Failure to Melt

By R.F. Moltzon

Failure to Melt, a quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest, shows why an American son of a victimized immigrant family might turn against his country. The suspense-filled thriller explores a scenario all too possible in today's world of domestic terrorism: could an incurable virus be imported into the country and launched on the American public?
Following are comments from the expert reviewers in the ABNA Contest:
"…I think this could definitely be a best seller. It is reminiscent of several known thriller/suspense writers… Connelly and others."
ABNA Expert Reviewer 1

"…I could see this as being a series. Danni certainly brings to mind a heroine that we could see in one of any different situations, investigating different cases, and just wanting to help those that no one else can. I like that…I like the idea that maybe I'm reading the beginning of a new series. But what I really enjoyed was knowing that this story would give me a viewpoint that I don't think is explored as often…
ABNA Expert Reviewer 2

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.F. Moltzon
• Release date: Nov 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466077720

R.F. Moltzon

About the Author R.F. Moltzon grew up outside of New York City and attended the University of Maryland, where he earned a degree in Information Systems Management. He has traveled extensively in more than forty countries on five continents and throughout the United States. In addition to fiction, Mr. Moltzon writes frequently on political affairs and has been a contributor to several newspapers and periodicals.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Rural Florida, June 2004

Safi sat quietly at the kitchen table and looked up at the wall clock.  It’s late, after eleven PM.  I pray there will be no more graffiti tonight. 

The air conditioner droned rhythmically in the window, alternating in volume as the compressor cycled on again in its attempt to keep the temperature and humidity bearable.  One of the two bulbs in the ceiling fixture had been out for weeks.  The remaining light cast eye-straining glare on the worn vinyl table cloth.  The brown-skinned woman pushed graying hair from her damp forehead and picked at the laptop computer.  Still dressed in dark slacks, and a white blouse, her blue store apron draped on the table, she was determined to finish entering the day's transactions before bed.  She frowned and entered the invoice for painting over the obscenities. 

The distant sound of breaking glass made her look up sharply from the computer.  The hair on her arms stood up and her pulse quickened.  Most likely an accident on the highway, but something felt wrong. 

She eased out of the chair to silently cross the kitchen of the clapboard house, home to her and her husband.  The sound drew her past the recliner in the darkened living room, toward the front window.  Was that a glint of light?

She parted the dark brown curtain with trembling fingers and sucked in her breath.  The window faced the highway.  Across the road, yellow flames shot from the roof of the convenience store they’d worked thirty years of their lives to build.  Her horrified gaze fell on the three gasoline pumps. 

Men, oblivious to the danger stood next to the Quick-Stop sign.  One pumped his fist in the air.  Others simply stood and watched the spectacle.

Jabbar wake up! she shouted to her husband.  After last prayers he had dropped into bed, exhausted.  He’d opened the store at four this morning and worked all day when the useless boy they hired as a clerk failed to show up again.  They’re back.  They’re burning the store!

She hurried across the faded maroon Persian carpet, a treasured wedding gift so many years ago, toward the bedroom door, when the light turned on. 

Call the police, he shouted from the bedroom. 

Jabbar Nasser staggered into the living room in his blue and white striped pajamas.  In one hand, he held a .357 revolver, in the other exercise pants, he struggled to put on.  When he pulled the pants up, he stared in disbelief, his face contorted with rage at the fiery glow that radiated from the window behind his wife.  They can’t do this.  We are not in Lebanon.  This is America.

Safi picked up the phone and watched her husband start for the front door. 

Jabbar, stay here.  We will call the police and fire department.  They will handle it.  We have insurance and Allah will protect us.

And the police will catch no one.  No.  I will find out who is responsible while they are still here.  He rushed outside, leaving the door wide open.

Safi composed her thoughts as she dialed 911.  She began calmly, This is Saffiyah Nasser in Brookland.  Our store is the Quick-Stop at 15678 Highway 54.  It is on fire.  We need the fire department and the police.  The fire was started by men who have been harassing us and they are still on our property. 

It was then she heard the booming explosion of a gun.  She recoiled as the sharp sound of two more shots with a different pitch, ripped through the still night. 

Please tell the police to hurry, there is shooting.

She rushed to the open door with the phone at her ear trying to answer the operator’s questions.  A black pickup truck with two men in the back roared across the highway in the direction of her driveway.  Safi watched the others in the parking lot climb into cars and trucks but she saw no sign of Jabbar.

I have to go.  I must find my husband.  Please hurry! 

CHAPTER ONE

Tampa, Florida, June 2007

Danni Sobieski patted her upper lip with a tissue at the law offices of Perlman and Rogers and considered what the three people on the other side of her desk wanted.  On a steamy Tampa summer afternoon, a call was out to the service company as the office air conditioning wasn’t keeping up and her prospective clients were dressed as if they were going to court. 

The frail, mustachioed man with the prominent nose sat in a wheelchair flanked by his family.  The light blue sport jacket, white shirt, and gray tie contrasted with the hard tanned wrinkles in his jaw and the fury and frustration in his eyes.  His wife Safi, had done most of the talking.  The son Abbas, was quiet, clean-shaven with his father’s nose and his mother’s black curly hair.  He studied Danni with piercing blue eyes, unusual given his dark complexion, and but for the distracting dime size brown mole on his cheek, would be considered handsome.  Not long out of school, he dressed in a fraternity blazer and button down shirt. 

Danni didn’t want to look pessimistic or act discouraging.  It frustrated her they all had to squeeze into the postage stamp sized office that made her former FBI cubicle feel spacious, but the conference room was in use.  She resolved to talk to Lenny about knocking out the walls surrounding the clothes closet.   

Mrs. Nasser, if the Sheriff’s office wasn’t able to find suspects in the first ninety-six hours, the prospect of locating anyone to sue after three years isn’t good.

The son spoke for the first time, with no trace of accent.  The Brookland cops covered it up.  We know one of them was involved, he said quietly, so they didn’t look very hard.

One of their deputies shot me.  He destroyed our business and my life.  What it lacked in volume, Jabbar’s voice made up in seething anger.

You saw him shoot you?

I explained it all to the police.  It happened so quickly.  I shot first in the air to scare them.  Then someone shot me.  I saw Deputy Jessup walk past me while I lay on the ground.

Did you see a gun in his hand when he walked past you?

I don’t know.  I couldn’t move.  I only saw a glimpse of him.  He wasn’t in uniform.  He didn’t have a holster.  They asked me how I knew it was Jessup.  He came into my store every day to get free coffee and doughnuts, I said.  How could I not know this man?  He struggled for breath.

I understand.  Danni added notes to her legal pad.  Mrs. Nasser, would you tell me what you saw?

When I ran out to look for Jabbar, a black truck with two men in the back came across the highway.  It pulled into our driveway.  I could not see them very well because of the light from the fire in my eyes.  I crossed the highway to the parking lot to look for my husband.  I saw Reuben Jessup get into his truck in our store parking lot. 

She related how the other cars and trucks poured out of the parking lot on to the highway in both directions, as the sounds of sirens in the distance cut into the night.  The men in the pickup behind her poured gasoline on the garage and sped away after setting the fire.  When the Nasser’s car exploded, it finished the house.  She found Jabbar bleeding in the grass near the parking lot in the glow of the burning store.  The first bullet in his shoulder caused him to drop his gun; the second entered his back, severing his spinal cord.  

And you also told the police that you saw Deputy Jessup in the parking lot?

Of course.  But they would not believe me.  They said I was mistaken in the dark.  She shook her head from side to side.  It was not so dark.  The parking lot lights were on.  The fire was bright.  It was him.

Abbas, where were you when all this was happening?

Abe, people call me Abe.  At the time, I lived in Tallahassee.  I work for the State. 

Okay.  Danni tapped the pencil eraser on the legal pad.  Mentally she summarized, the wife was the only other witness who saw the deputy at the scene, and neither of them saw the shooting. 

So Jessup denied being there, and he must have had an alibi, she said.  Small town police departments take the word of their own, without proof to the contrary.  She noticed the son shift in his seat, a frustrated look in his eyes.

The words of two American citizens should be enough, Abe said.  It’s because we are from the Middle East and our religion is Islam.  Those rednecks burned down our store, destroyed our house and the police helped them.

Danni nodded.  She understood his emotion but needed to convey realistically what they were up against.  Your parent’s word should have been enough for a more thorough investigation than I see here.  She picked up the thin folder with the police report the Nassers gave her, and noted a satisfied look cross the son’s face, when she agreed with him.

Mrs. Nasser, did you report the harassing phone calls and graffiti to the police before the fire?

No.  She looked hurt.  We didn’t want to make trouble.  She looked at her husband and reached over to wipe his forehead with a tissue.  We thought it would pass.

Abe, if you’re right about their motive, telling the FBI or the Florida Department of Law Enforcement that a local sheriff didn’t prosecute a hate crime to protect one of their officers will require evidence.  If he was there, even if he didn’t have a gun and was out of uniform, the Deputy still should have done something to help.  That he denied being there and neither of you actually saw him do the shooting, makes it almost impossible.  Jessup must have had someone provide an alibi and the Sheriff will say the shooting was done by one of the others.

Mrs. Nasser’s eyes opened wide.  She looked crushed.

I have to remember to be less blunt, Danni thought.

Jabbar said, The doctor said I was shot with a nine millimeter gun.  We read the town had just bought the Sheriff’s department new guns.  They were nine millimeter Glocks. 

If true, Mr. Nasser, we may be able to subpoena Mr. Jessup’s gun to test if it was used on you.  But, nine millimeters are very popular handguns.  Any of the others at the scene might have had one and a cop would know better than to use his service weapon in a crime.

Abe turned to his mother, See, I told you it was no use, defeat in his voice.  If our word isn’t enough then there is no more that you can do.

I didn’t say it was no use, Danni said.  It’s just not going to be easy.

Safi said, Does that mean you will help us?

Danni took a deep breath and moved her eyes over each of the family.  They were perspiring; the men looked angry and the wife looked overwhelmed.  Finally she said, I can talk to one of our colleagues who does investigations for us and ask him to look into this.  Unfortunately, there is the matter of costs.  Our office often works on contingency but we have to pay for investigatory services.  If you can give us a two thousand dollar retainer, we may be able to cover his charges.  But I have to warn you, I can’t promise you he’ll find anything.  That’s fifteen hundred dollars below our usual, but Lenny won’t be as negative about taking their case if I get something.

Safi looked over at Abe.  Her look of embarrassment told Danni that money was a problem.  She could hear Lenny, the senior partner’s high-pitched voice, lecturing that they didn’t need another charity case.

The son reached into his blazer pocket.  I’ll write you a check, he said.

* * *

Jack, how’d you like to meet me for a beer after work tonight, Danni said into the phone, an hour later.  The Nassers left her with a check but little else to help her find justice with the Brookland Sheriff’s Deputy.

Unexpected invitations like this usually don't mean you're interested in getting pissed whilst admiring my good looks and charming accent, Jack Stackhouse said.  But if I’m wrong, we could do up a barbie at my place…

Sorry.  Danni smiled to herself.  The D-U Pub would be easier for me and maybe I’ll catch some dinner there afterward.

You should lay off the Aussie fat food and let me buy you dinner someplace else later.  I can meet you there at seven.

She looked at her watch.  Three-thirty.  Three and a half hours should be plenty of time to finish up.  Seven it is, she said.  And depending on how willing he is to help, maybe we will have dinner. 

Jack had a small practice doing investigations while he took time to decide whether to move back to Australia.  At six three, ruggedly handsome and smart, he was the firm’s best investigator.  He had lost his foot after two tours in Iraq and had rehabbed obsessively until he learned to run.  In pants, no one could tell his foot from the ankle down was prosthetic. 

Despite she was six years older, he flirted with her unabashedly.  His joking manner charmed Danni and made her laugh, but she was in Florida to re-start her life without entanglements.  She’d taken the associates job at the small firm for practical law experience.  Also, she was fond of Lenny Perlman, one of the two partners.  She wanted to forgo the stress of a big city firm, forget the Bureau and get her life back on track.

Almost three hours later in the unisex rest room, she was the last one in the office again.  She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell, after the air conditioner stopped for the night.  She checked her short sandy hair in the mirror, frowned as she always did at the scar on her chin, and applied lip-gloss on what she felt were too-thin lips.  Men said she was eye-catching at five foot seven, but it wasn’t always like that.  She shot up in height at a young age and always stood a little taller than most of the boys until high school.  She spent most of school feeling gawky and too tall.  

She walked past the chrome and light oak receptionist console toward the exit door, when she heard the phone ring.  Since it could be Jack canceling, she picked up the receptionist phone and punched the blinking button. 

Perlman and Rogers, Sobieski speaking. 

Ms. Sobieski, this is Mary Patterson at Columbia County Health Care in Wyocena, Wisconsin.  I’m sorry to have to inform you that your grandmother passed away shortly after three o’clock this afternoon.  There was a hesitation, then, she went peacefully, and there was no pain. 

Oh, no…  I didn’t even know she was sick again.  Have you reached my mother? 

No, we tried and we’ve left messages for her to call, but your name was also on the contact list in the case of emergency.

I’ll try to reach her and have her call you about arrangements.  I think there might have been a small burial fund.  Danni knew grandma was broke and had been an Alzheimer patient at the nursing home for the past six years.  She wondered how much a burial would cost and whether her own savings would cover, if there wasn’t one.

* * *

The Nassers had rented a small two-bedroom house with a garage in a Hispanic section of west Tampa.  Abbas sat on the flowery slipcovers that encompassed their second-hand couch and stared at the white wall, decorated with a photograph of a street scene in Beirut.  He worked for the State of Florida in the Bureau of Epidemiology.  They had initially allowed him a temporary transfer to the Tampa laboratory services office from Tallahassee, but after two years of looking after his parents, he knew it was becoming permanent.  The assignment limited his career and had hampered his ability to continue his education.

Three years before the fire, his older brother Jamil had left home to take a job in Australia, disappointing his parents.  Jamil had been his protector against bullies when they were in school, and had looked after Abbas when his parents worked late.  He had looked up to Jamil but his brother was never that interested in school, only his computer.  Before Jamil left, his parents spent almost their entire savings to send Abbas to the university.  He sometimes wondered if their paying for his schooling had something to do with Jamil leaving. 

The family had just finished afternoon prayers and his father napped in his wheel chair, while his mother worked on dinner in the kitchen.  As the smell of lamb stew filtered into the living room, he remembered how he’d missed her cooking at the University of Florida.  He had earned his masters in microbiology and always tried to fit in by hanging out in campus bars, drinking beer and even trying marijuana.  Dating American college girls proved easier than in Brookland.  They shocked and delighted him with their sexuality, because he’d had no experience in high school.  Even though his family had all become citizens, high school girls’ parents viewed them as foreigners.  Many wouldn’t allow their daughters to go out with him because he wasn’t Christian.  Others, he thought, refused him because of his dark complexion and the birthmark on his face.

As the youngest son and perhaps a bit spoiled, he always pretended to pray but secretly discounted the faith of his parents and older brother, who observed its strict laws.  Today he had felt embarrassed and guilty watching his father’s shame and humiliation in the bathroom, and had over the years, learned new respect for his mother’s strength in helping him.

Allah’s repayment for such an undeserving and wayward son was to allow non-believer rednecks to cripple his father and financially ruin his family.  He had spent their money and lived away, unable to protect them.  Was this a test to see if he would return to the faith?  Abbas prayed silently for wisdom and strength.  He also prayed for revenge, the type he knew the woman lawyer would never be able to obtain.

CHAPTER TWO

She stepped into the reception area of the D-U Pub and stared around the room.  I hope he hasn’t been waiting too long, or I’m bound to hear how I’m always pissed off when he’s late to meetings.

She saw him fidgeting in a back booth wearing a red football Buccaneer’s t-shirt.  His short blonde hair and several days’ growth of facial hair contrasted with his tan.

Sorry I’m late, she said, and slid into the booth.  Forget to shave or business just slow?

Fortunately, they have plenty of VB on tap, but you’re two and a half behind.  And no, I’m just taking a couple of days off to drown some worms. 

She must have looked puzzled because he added, Fishing. 

He raised a hand to attract the server’s attention and flashed two fingers.  She noticed the waitress smile back flirtatiously, before she headed for the service bar. 

I’m running late because I received a phone call as I was leaving.  My grandmother died.  I was trying to reach my mother.

His grin disappeared.  I’m sorry—you shouldn’t have come then.  No worries.  We can do this another time.

It’s okay.  My grandmother hasn’t recognized me for at least five years...  She’s probably better off, but it was kind of a surprise.

Is your mum taking it hard?

I don’t know.  I wasn’t able to get her.  But they never got along that well.  After my mother’s divorce, they pretended a lot, for my sake.

Well mate, if there’s anything I can do, just say it.

Danni nodded.  Actually, I do need your help, she said as the beers arrived.  She took a long swallow.

Jack, didn’t you tell me you once lived somewhere north of Tampa out in the sticks of Pasco County?

Before my mum moved us back to Oz, we lived in Odessa.  It isn’t that rural anymore but it was twenty years ago.  He shifted his good leg under the table and steepled his fingers.  Why?

Well, I’ve never heard of the town but I’ve taken a case for a family who lived in Brookland, out on Highway 54 somewhere.  I thought you might know something about the place and maybe someone who lives there.

I was just a kid back then, so I don’t remember much.  I did drive through that area about a year ago, when I got out of service.  It’s a pretty small town, maybe a thousand people with a trailer park and a few houses along the highway and in the woods.  Haven for rednecks.   I think the whole town is a one stoplight intersection. 

I wonder how big their Sheriff’s office is.

It can’t be much.  Probably just the Sheriff and a deputy, maybe a part-timer.  It’s a town where people find out the hard way that you don’t want to speed on Fifty-four through their section of highway.  The trap they have hidden on the west side pays most of the town salaries.

Three years ago, a Muslim couple had their convenience store and house burned down and the proprietor shot.  He’s a paraplegic now.

Hmm, I guess I never heard about it, but I was across the water then.   Did they catch who did it?

No.  The family claims a deputy was involved.  Maybe even did the shooting. 

That’d be hard to prove.

 The Sheriff wrote the report-copy they gave me.  If the town only had a Sheriff and a deputy, I don’t understand why the County wasn’t more involved in the investigation.

There could be a report up at the County.  It would be unusual for them not to have looked into it.  You want me to check?

She nodded.  I’d like to reopen the whole thing.  If you can find anyone in Brookland who knows anything about the fires, it would be a start.  The family needs money for medical bills, additional treatments, and rehabilitation to make some kind of living.

Danni, that’s a nothing town, nobody there has any money. 

Maybe the town doesn’t have much but if they’re insured, that could be a source.  Especially if we can show corrupt law enforcement was involved in the fires.

I wouldn’t count on it.  But, I used to know an MP in Iraq that was supposed to live somewhere up near there.  I’ll see what I can learn.  How did you happen to find these people?

I think someone at their mosque recommended me.  I took a discrimination case about a year ago.  A woman was fired for wearing a head scarf and we settled for a decent payout.

I’ll bet that didn’t make you too popular in the business community.

She shrugged.

Okay, he said.  They’re entitled to their day in court or to get paid for not having it.  If you’re up to it, how about something to eat?  We can finish talking about it over dinner.

All right, but before we pretend to argue over the check and you charge the firm back later anyway, dinner will really have to be on me.  I’m afraid the budget for this is going to be pretty skimpy.

Ah, so you plan to ply me with food and liquor in exchange for services? 

Whatever works, she said, smiling for the first time.

As they slid out of the booth, she thought making women laugh was part of his charm.

At a little Italian restaurant not far from the D-U, they split a pepperoni pizza and Jack finally agreed to let her pick up the check.  When the waitress walked away with Danni’s credit card, he reached across and touched the scar on her chin with his thumb. 

That scar gives you some character, you know.  How’d you get it?

Momentarily startled, she tilted her face back and frowned.  Oh.  I used to run cross-country in high school.  In a track meet, one of the girls on the other team tripped me on purpose.  I fell and cut my chin and couldn’t get it attended to until I finished the race.  

Pretty competitive, were you?  He seemed to want to tease her into conversation about herself.

Well, that was the first time in high school I ever finished second.  Funny, I never turned the girl in.  I guess I thought if she wanted to win that bad, then hell-with-it, let her.

You do any running in university?

Running paid for a full boat scholarship at UW Madison.  I’d never have been able to afford it otherwise.  It kept me in shape and helped me pass the FBI physical.

After Danni signed the check, she smiled, Jack, thanks for the company but I need to get home now and make some travel plans.

Okay.  I’ll call you as soon as I learn something.

She wasn’t sure but thought underneath his business-like expression there might be disappointment. 

* * *

A few minutes later, she drove her 2004 Ford Taurus into the West Chase community she called home. A suburb west of Tampa, the neighborhood was more upscale than her associate’s salary, evidenced by the BMWs, Porsches and Z sports cars parked on the street.  The development architecture imitated the townhouses of Arlington, Virginia. 

If she decided to stay in Tampa, she planned to buy something closer to the beach and less boring to look at.  She parked her car in front of a four-cluster of two-bedroom units.   

She resolved to put in an extra two miles in the morning to work off the pizza.  After switching on the light, she put her shoulder bag and purse on the rustic oak dining table.  A split second later, her Russian Blue jumped up on the table and began to purr loudly.

Hi, Max.  Did you miss me?  She scratched the sleek gray cat behind an ear, and Max responded by shifting and moving the other ear under her fingers. 

The yellow answering machine light on the kitchen wall next to the microwave blinked at her slowly.  As expected, the call was from her mother who never called her cell phone.

She remembered Jack’s question about why the Nassers had sought her.  Her upbringing would have been a poor predictor that she would take their case.  Her mother and grandmother were both prejudiced against Jews and anyone non-white or non-European.  Danni’s love affair with Jerry Perlman, a brilliant mergers and acquisitions lawyer who happened to be Jewish, caused fights and a flat refusal by her mother to mention it to anyone. 

The year of her engagement, her grandmother succumbed to Alzheimer’s, so the elder Sobieski never even heard of him.  She wondered if trying to help the Nassers was about proving she was not like her mother and grandmother, or if it was just that she missed the Bureau and investigative work.

Danni looked at her watch.  It was about 7:00 PM in Madison.  She punched the speed dial number on her cell phone.

Hello, Mom.  I’m sorry to hear about Grandma.  Are you okay?

Danni could hear her sniffle, but she said she was.  She said she would start the funeral arrangements in the morning, but could Danielle get back to Madison to help?

Danni explained she needed a day to break away from the office and arrange for someone to feed Max, but would try to fly up tomorrow night.  After a brief silence, her mother commented how few people remained alive to attend the wake and how she should get off the phone to begin notifying them. 

The thought struck her: as soon as I agreed to help, she acted as if we stayed on much longer, I might change my mind.  I’ll never understand that woman.

* * *

The phone rang in the Nasser’s living room and Abbas rose from the couch to pick it up. 

The voice on the phone said, Abbas?  I didn’t expect you to be there.

Abbas broke into a smile and waved at his mother, finishing the dishes in the kitchen.  Jamil, is it you?  Are you calling from Sydney?

A surprised Safi heard her oldest son’s name and moved in to listen.

No, I’m in LA.  I landed a few hours ago, Jamil said.  I’ll be flying to Tampa tomorrow.

That’s fantastic.  It’s been a long time.  I’ve been staying here for a while.  Do you want to say hello to mother?  He handed the phone to his mother and said, It’s Jamil, he’s coming to Tampa tomorrow night.

As he listened to his mother’s excited talk with Jamil, he watched his father’s eyes brighten for the first time in weeks.  He wondered what suddenly brought the eldest son, the religious one, back from the other side of the world.  Perhaps, it’s Allah at work, providing us with help.

CHAPTER THREE

Jamil will be good medicine for them.

Abbas and the Nassers waited sixty feet away from the TSA entry checkpoint, shuffling back and forth on the maroon carpet.  Every three minutes, trains arrived and departed on alternate sides of the shuttle loading area.  For every arrival, they strained to view the passengers exiting the train with an endless variety of carry-on bags.  Anxiously, they sought Jamil in each new group of strangers.

Safi was becoming impatient and nervous.  Do you think he could have missed his plane?

No mother, remember Jamil called and rang twice just before he got on the plane.  That was the signal that he was on schedule.  His plane only landed ten minutes ago.

She stood on her toes to look over a passenger who walked in front of them, dragging a suitcase.  But the call could have been a wrong number and someone just hung up, she said.

Abbas noticed his father’s face.  That’s the first lighthearted smile in months.

Woman, be patient.  We haven’t seen him in five years, a few more minutes and he will be here, Jabbar said.

Another train pulled up on the right side of the Airside.  When the doors opened, the second passenger out was dressed in sandals, jeans, a tee shirt with a kangaroo emblem, and a backpack over his shoulder.  At first, Abbas did not recognize the shorthaired man with the full beard and mustache.   Although lighter than Abbas and his mother, his coloration and his father’s nose made it certain he was Middle Eastern. 

There, Abbas said, pointing.  It’s Jamil.

Safi and Abbas waved and watched as Jamil’s dark eyes searched the crowd and turned in recognition.  He raised his arm with a bright smile to wave back.  As he did, three men in business suits appeared from a different set of doors on the train.  Two of them, one black, and one swarthy, olive-skinned, grabbed Jamil’s arms.  Abbas could not hear what they appeared to shout in Jamil’s ears.  The third man, fair skinned with red hair and an ear button, talked rapidly into a microphone clipped to his lapel.  Passengers near the confrontation scattered as the two men in suits pushed Jamil face down to the carpet.  The red-haired one grabbed his backpack.

Abbas ran the sixty feet to where the Jamil lay restrained, not resisting. 

Stop!  He shouted.  What are you doing?  What’s the meaning of this?  He looked over at the TSA guards.  One was talking into his walkie-talkie.  They don’t even seem alarmed.

FBI.  Stand back, this is government business, the one with Jamil’s backpack said, displaying an open wallet.

There must be some mistake.  That’s my brother.  He’s an American citizen.  We are loyal Americans, Abbas said.  A sinking feeling began to knot his stomach, as the man’s words registered meaning. 

If you’re his brother, let’s see some identification, the one with the backpack said.

Abbas stared at the wallet open in the man’s hand.  A Federal Bureau of Investigation identification card displayed a picture and name, John O’Reilly.  He turned to look back at his mother and father.  They looked as if someone struck them.  Safi was crying and Jabbar’s eyes closed, his lips recited prayers.

Abbas took out his wallet and handed O’Reilly his driver’s license. 

A-bas, the agent pronounced it with a long a almost like his Abe nickname from college, Jamil Nasser is wanted for questioning, the agent said matter-of-factly.  O’Reilly stood a head taller which forced Abbas to look up to him,