One thing at a time.
I write a note to Hasan’s girlfriend and put it in my pocket. I switch hoodies with Marty; it’s a little baggy, but it makes me look different in case anyone took my picture before. I leave the guys, go to the car, and get our pizza box.
I’m ready.
No, I’m not. I mean, what am I doing? I’m walking to a terrorist’s door with a pizza box! It’s like I’m in a dream. My feet are moving on their own; I can’t stop them. So many times, things look easy, then turn into something else—like that trip to Hermit Island. Or go out of control—like with Mr. Bernstein in the can. Or like now. Am I going to die? Why can’t we know the end of things at the beginning?
I’m at the blue door.
Hasan’s place is Apartment Four, but I can’t let anyone guess that’s where I’m going. I press buzzer five and hope whoever’s there will let me in. I wait.
I want to run, but I’m caught in this wave; it’s dragging me out, I can’t stop it.
I press the buzzer again.
Breathe. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just delivering a pizza. If I clear Dad, that’s good, right? Or if I find Hasan, I can report it—which is also good, right? And Andy and Marty are across the street with cells in case anything goes wrong. I’m fine. I’m safe. There’s no problem.
So if there’s no problem, why are my feet sweating? Shut up. Don’t be a coward.
One last try at Apartment Five. No answer.
I try buzzer one. Nothing.
Buzzer two. Somebody’s gotta be home besides Hasan’s friend.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Somebody, anybody, let me in. I’ve been standing here too long. It’s gotta look weird. Why? It’s a pizza delivery. Whoever’s watching could think the person I’m buzzing is holed up in the can or getting their money.
What’s strange about that? Nothing—except the pizza box is empty. So? Who’s gonna know that?
Apartment Two answers. There’s a bunch of static over the intercom, a TV in the background: “Who is it?”
“Pizza delivery.”
Crackle—“I didn’t order pizza”—crackle.
“It’s for Apartment Five.”
Crackle—“So buzz Apartment Five.” The intercom goes dead.
I try Apartment Two again. Hold it down forever.
Crackle—“I said, try—”
“Their buzzer doesn’t work!”
Pause. A click on the door lock. Apartment Two lets me in.
The stairwell is a dirty mustard color. It smells of fried fish. If Mom was here, she’d be reaching for her hand sanitizer. I make sure not to touch the railing.
Apartment Two is watching a really loud show. They don’t bother to check me out. I go down the hall to Hasan’s place and take the note out of my pocket. It reads:
SABIRI JUNIOR IS LOOKING FOR YOUR FRIEND.
LIBRARY ACROSS THE STREET, TRAVEL SECTION.
DON’T KEEP ME WAITING.
That last bit was Andy’s idea, to make me sound tough. Anyway, there’s nothing in it that could get me in trouble. At least I don’t think so.
I slide the note back and forth under the door before leaving it. Anyone listening in on a wiretap will think someone’s just rubbing their foot back and forth. But whoever’s inside should hear the rustle.
Flash panic. What if Apartment Two is suspicious about why I haven’t knocked at Apartment Five to deliver the pizza? No sweat. I go to Apartment Five. I know that nobody’s there from when I buzzed, so I bang hard. “Pizza!”
I have this whole imaginary speech in my head where I say, How do you do, sir? Thanks for the tip. By the way, your buzzer doesn’t work. But before I can get out a word, the door is thrown open. There’s a big, sweaty guy holding a towel around his waist. Boy is he mad. In the background I see a woman in a bathrobe.
“You the asshole who buzzed?” sweaty guy yells.
“Uh, no.”
I race down the hall, ditch the pizza box in the stairwell, and exit onto the street. Sweaty guy wouldn’t chase me down the street in a towel, would he? I dodge up the next side street and circle back to the library.
“What happened?” Andy says.
“Don’t ask.”
“When you ran out of the building, I saw a curtain move,” Marty volunteers. “Someone was watching you.”
“Hasan’s friend, let’s hope,” I say. “Maybe trying to see what I look like.”
I go to the travel section and have the guys take a few books to a table at the end of the aisle. I stand and look over the shelves, like maybe I’m researching a family trip. Hmmm. Where to, Sami? Amsterdam? Australia? France? Germany? I pull out Lonely Planet’s Egypt.
I’m so busy checking out the pyramids, I almost don’t notice the woman standing next to me. She’s wearing a gray skirt, black sweater, black nylons, and a niqab. Only her eyes are showing; they’re rimmed in liner and mascara. She takes the Fodor’s Mexico, glances at it, and returns it to the shelf. A piece of paper sticks out slightly over the top.
The woman gets two other books and heads to the checkout counter. I wait till she’s gone, then take all five Mexico books back to the table. With my back to the counter, I pull the paper out of the Fodor’s.
It reads:
NORTHEAST CORNER, YONGE AND BLOOR, 5 P.M.
Five o’clock. Two hours from now.
My heart skips. “How do we get there?”
“Easy, dummy,” Andy says. “I put maps in the folder, remember?”
“This is real,” Marty whispers.
“Yeah, but nothing to worry about.” I try to act like I mean it. “Yonge and Bloor, it’s a public street corner. There’ll be people around. You guys can blend in, be on the lookout for trouble.”
“But what if they take you somewhere?” Marty says.
“Follow me, idiot. You’ve got legs, right?”
Marty starts to rock in his seat. “But what if they stuff you into a car or something?”
“I’ll stay in the Chevy,” Andy volunteers. “I’ll park a few yards from the corner. If they drive you anywhere, I’ll follow. I’m good at keeping up in traffic.”
“And I have a cell phone, remember,” I say. “If I get in over my head, I’ll use it.” That almost calms me down. Then I flash on me tied up in the trunk of a car, trying to fumble it out of my pocket. Help. Breathe. Breathe.
“Sammy, if we lose you, we’ll call for help too,” Andy says. “On foot, you won’t be far off. Even if you’re in a vehicle, we’ll have the license number, make, and model, plus we’ll be within a few blocks.”
“Hold on,” I panic. “If I disappear, don’t call right away. I could be totally safe, just not able to phone. Like, if I’m talking with Hasan.”
Marty’s eyes pop. “You’re kidnapped and you want us to do nothing?”
“But I might not be kidnapped. They might just have taken me someplace secure. You get the cops involved, things could get ugly. I could become a hostage. If you leave me alone, I could be fine.”
“Could be,” Andy underlines grimly.
Marty blows between his hands. “We should walk,” he says. “We should walk, we should walk, we should walk.”
No. We’re too close. We’ve come too far. Dad, I won’t let you down. Not this time.
I fake a smile. “Take a pill, Marty. Remember, Hasan has no reason to hurt me. That’s as true today as it was yesterday.” And how true was it yesterday? Hasan’s a terrorist. What if he thinks I could give him away?
Andy whittles his ear with a flurry of fingers. “Okay, Sammy. If we lose contact, we’ll cross our fingers that you’re safe. But you have to promise you’ll meet us by nine o’clock at the latest, at the plaza, Yonge and Dundas. It’s on the map I gave you. The red star. If you’re not there, we go to the cops.”
“Fair enough.”
Andy grabs our hands. “We gotta think positive, guys. Sammy, we have your back. You’ll be fine.”