Chapter Three
Even though it was one of the biggest pleasures of his life, Paul Schmidt was afraid to tell anyone about it. In his two-bedroom house in St. Louis Park, a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis, he kept everything locked in the basement. In this densely urban setting, people didn’t do his kind of hobby. People owned guns, but few treasured or collected weapons the way he did. Besides, it took his mind off the bigger problem he had—how to solve the mystery behind the young Somali boy’s death. Why was he really killed?
Paul had grown up on the outskirts of St. Cloud, a town itself on the edge of a pine curtain in northern Minnesota. He missed the woods but realized there wasn’t much work for people with his skills in St. Cloud. It had been settled by Germans, who had taken it from the indigenous Indian chief and left only the name of the city. Paul was one hundred percent German and proud of it. The order, competence, and duty to country that he’d learned from his family had helped Paul become successful.
Tonight, he walked through the living room, where he’d hung the heads of the big game he’d hunted. They’d become like friends, and occa-sionally he even talked to them. Paul stepped down the narrow wooden stairs to his basement in anticipation. A faintly musty smell met him. Paul flicked on the overhead lights.
He’d built a crude but serviceable workbench seven feet long across the wall in the largest room. He organized his tools in specific order. Some were hung on a pegboard mounted behind the low bench, and others were stored in the drawers of the file cabinets. Paul had found the cabinets at thrift shops and was proud to have never paid more than four dollars for one.
Tonight, he’d simply clean some rifles, not that they really needed it since he kept them spotless. The sweet, familiar smell of cleaning fluid and the gun oil comforted him. His passion was restoring older weapons.
Usually, they came to him covered in rust, thick oil, or even mud—hiding the beautiful craftsmanship underneath. He loved the process of cleaning and exposing the original features. Many weapons had mysteries about them that Paul discovered when he scraped away the outer layers of age and abuse. His friends would think his fixation was weird.
After high school, when the Army recruiter in St. Cloud had talked to his best friend, the midfielder on the high school soccer team, Paul became interested, too. He qualified for the Rangers and took to the training with enthusiasm. He loved the order, the mission, the clear rules, and the self-reliance he learned.
After his successful discharge from the Rangers, Paul knew he wanted to continue serving the country in some way. He returned to Minnesota, finished college, and then went to law school. With the help of his parents’ friends, the local congressperson persuaded the FBI to hire him. Things had gone well in his career until the disaster in Milwaukee that almost cost him his job. Now, the recent killing of the Somali boy offered Paul a way to save his career, maybe even turn it around.
His biggest challenge would be the politics in the Bureau. Despite the passage of years since the problem in Milwaukee, the memory of his screw-up still caused Paul’s shoulders to tighten. He felt immense guilt and, at the same time, furious anger at the FBI. It had been his fault, of course, but they’d hung everything on him as the sacrificial lamb with no more concern for him than someone might have in shaking out a wet rag before tossing it in a dryer.
After his demotion, he was the one who’d taken the call three years ago from a teacher at Hiawatha Academy in Minneapolis, overlooking the Mississippi River. He remembered her breathy voice.
“This is Gennifer Simmons. That’s Gennifer with a ‘G,’ and I’m worried about something.”
Demoted to answering the phone on the public tip line, Paul said, “What’s the problem?”
“Our school has a big Somali population, and there’s this boy—well, I should say he’s a man, ’cause he seems much older than the other kids, and—”
“What about him?”
She paused. “I . . . I don’t know if I should do this, because a teacher’s first duty is to her students, but, well . . . I’m really worried.” She gulped a deep breath. “We call him the ‘Pied Piper’ since he’s always getting the younger boys to follow him. And he lectures them, talks about infidels.”
“Yeah?” Paul tried to be patient.
“Well, the lecturing to the boys wasn’t too bad, but then, one day he came to me with a map of the state and asked a lot of questions about how to get from Canada into Minnesota, and that’s when I really got worried, ’cause it made me feel creepy. But I’m not sure I should be telling you—”
Paul’s feet clumped to the floor as his brain raced. He turned his laptop around and started to key. “We’re definitely interested. Who is this person, and where can I talk to him?” Was he being an alarmist? No—after 9/11 Paul knew to react to everything that even smelled funny.
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t think you can find him.”
“This could be a matter of national security. Don’t you understand that?” he shouted.
“But—he’s gone.”
“Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know. He and three other young boys just disappeared.”
The FBI response was instantaneous. Over a few months, many other Somali young men disappeared from their homes and schools. No one—friends, family, religious leaders—knew where they had gone or why. Then a few showed up, fighting in Somalia, and the FBI officially opened the investigation.
But now, Paul didn’t think the Bureau was going far enough in their efforts to solve this latest, unexpected return of a boy, and it scared the hell out of him.
In his basement, Paul walked to the stand-up steel locker in the corner. He felt the damp coolness. He withdrew several of the weapons from the locker, both handguns and rifles. Paul laid some of his handguns on the table.
There was the cute little Glock 29, the subcompact with the powerful 10mm upgrade from the Glock 26. He held the grip in two fingers, as it was designed, and set it down. So light, it almost felt like a toy. Next to it, he put his larger Glock 21 that boasted a heavy .45 caliber shell. He marveled at the fact the Austrian Glock was made of high-strength nylon polymer, much more resilient than carbon steel.
His cell phone played a Prince song.
Usually, his friends texted him, so it was odd to get a call—no one actually talked anymore. Paul wiped his hands on a paper towel and walked over to answer it. He didn’t recognize the number but clicked on Receive and said hello.
“Paul, sorry to bother you, but I’ve got some questions—maybe you could help me,” Zehra Henning said.
His breath caught in his throat at the sound of her voice. He’d met her in law school, dated her for a short time, and then they’d drifted apart. He still remembered how attractive she was: flawless skin and almond-shaped eyes. “That’s okay. What’s the problem?”
He had initiated contact with her a few days earlier. She’d been surprised, but Paul insisted he’d called as a friend to see if he could help her with the El-Amin case in any way. She probably saw through that, but agreed. He told her of the difficulty the police and FBI had had in figuring out what had happened to the missing young men.
It had been a lucky break for law enforcement when a witness had come forward about the victim, Mohamoud Ahmed, and identified the suspect. The distrust of authorities in the Somali community made any investigation difficult. Their loyalty to their clans trumped all other duties.
Early on in the investigation, Paul had told his boss that he knew the suspect’s defense lawyer from law school. He volunteered to make contact with her to see what she might be able to tell him—without violating the duties of confidentiality to her client. It might give the FBI an advantage. Zehra had agreed to talk with him.
Now Zehra continued on the phone, “I just met with my new client today, Ibrahim El-Amin. Since you’ve worked on the murder case, I wondered if I could talk with you. I mean, you said to call.”
He sat down in the strai
ght-backed chair at his bench. “Sure. What’s he like?”
“I have to admit, for the first time I’m scared of a client.”
“What happened?”
“Other than his trying to hit me with a chair, nothing,” she sighed. “He stands for everything I hate, mostly intolerance. These kind of guys treat women like they’re goats. Quoting me the Qur’an. It’s pure crap.”
“Can’t help you with that.” Paul chuckled, remembering how tough she was. If Zehra was this shaken up, the client must be bad news. “You know how badly we want to take this guy out.” She didn’t respond, and he knew why. She was walking a tightrope between her duty to defend the scumbag and her willingness to talk with him—law enforcement. She’d have to be careful, but so would he. Paul couldn’t tell her everything right now. Although he liked making contact with her again, the successful prosecution of the case was the more important thing for him. It involved connections much larger than simply her case or that she could imagine. “What else?” he asked.
“Since I only watch gardening shows on TV and avoid the news, can you tell me any background about these cases of the missing boys?”
“The young Somali men disappeared from the city, and it remained a local police case until a few developments this year.” Paul paused, careful how much to reveal. “One of the boys, Shirwa Ahmed, blew himself up in Somalia to become the first American suicide bomber. Recently, Burhan Hassan was found shot dead in Mogadishu.”
“What ages?”
“Seventeen to twenties.”
Zehra sighed. “Why in the hell would they want to go back? I thought most people wanted to get out.”
“The Somali community has many ideas—”
“But Paul, what do you think?”
“The FBI’s theory is they were recruited to fight in a group called El Shabaab militia. They’re ‘freedom fighters.’ It’s a militant Islamic troop aligned with al-Qaeda.” Paul paused. “You can imagine that rang a few bells at the FBI in Washington.”
“So, how does my victim fit into all this?”
“The FBI had actually captured a few of the boys when they returned to Minneapolis. We even got some convictions for aiding a foreign terrorist group. The top brass thought it was all wrapped up—until this last kid came back and got killed. The shit hit the fan, and now we’re working overtime to contain the problem and solve the case.”
“You mean convict El-Amin? That’s the job of the county prosecutor.”
“Uh, there’s a lot more behind the killing than I can talk about right now.”
“Stop the bullshit, Paul. We’re talking here. I want to find out why he was murdered.”
“You sound like a defense lawyer,” he chuckled. “What’s the motive, right? The simple answer could be that he didn’t cooperate with the recruiters, so your client killed him. End of case.”
Zehra didn’t answer.
“Come on. You’re too savvy to believe the bronco you’re representing is innocent.”
“I didn’t say he was innocent. I just don’t know at this point, and unless I can get out of the case, I have a duty to zealously defend him. After all, the ID isn’t great, the line-up is tainted—”
Paul liked the lush resonance in her voice when it dipped into lower registers. Their affair had been pretty hot. They’d come close to having sex, but at the last minute, Zehra backed off, saying she wasn’t ready. “Good luck with your defense—but I hope you don’t win, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course. I wonder if this Shabaab organization is strong enough here in the Twin Cities to have enforcers.”
“They sure as hell do, and it’s guys like your client who scare me. What if they start directing those kids to attack some target here instead of in Somalia? Go on some jihad?”
“Scary thought.”
“Zehra, I know you have an ethical duty of confidentiality, but that doesn’t apply if you learn of some potential criminal activity—”
“How stupid do you think I am? Just because I’ve been appointed to represent him doesn’t mean I like him!” she snapped.
“Sorry,” Paul said. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just be careful. That’s all I can say now.”
“I’ve got a lot of watering to do in my garden. When I bought this place, I looked for the biggest balcony I could find. I’ve got about a dozen pots out there with lettuce, flowers, French strawberries, and a few unidentifiable things. It’s so crowded I can hardly get in to water, but I’d die without my garden.”
Paul sensed they were done. “I want you to be careful with this case.”
“What do you mean? The guy’s in custody, and the deputies all love me.”
After Paul clicked off, he went back to work. He lifted his most expensive prize onto the table, the Browning BAR rifle with the telescopic sights. He’d splurged to buy the most luxurious one, the Safari model, which had the engraved steel receiver and upgraded walnut stock. He ran his fingers down the slightly oily barrel to feel the smooth precision of the engineering.
He thought of Zehra. Sure, he could probably work the relationship to his, and the Bureau’s, advantage. It could help him solve the mystery behind the boy’s death—something that threatened to balloon into dangerous proportions. Now he realized how difficult it would be to accomplish—and how worried he was for Zehra.
Chapter Four