The Third Brother. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
“Was Mohamed Syrian?”
“Somali. Came to Columbus when he was four. Parents made it out of Mogadishu during the civil war and spent several years in a refugee camp in Kenya before emigrating.”
That sounded about right. Columbus had the second-largest Somali population in the country, after the Twin Cities in Minnesota, thanks to its low cost of living, reams of warehouse jobs, and the snowball effect of one outpost of settled refugees attracting others. They’d clustered in large groups on the north and west sides and were now such a common sight they hardly turned a head any more. With some variations to the tale, it was the same reason Columbus once had half a dozen German-language newspapers. I thought of the woman in the parking lot. I’d learned her name since: Kaltun Hirsi.
“With you so far,” I said.
“First for everything,” Cohen said. “So, the feds are still putting the pieces together, but it sounds like a pretty familiar recruitment story. Hassan dropped out of high school, sold some drugs, ran with a gang for a while. Agler Road Crips, if you’re counting. Guys like him are low-hanging fruit for Terror Inc. A week’s diet of an extremist imam preaching on YouTube and he was in their pocket.”
“Meaning?”
“Classic case of self-radicalization. First he cleaned up his act. One day he’s running the streets, the next day—well, couple of days, figuratively speaking—he finds religion. Then he became superreligious. Changed his look: beard, robe, sandals, the whole nine yards. His parents were elated.”
I took a drink of coffee and nodded.
“That didn’t last long. Before they knew it he was tearing into them because they weren’t Muslim enough. He demanded his mom and his sisters go full-on burka. When the imam at his mosque denounced a terrorist attack in France, Hassan called him an infidel on Facebook. He was asked not to return. He left the country not long after that.”
“To Syria?”
“Turkey first, then he crossed over. He tweeted a picture of himself with his new brigade and a pledge to the caliphate. A week later he was killed in a firefight.”
“It’s awful. But what—”
“What does it have to do with you?”
“Is this about the other day? In the parking lot?”
“I’m getting to that. You can imagine how devastated his family was. It took them by complete surprise. These are basically hardworking immigrants trying to get by while they adapt to a new life. A new country. They had no idea what to do when his switch flipped and he veered fundamentalist. There’s a lot of second-guessing going on.”
“Who else in the family?”
“Older brother who works at a Walmart warehouse, and two sisters. One’s a stay-at-home mom, the other’s a teacher at a charter school for immigrant kids.”
Cohen stopped, reacting to a back spasm. I reached for my cup, took another drink, but said nothing.
“There’s a third brother. A kid named Abdi,” Cohen continued. “Youngest in the family. If Hassan was the troublemaker, he’s the golden boy. Decent grades, hell of a soccer player, starts at Ohio State in the fall. Wants to be a diplomat.”
“Must have been hard for him, his brother going off like that.”
“That’s the impression everyone had.”
“Had?”
“You heard me. That’s the problem. He’s gone. He disappeared three days after the family got the news about Hassan’s death.”
4
COHEN LEANED FORWARD, OPENED A MANILA folder on the edge of the desk, pulled out a picture, and handed it to me. I examined a photo of a rail-thin kid with a smile big enough for three, wearing a Columbus Crew soccer team cap while he gave the camera a hearty thumbs-up.
“Disappeared?” I said.
“Left school one afternoon, never came home. Week before graduation. Parents didn’t think anything at first, figuring he was at a buddy’s or maybe work.”
“Which was where?”
“Bagged groceries at a Kroger. After a few hours his folks started to panic. They called his friends, but nobody knew anything. Eventually they called the police. Next day the FBI’s at their door.”
“Why?”
“To ask questions. Starting with, ‘Tell us where he is before he does it.’”
“Does what?”
“Kill a bunch of people, apparently. He posted something on Facebook to that end after he went missing.”
“What’d it say?”
Cohen pulled a sheet of paper out of the folder. “It rambles a bit. Well, a lot. But the main points are pretty scary.” He scanned the document for a second, then started reading. “‘America, stop interfering with other countries, especially the Muslim Ummah. We are not weak. We cannot be ignored.’”
“Ummah?”
“Community. Like the Muslim world. Then there’s this: ‘I will kill them in their own lands, behead them in their own homes, stab them to death as they walk the streets.’”
“How old’s this kid?”
“Nineteen. And finally this one: ‘I can’t wait for another 9/11, San Bernardino, or Boston bombing!’”
Cohen handed me the paper. He was right, it rambled. But along the way, like poison ivy on a meandering trail, was plenty of ugly stuff. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to read on Facebook. It made me long for some of my relatives’ screeds about their neighbors’ dogs.
“Is this all?”
“A few other posts after that. Next couple of days. Images of the ISIS flag. Videos of suicide bombers, articles on martyrdom, attacks on the American government. The usual stuff.”
“And the family says this is out of character?”
“Completely.”
“But wasn’t it out of character for his brother, too?”
“They say it’s different. Hassan was an angry guy. He just shifted the focus of his anger. Abdi was happy-go-lucky, always in a good mood. And he didn’t go through any of the stages of transformation. That’s the key thing. His usual self one day, gone the next, Facebook posts the day after that.”
“Did he go to Syria?”
“We don’t think so. There’s no evidence he left the country.”
“Has he been charged?”
“Not yet. Right now the feds are just trying to find him.”
“So how are you involved?”
“The family hired me, figuring something’s coming down the line. I’ve represented a couple Somalis over the years for khat possession, so they know who I am.”
“Khat?”
“The weed of East Africa. Nasty stuff, but nothing to go to prison for, in my opinion.”
“So why am I here?”
He sighed. “The family asked me to bring you on.”
“The family? Why?”
He sighed again and shifted his position. “Your little parking lot escapade.”
“What about it?”
“Apparently they think you’re some kind of hero. I tried to persuade them otherwise, but they were adamant. They think you can help.”
“Help