Chapter 21: Heroism Addict
Clare spit out a bit of coffee. “What?!”
“I said I killed Mo. And I almost killed my son. I let him go along. He wanted to do what his father did.”
“But you weren’t there and you didn’t make him go. And you said you tried to change his thinking.”
“True. But at the end, I just said, go. And take Ali. I knew what he was going to do.”
“How did he react when you told him to go?”
Jennifer looked down. She said in a low voice, “I think he was sorry. I think maybe he wanted me to keep fighting him on this. And I could have. I mean, he’d make his business trips anyway, but what else he did when he traveled, I don’t know. Who he talked to. This time I knew he had a plan. If I kept fighting him on it, then I would be fighting Ali too. All the time. Mo said to me, I want Ali to learn about our heritage and bring it back here. I think he was telling me that Ali would do what he did, but back here instead of in Iran. So.” She drank more coffee. “It wasn’t reported in the papers here. It’s hard to get news from Iran. But I learned from his parents that Mo blew himself up outside a Christian church in Tehran. It was sort of an underground church, meeting in someone’s home. He had — talked to me about doing something like that. And I said, that would be the same as killing my parents, and any of family. That didn’t matter to him, but I think he didn’t want to hurt me to that extent.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Mo took the helmet to Iran with him on that trip and Ali brought it back. Not that it couldn’t have happened even if the helmet didn’t exist, but it does.”
“Maybe it should be melted down for scrap. But no one will see it. I’m not taking it out again,” Clare said. After a minute, she asked, “Does your daughter know about any of this?”
“I didn’t want her to know but Ali told her when he got back. Like he was triumphant. And he was saying he was the head of the family now. That’s why I sent her away. She was terrified. I know he is devastated by his father’s death, but he thinks Mo did a wonderful thing, that he’s a hero, he’s in heaven now, so his normal feelings are sort of covered up by all the other stuff.”
“You said you intentionally sent him along on this trip,” Clare said brutally.
“I did. The only normal person in our family is Adeleh. She is good. As for me, I don’t know how long you can go on telling someone not to kill innocent people without giving up and getting just as crazy as he is. So I more or less told him to go on that trip. We didn’t have the same definition of innocent people.”
They drank their coffee and ate their pie. From the Rendezvous, Clench saw Clare rest her head in her hands and wondered what they could be talking about.
“Why are you telling all this to me?” Clare asked.
“I told you I don’t have anyone to talk to, and I trust you.”
Clare went to the point. “Yes, but if you think Ali is dangerous, why not tell the police, or FBI? Maybe they should know how Mo died. Maybe they should keep an eye on Ali. And his friends at the mosque.”
“How could they stop him from doing anything, unless they just lock him up indefinitely?”
“That might be the best thing. I mean, I have family and friends in Akron too, and I don’t want anything to happen to them. I don’t suppose you’re sending him back to Iran for another visit?”
“Of course not. Maybe as long as he doesn’t have the helmet, he won’t try to do anything.”
There’s no “of course” about it, Clare thought. She’d always thought the wives and girlfriends of murderers who “loved” them were complicit; they loved the evil too. But Jennifer Ebrahim first loved a handsome, charming, intelligent, exotic, passionate man who fulfilled her romantic dream of the tall dark hero. She just didn’t know him. And he changed over the years, or perhaps unmasked, even to himself. His dreams of heroism were not the same as hers. Now even her love for her own son was corrupted.
“I wouldn’t count on Ali not trying anything,” Clare said. “And you have your daughter to consider too.”
“I do consider her. Are you saying I should tell the police? Are you going to talk to them? You said I could trust you.”
“Are you saying I should put myself in danger? You can trust me with anything private. But whatever affects the public, and that’s anybody outside of you and me, and in fact includes me, is a different matter.”
The woman had no answer.
“But after all, you haven’t told me anything specific,” Clare admitted. “I mean like, he plans to bomb the bank at 3:00 a.m. on the first Sunday of next month, or something like that. He doesn’t, does he?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Of course the police here know what he’s done in our little town, and in Akron too, now. If you talk to him when you get home, you could let him know that I’m putting the helmet in a bank vault in another town, not anyplace nearby. You don’t have to tell him you came here, just tell him I called you. For that matter, I could call him and tell him. Or maybe I’ll just text him. I don’t really fancy talking to him.”
They both sipped their now cold coffee, and the waitress came over and refilled their cups.
“I guess we didn’t resolve anything. But at least you got to get that off your chest. The part about you killing Mo — you’re not responsible. I mean, there’s no way to know exactly … and I won’t discuss your feelings about that with anyone else. The only real question is whether Ali is likely to commit mayhem. And you don’t seem to know. I didn’t like the way he handled you at Starbucks, though. Has anything like that happened before?”
“No, but I never took off the hijab in public before, since I was married.”
“Are you going to put it back on?”
“No. I haven’t worn it since that day, and Ali seems to have accepted the change. I mean, he seems to hate me, but he’s not trying to … do anything.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Jennifer Ebrahim’s story, or confession, was over, and she took her leave before the sun went down.
“I want to get back on the highway while it’s still easy for me to find it,” she said. “Once I get on I-77 I know my way.”
“Well, be safe. And feel free to call me or visit any time. Really. I’ll — I’ll be thinking about you.”
Clare patted her somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder as she got in her car and drove off, at which point Clench popped out of the Rendezvous and waved Clare over.
“You want to tell me about it? The café is closing. You want to sit in here and have a beer or something else?”
“Oh, all right. I’ve had enough coffee.”
She went in with him. The Rendezvous wasn’t that bad, just a little dingy. There were few people in it at that time midweek. It had not undergone the refurbishing that the café and some of the other establishments in Greenline had following the increase in all business in town that came with the phenomenal success of The Rag and Bone Shop. However, the proprietor was giving some thought to freshening things up a little as even his business had increased enough to pay for it. In the past, he had every year the place painted because every year the walls and ceiling turned brown from cigarette smoke. Now that smoking in public places was forbidden by Ohio law, he’d stopped doing that, but the grime had sunk into the surfaces. He was thinking of building a patio out back in the alley where smoking would be allowed.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
Clench ordered it for her and a beer for himself.
“So why did Mrs. Ebrahim drive all the way down here to have dinner with you, then turn right around and go home? At least I assume she went home.”
“Yeah, she did. Well, she wanted to unload about her family troubles. Her feelings and so on. She doesn’t have any friends or family she can talk to, other than her children, and that’s not working. But I did find out how Mohammed Ebrahim died.”
“Oh yeah?”
r /> “It wasn’t in the news here, but he went back to Iran on a business trip, and died in a suicide bombing.”
“So it was an accident?”
“No, he did it. He blew up a Christian church in Tehran. His son was with him in Iran, but wasn’t in the bombing, anyway he’s not dead. He came home, and apparently wants to follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“Hm. I could make some cracks here about the whereabouts and condition of his father’s feet, but I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
“So she was telling you there’s a terrorist conspiracy afoot? Sorry.”
“No. She didn’t have anything specific to say. She’s just worried. The helmet has some sort of history. The family tradition is that every generation that possesses the helmet should be part of the holy war, and kill an infidel. At least one. So Mohammed Ebrahim did his part. Now Ali wants the helmet back. Whether or not he thinks he has to have it to do the deed, I don’t know. But I told her I’m putting it in another bank, far away, and to tell Ali that. No one will know where it is.”
“Are you really going to do that?”
“Yes, I am. I’ll go to Cincinnati or Pittsburgh or someplace. Maybe further, maybe to another state. Tomorrow. Anyway, it’s hard to say what Ali will do. The whole family seems unstable to me. Jennifer Ebrahim seems to think her daughter is the only sane one, but she’s not there now.”
“And she is sane because …?”
“I guess she doesn’t want to blow anyone up. She just an ordinary American girl. You know in college we’d b.s. about all kinds of things and always ended up saying something like, well, everybody thinks they’re right from their point of view, who are we to say our thinking or our culture is any better, etc. etc. But before we sort all that out, we need not to be blown up.”
“I’m with you there.”