A breathy voice came through Paul’s phone. “Mr. Schmidt? I don’t know if you remember me, but I didn’t know who else to call. This is Gennifer Simmons, and we talked before.”
“Yes, yes.” Paul sat at his desk, watching the sun rise higher over the skyscrapers to the east, burning off the fog.
“Gennifer, with a ‘G.’ I’m the teacher at Hiawatha Academy.”
“I remember you. Thanks for all your help.” He was wide awake.
“It’s another student. Well, he came to me, actually, a Somali boy about seventeen. He’s one of my favorites, and I’m worried about him.”
“Tell me.”
“His name is Ibrahim, but he’s taken the American translation of Abraham, and he’s the sweetest boy.”
“What are you concerned about?”
“He caught me on my way to my car so we could have a private talk. He told me he was scared, because some of the other boys had talked him into a meeting at the community center at his mosque. The elders from his clan were there, and so was a younger, Middle Eastern-looking man. He may have been a scientist, because he talked to Abraham about his science courses.” She cleared her throat.
“Did the scientist try to kidnap your student?”
“No.”
“Did he talk about leaving for Somalia?”
“Just the opposite. The man talked to him about doing something great for Allah here in the Twin Cities. He said he should go to the meetings at the mosque.”
Paul’s shoulders stiffened.
“Abraham has been so scared, he won’t go back to the mosque.”
“Parents?”
“Abraham is afraid the elder from the clan will find out, so he said nothing to his parents.”
“Good. Thanks so much. I’d like to meet with you and the boy immediately. Is he there at school?”
“Yes. We could meet. Is he in trouble?”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. And, yes, he could be in big trouble.”
Paul called Conway. On one level, he’d be upset, but after all, the teacher had called Paul. He had to respond. When Conway didn’t answer, Paul left a voicemail.
On his way to Hiawatha Academy, his phone rang.
“All right, what the hell are you doing?” Joan Cortez asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t bullshit me. I called your office, and your secretary said you shot out of there like from a cannon. What’s going on?”
He took a deep breath. How much should he tell her? Since he was already on his way to meet the kid, ICE would never be able to catch up. He told her about Abraham and the scientist who’d recruited him to attend mosque.
“Attend mosque? Paul, that’s what those people do.”
“I know, but I have to check it out.” He hung up.
At the school, he met with Ms. Simmons in the teachers’ privacy room. Simmons hopped around the room like a nervous bird. “We can meet Abraham in the classroom next to mine. It’s empty.”
He followed her to the room, and within a few minutes, Abraham entered. Paul looked at the slender boy with dark skin. He had short, curly black hair and coal-black eyes. Like many Somalis, he had snow white teeth. The boy’s eyes darted from Paul to the teacher. She put her arm around him while she introduced Paul.
“Abraham, I won’t tell anyone what you tell me. Okay?” When the boy bobbed his head, Paul continued, “Your teacher told me that a scientist talked to you at the mosque.”
The boy looked between Paul and Simmons. “Yes. Mr. Ammar meets with us there.”
“When did these meetings happen?”
“In the past six months. One of the elders is a friend of the scientist.”
“Why do you call him a scientist?”
“He told us he was some kind of scientist and that Islam had a history of the best scientists in the world, but that it’s been lost. It’s up to people like me to help regain that spot.”
“Did he want you to do something?”
“Yes. A special mission for the glory of Allah.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say exactly, but it would be an important sacrifice.”
The skin on Paul’s arms tingled. “Did he talk about going back to Somalia?”
“No. He said the most important work was here.”
“And he didn’t say what that was?”
Abraham shook his head. “We were not supposed to tell our parents because the scientist is not Somali and the clans don’t trust too many people outside the clans. He told us to be sure to come to mosque on Fridays and to go to school every day.” Tiny beads of sweat covered the boy’s forehead.
They all stood in silence. Paul wrestled with the facts. They were thin—some scientist had told the boys to go to mosque and school. So what? What did it mean—if anything?
“But I know where he works,” Abraham said.
“Huh?” Paul looked at him.
“I saw the briefcase he always carries with him. It had the initials ‘MA’ on top and the name of the company.”
“You remember the name?”
“Sure. Health Technologies.”
A grin burst across Paul’s face. “Great work. You may become an FBI agent in the future. What’s he look like?”
“Like he’s Middle Eastern. Tall, in good shape. I’d like to go to the mosque, because my friends are there. Can I go? It’s on Friday.”
Paul thought for a moment about using the boy as bait to lure the scientist in, but decided it was too risky. Instead, Paul would follow up with a visit to Health Technologies. Thanking both of them, Paul left and went back to his car. He Googled the company and found their website and address in Arden Hills, a suburb on the north side of the Twin Cities. There might be lots of Middle Eastern techs employed there, but how many with the initials MA?
He called Conway, heard his gruff voice, and left another voicemail. Depending on what Paul found when he arrived at the company, he’d call for backup if necessary.