Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery) (11 page)

“You may think me eccentric,” she continued, “bringing you unverifiable information, but add it up as I did to see why I’m here. Try to put yourself in their position. Terrorists seek inventive ways to attack us, and we’ve avoided a major incident killing thousands of people since that horrible 9/11 incident in 2001. Their lack of success must increase their frustration and resolve. Osama Bin Laden’s death at American hands further outrages them. My clear look at the men, my certainty that danger emanates from them and something awful will happen nearby—all frighten me. Alerting the police is my first step, because you have direct lines to Homeland Security. If you don’t intend to contact them, tell me whom to call and I will. I don’t think we have much more time, maybe only a week, before they commit this terrible act.”

The wrinkled old woman’s sincerity convinced Adam she believed every word she spoke. And what if she was correct? If threat of such danger lurked in Fairfax County, police needed to know. “All right,” he said. “Please give me your contact information so we know how to get in touch with you. May I see your driver’s license?”

“Of course.” As she fumbled in her purse to retrieve the ID, the newspaper in her lap fell to the floor. She placed her license on Adam’s desk, retrieved the newspaper page with the photo and spread it out. A wave of connection again washed over Veronika as she studied the smiling woman’s picture. “Detective, I found this in your waiting room. This woman is about to become involved in the danger. I’m sure of it.” She turned the photo 180 degrees for Adam to see and pointed to the person about whom she spoke. “This woman…” She pointed to one of the three heads in the picture.

Adam’s jaw dropped as he stared at the face in the photo. He read the picture’s caption: “Darla Clark, Jeannie Meyer and Jennifer Shannon plan McLean Newcomer’s luncheon at Great Falls restaurant L’Auberge Chez Francois.” Her finger rested on the photo of his new mother-in-law.

Veronika watched Adam. “Your expression says you know this woman.”

Adam gave a nervous smile and changed the subject. “Who’s acting like a detective now?”

“The caption gives her name. I must talk to this Jennifer Shannon. She may help me better understand the danger confronting us. I can find her in the phone book, but if I approach her without introduction, I may upset her as I did you.”

Adam cleared his throat to buy time as he sorted out this development. “Why don’t I tell her about our meeting and give her your contact information? If she wants to talk to you, she’ll call. You’ll recognize her name when she does.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“No, I thank you for coming to the station. Here’s my business card. Phone me with any more information about this.”

He walked her back down the hall, but before she went through the waiting room door she turned to shake his hand. “Goodbye, Detective.” Sniffing the air as if savoring an aroma, she stared at him, extracted her hand from the farewell gesture and looked at her fingers as if she’d never seen them before. “I…I see information about you. A new wife?  An important career decision soon? A farm with a harmless old house that isn’t harmless at all, not for you. Proceed very carefully right now, young man.”

And then she was gone.

Adam stared as the door closed behind her. When surprise at her personal comments about his life wore off, he frowned. How could she know this about him? He’d dropped by the office this afternoon for a few minutes only to pick up a case file. But as he prepared to go home to help Hannah with the revamping at the farm, reception asked him to take this walk-in.  His interview with Veronika Verontsova was pure accident. No way could she have researched him in advance, never mind personal insights not in any public records.

So how could she know?

The detective shook his head, trying to make sense of it. How should he take what she’d said today? Was she a well-meaning, dignified lunatic? More troubling, was she for real? He reached for the phone, then hesitated. Not understanding this himself, how could he explain it to Steve, a police buddy who’d recently left the McLean station to join Homeland Security? By itself, a single potential clue like this might appear irrelevant; yet alongside other pertinent clues it might fit a meaningful pattern. Nutsy as he feared this would sound, Steve should know.

He dialed his friend’s number.

23

Friday, 1:06 PM

Khadija returned from morning classes, pleased to find Ahmed back also. Her father had gone to his workplace for an hour. “Have you finished lunch?” she asked. He nodded. “Then have you a few minutes to look at the textbook I use for teaching? I brought an extra copy for you to keep if you’d like to read more later.”

“Thank you. I will read the book with pleasure.” Pleasure hardly described the thrill he felt. This gesture proved she thought of him at least once that day, whereas thoughts of her squeezed everything else out of his mind. And now this gift and her request to sit with him. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

“Then let’s go to the living room and I’ll explain it. Here, sit by me so you can see when I turn the pages. ” She eased onto the couch, patting the seat beside her.

Ahmed complied and, as he settled next to her, his nostrils filled with her fragrance. Was this haunting aroma perfume or perhaps a scented soap used to wash her hair? She wore no hijab. He marveled at her long hair swaying smoothly about her shoulders as she talked with animation. He breathed deeply, savoring the wonder of her closeness.

Though they sat apart on the couch without touching, Khadija’s profound nearness to Ahmed overwhelmed him. Conscious of this physical proximity as she talked about her ESL textbook, he   concentrated hard to focus on her words rather than her closeness.

“Besides language and grammar, I teach my students practical skills like applying for a job. I also tell them about life in our country so they know better what to expect.” She traced a slender finger across the title on the workbook’s cover. ‘‘American Ways, An Introduction to American Culture.” Turning to a marked page, she read. “‘Until we are confronted by a different way of doing things, we assume everyone does things the same way we do and thus our own culture—our values, attitudes, behavior—is largely hidden from our view. When we spend time analyzing another culture, however, we begin to see our own more clearly and to understand some of the subtleties that motivate our behavior and our opinions.’” She asked, “Did you understand this?”

“It says my Middle-Eastern culture seems normal to me until compared with another way of life.

“Yes. If you can’t read the whole book, at least try Chapter Two about traditional American values and beliefs.” She turned to the chapter and pointed to a heading. “Individual Freedom. I tell my class this means the right of individuals to control their destiny without interference from a ruling noble class or government or religion or any other organized authority.”

He tried to absorb this. In Middle-Eastern culture, government, religion and education reinforced identical doctrines: submission to Allah, the one-and-only God who held everyone’s destiny in his hands. “Individual freedom” meant a Muslim’s choice to obey Allah or not. If you strayed, Sharia Law clamped hard on transgressions. Holy men interpreted Allah’s rules and “signs.” Good Muslims accepted these interpretations. Subtle variations existed among Shia, Sunni and other Islamic factions, but all agreed upon submission to one God as understood through the words of his prophet, Muhammad. All non-Muslims were Infidels. Therefore, everything Ahmed heard, saw and learned in his life thus far corroborated these as absolute truths. All else was heresy.

“The price paid for this freedom is self-reliance,” she continued. “That means individuals must rely on themselves or risk losing freedom. Americans believe they must stand on their own two feet because their destiny is in their hands.”

Ahmed shifted uncomfortably. During his conscious adult life, compliance earned praise in his country. They valued obedience and stringently discouraged questioning. Physical punishment might follow humiliation in front of classmates for questioning authority. The military camps he attended used similar social and physical deterrents to discourage independent thinking.

Khadija turned a page. “The Third Value is equality of opportunity. That means everyone has an equal chance to succeed in America. Everyone can better himself because there is no fixed condition for his whole life.”

“What does this mean, ‘no fixed condition’?”

“Some cultures stifle upward mobility.” Seeing his confused expression, she amplified. “In some cultures, if the father is a farmer or tailor or baker, his son must be also; then his son’s son and so on. They have little opportunity to rise to something better. So a farmer couldn’t become a teacher or a shopkeeper or a doctor. In America, with determination and hard work you can pursue any profession you wish. You might start poor, but with hard work you might become rich.”

He knew nothing of his own family. What was his father’s occupation? Without photos to reinforce childhood memories, he could hardly remember his parents’ faces. The school where the two men took him didn’t name his original village. From age five, he’d survived at the whim of those housing, feeding and indoctrinating him, learning early to please or suffer consequences. What future might have awaited him at home if his parents had lived?

Khadija’s voice brought him back to reality. “Here’s the Fourth Value I teach: the cost of equal opportunity is competition. So, if everyone has an equal chance to succeed in America, then it’s their duty to try. Competition is part of growing up in America.”

In his madrassa, youths competed to memorize verses from the Quran while learning the 3-R basics. In training camps, they competed with weapons, mastering skills for recognition and advancement. He didn’t know how this applied to business.

“Value Five,” Khadija pointed to the heading on the page, “is material wealth. Americans want to achieve a better life and raise their standard of living for themselves and their children. The quality and quantity of a person’s material possessions are a measure of social status.”

Muslims accepted their condition as God’s will. Changing it challenged Allah’s plan. Ahmed owned no material wealth. He never had. Allah provided for his needs at every juncture. His small exposure to merchants offered little understanding of accumulating tangible wealth.

“We’re almost at the end. Value Six: the cost of material wealth is hard work. Most Americans believe in the value of hard work. They see material possessions as a reward for their work.”

Ahmed had no possessions, but he understood hard work in schools and training camps to earn Allah’s blessings.

“This is the last one, the American Dream. It’s the determination by American parents to provide their children with a better life than their parents were able to provide for them. According to this philosophy, with hard work, courage and determination, anyone can prosper and be successful.”

The melodic sound of her lilting voice entranced him. He didn’t want this interlude to end. Her pleasant smile, graceful movements and unmistakable femininity fascinated him—against his will. But with this thrill of awareness and desire came confusion and anguish. She was the daughter of a colleague who would enter Paradise with him in a matter of days. What was wrong with him?

“Would you say more about this American dream?” he asked in spite of himself.

“All right. In a land of freedom like ours, you can choose your religion, question authority, say what you think and do what you want so long as it isn’t a criminal act. You can marry any adult you can coax to agree. Education is free from kindergarten through high school, and afterward you can work your way through college on a campus or on-line at your computer. You have opportunity to educate yourself, learn skills, choose a job, work hard and achieve a good life for yourself and your family. Individuals are valued over groups. Do you understand this ‘freedom’?”

“Perhaps not.”

Her smile dazzled him. “Don’t worry. Many of my students come from countries with cultures very different from America’s, so your answer is not unusual.”

In the camps, Ahmed had met men from others lands such as Syria, Egypt, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia. One said he was Lebanese-American but he spoke their language and mentioned none of these “values” Khadija described. “From what countries are these students in your class?”

“This semester’s students are from the Congo, Ghana, Mexico, Colombia, Brazil, Korea, Senegal, India, Pakistan, the Dominican Republic—and one is Polish. Do you know of those places?”

“Some.”

She unfolded a small world map tucked in the back of the book to show her students’ countries.

Added to her lyrical voice and undeniable womanly appeal, his host’s daughter displayed knowledge and accomplishments that astounded Ahmed.

“Do you agree with anything the book says?” she asked. Confusion showed on his face.

“In America you don’t need to agree. You might, but only after you decide for yourself.  Freedom lets you make your own choices, but with freedom comes responsibility. To think what he wants,  an American must reason things out for himself, decide what is true by using his mind and his heart to process information. He must think for himself and live with the results of his decisions.”

Like a thunderbolt, Ahmed heard his mother’s parting words: “use your mind and heart.” Now nearly identical words came from Khadija, a girl her father dismissed as “lost to American ways.” How did his mother know such things in a village so far away? His radical sect found such talk disrespectful. How could his mother know about freedom? Why would Americans murder his parents if their ideas sounded so similar to their own?