May 3
Masjid As’halah Hal’an
972 West 32nd Street
East Orange, New Jersey
12:52 P.M. EDT
Wasif al-Nazari was a cautious man by nature; his life-experiences, particularly those involving his work as a freelance translator and bodyguard for Westerners visiting his former homeland, had only nurtured that quality—though in a quantum of magnitude—by circumstance.
Hence, he took great care in his visits to the various acquaintances whose homes or businesses or mosques he entered, greeted in the formalized wishes for their peace and prosperity, and then sworn to secrecy before displaying the photograph of an Arab man in an Arab sook.
Some acquaintances who might otherwise have been of value, Wasif rejected; trust of fellow Muslims is mandated in the Qu’ran, but a potentially foolish action is seldom a virtue preached in any religion. Wasif sought out only those of whose loyalty he felt certain, or at minimum highly probable.
Nonetheless, he had taken pains to thumb-type the name and affiliated mosque of each man he visited, along with the name and represented mosque of his expected next visit, into his own cellphone. Thus far, immediately following each unsuccessful query, he had added an “x” behind the now crossed-off name.
This, he text-sent to the number Denny had provided, maintaining an ongoing chronicle of his “last known location,” in the depressing event one would later be needed.
Whoever this ‘Todd’ is, Wasif told himself, he will be able to inform Denny that I did indeed try. Perhaps even provide some insight as to who betrayed me.
He harbored little doubt that someone would.
In his world, in his experience, someone always did.
When the inevitable occurred, his only hope was that he would recognize it first, have the skill or the luck or the divine intervention—Al-ḥamdu lillāh, praised be the name of Allah!—to escape the resulting lethal consequence.
Wasif felt the weight at his belt, a usually comforting heft. He had never left home without it or one like it, not in his adult years, neither in his homeland nor in his adopted one, carrying it under coat or shirt as if it were a talisman against his expected fate.
Today it brought little comfort. But it was better than nothing.
Wasif had checked off the fifth name on the list he kept only in his mind, this one a mullah whose eyes belied his advanced age. Like the previous four, the photograph elicited nothing more than a careful examination of the image; that, and the inevitable question about Wasif’s motives.
“I seek only to know if this man has worshiped here,” Wasif had answered. “I wish not his name, which I myself do not know, nor any other information. As a friend, I ask you to accept my assurance in this, and to respect my request for discretion. I ask only that, and your answer.”
He already had received an answer from the previous four—a polite return of the photograph and their regrets that they could not help him—though two of them signaled any regret only through a curt negative shake of their heads.
The old mullah, alone of them all, had added more. He had picked up a pen from his desk, scrawled right to left a flowing phrase—مِن ( حَذار—held it so Wasif could see.
“Beware,” Wasif automatically translated.
He stared at the mullah for a moment, his silence intense.
The old mullah nodded, as if the pair had found some matter of agreement. Wasif watched as the man carefully shredded the page, crumpled it, dropped it in the wastebasket.
“I do not know the man,” the mullah repeated, and with an unblinking stare dismissed his visitor.
Outside, Wasif again texted the unknown “Todd.”
But this time, behind the name of the aged scholar with the finely scripted handwriting, instead of the “x” he thumb-punched a different character: a question mark.
His finger hovered over the “send” button.
Wasif hesitated, reconsidered.
Decided.
A backspace in the message window, followed by a single tap on the touchscreen keyboard.
The question mark now was replaced by an exclamation point, and only then did Wasif dispatch his message.