Houston, TX
9:34 AM Wednesday, January 14
Moustafa Ali tugged on the collar of his second button-down shirt. Sweat stains already discolored the light gray fabric. He took a breath and wiped the perspiration on his brow. He had one clean shirt left.
“Moustafa, yalla.”
A heavy voice echoed off the cement walls, making him more nervous. He hurried to the closet and pulled a white button-down shirt out of the small duffel bag he was allowed to bring with him. The same one he wore for his sister’s wedding a year ago. He lifted it to his nose and believed he could still smell the earthy scent of Arabian jasmine from her special day. Longing pierced his heart. He wanted to go home.
Pounding on the wall rattled a mirror, and Moustafa moved quickly to the ironing board and tried to press the wrinkles from his shirt. This is for your future, habibi.
Moustafa’s parents and family had celebrated for an entire week when they received word of his scholarship to the American university in Virginia. Growing up, his papa would tell him stories of the freedoms in America. The riches he could make. And when Moustafa boarded his first plane, scared of everything, he kept only one thing in his mind—he would not let his family down.
He held up his shirt, the stubborn folds still there, but he was out of time. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he ran a hand through his thick black hair. Would his mama and papa be proud of him this day?
The door to his room swung open, and Hashem peeked his head in. “Hal ‘ant jahiz?”
Hashem Mazdani was the first person Moustafa met when he walked out of the huge Texas airport two days ago. On the drive to the three-bedroom home, Hashem explained he had moved to Houston a year ago from Iran. His cousins, who lived in the home too, had arrived a few years earlier and also worked for Protech.
Afraid of what his parents would say, Moustafa decided it was best to wait to tell them about taking time away from his studies until after he had started the computer job. His papa told him dreams come true in America, and Moustafa’s dream was to get a job, make a lot of money, and take care of his family.
Moustafa took a breath. “I think I am ready.”
The traffic in Houston reminded him of home. Except the drivers here stayed in their lanes and there was less honking. Funny how he missed the noisy racket of his homeland.
An hour later, Moustafa got out of the car and slid his white shirt on and buttoned it up to his neck.
“Look at him.” Hashem shook his head, laughing, his cousins joining in. He reached for Moustafa’s collar and straightened it. “You do not have to be nervous.”
Together they walked to a multistory building with very few windows. At the entrance a guard asked for their identifications. All Moustafa had was his passport and student ID card when he flew in, and Hashem had taken his passport to keep it safe. Embarrassment warmed Moustafa’s cheeks when he passed over the student ID card, but the guard barely looked at it before waving them through.
“I will take you to Mr. Sokolov’s office. You will fill out paperwork for”—Hashem rubbed his thumb against his fingers—“your money. Then you will begin work.”
Moustafa swallowed, tugging at his collar. S-ah-k-oh-l-ahv. He rolled the funny sounds in his mind. Hashem helped him practice the hard name so he would not offend his new boss, but he was afraid his nerves would make him forget.
“Do not worry, my friend. This job is easy, and the best part?” He leaned close to Moustafa’s ear to whisper. “They need us.”
The atrium split into several different hallways. Hashem’s cousins walked in one direction, and Hashem led Moustafa down another hall. They stopped halfway down beside a door, and Hashem clapped him on the shoulder.
“I will see you for lunch, then?”
“Yes, sure.”
He watched Hashem disappear down the hallway before opening the door to a room that looked like a waiting area. A woman with dark curls sat at a desk behind a wall.
“Excuse me, I am here for Mr.”—Moustafa took a breath—“Soo-ko-laf.”
The woman gave him a tight smile. “What is your name?”
“Moustafa Ali. I am here for . . . interner . . . internash—” Moustafa fumbled over the word and the woman smiled again, sending a flame of heat up his cheeks.
“The internship.” She picked up the phone. “Have a seat over there and wait.”
Moustafa nodded and sat in the plastic seat. The television overhead was turned to the news, and his pulse pounded at the sight of the familiar Tahrir Square in Cairo where a reporter was talking. The sound was off, but the words at the bottom said, “New US military installation Wadi Basaela opening. President Omar Talaat optimistic.”
He did not know this word, optimistic, but the president smiled, so he guessed it meant happy.
The scene changed from the traffic-heavy city center to a reporter standing in front of a walled fortress that seemed to blend into its desert surroundings. Next to the reporter was a man in a camouflage uniform, an American flag on his shoulder.
He wasn’t sure how to feel about the Americans opening an Army base in Egypt. Should he be happy like the president? He’d asked his parents about it, and they shared his mixed feelings. On one hand, having the Americans there provided stability and jobs. Egypt needed that after the Arab Spring that pushed President Mubarak out of office, but what did having the American Army in Egypt mean? The camera angle changed and Moustafa had his answer.
A crowd of angry demonstrators held signs telling the Americans to get out. Leave Egypt. Some burned the American flag and the Egyptian flag, the faces of the American president and President Talaat drawn like ugly cartoons over them. Moustafa rubbed his hand over his knuckles. Would Egypt ever be at peace?
“Mr. Ali?”
Moustafa stood, turning to face a pale man in a brown suit waiting for him. “Yes, I am Moustafa.”
“It is good to meet you.” Right away Moustafa noticed the man had a thick accent. He held out a hand with a thick gold ring on one of the fingers. “I am Nestor Sokolov.”
Mr. Sokolov led him into an office. “Please sit. Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you.” Moustafa relaxed a bit at the offer. “I am so grateful for the opportunity to work here. I was nervous to take a semester away from school, but my professor said it would be good for my future.”
Mr. Sokolov smiled. “Your professor is a smart teacher. The best way to grow as a man is to learn, and the best way to learn is to do, am I right?”
Moustafa frowned, trying to follow the meaning of his words. “I am only a second-year student. I hope I can do well for your company.”
“You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” Mr. Sokolov began typing at his computer. He paused and sat back, scratching the top of his bald head. “Ah, you are a bright student. You like computers.”
“Yes, sir.” Moustafa sat forward. “My papa said the way of the future is computers, and I hope to one day work for my country’s government or—”
Holding up a hand, Mr. Sokolov hushed Moustafa’s enthusiasm. He reached for a piece of paper and slid it across the desk with a pen. “You will sign this.”
Moustafa lifted the paper to read it, but Mr. Sokolov pressed it down and placed the pen over top.
“Do you know what a nondisclosure agreement is?”
“No, sir.”
“It means you cannot discuss anything you do in this building with anyone. Not even the person working at the desk next to you.”
“But are we not all doing the same job?”
“No.” Mr. Sokolov tapped the paper. “Sign, or you do not work here.”
Moustafa reached for the pen, ignoring the ball of worry in his stomach. He was probably just hungry. This was for his future. He quickly signed his name and slid the paper back to his new boss, who smiled.
“You like coding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Decoding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. Sokolov stood. “We’re going to have you take some tests on the computer.”
“Will I be graded?” Moustafa asked, following him to another room. Against the wall were two long tables with computers on them. They did not look like the ones at the university. “These are X300s.”
“They are.” He pointed to a chair in front of one and Moustafa sat. “There are no grades here, Moustafa, but if you do well, you get paid more.”
Moustafa swiveled in the seat, his fingers pressing gently on the space bar to bring the computer to life. A buzz of electricity hummed as the system warmed up, and he could feel the same coursing through him. He loved computers. Loved being able to read a language many could not, and now he was going to be rewarded for it.
“Excuse me, Mister Sahk-oh-lahv.” He faced his boss. “What if I get the highest score?”
“There are no high scores,” he said, impatience in his tone. “You will do these tests, and then we will assign you a job. The better you do, the better your job.”
“And more money?”
“Yes.” Mr. Sokolov started for the door. “When you are done, I will come get you and take you to your new desk.”
“Yes, sir.” Moustafa couldn’t help smiling. His new desk. Money. More if he did really well. Which he would because he was the best in his class. That’s what his professor told him when he offered him this opportunity.
Moustafa would make him proud. His family too. Even if he could not tell anyone about his new job, he knew, on this day, he was changing his future forever.