elevated the awareness of the authorities and the citizens of the city.