The Third Brother. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
right. That’s what makes this so difficult to understand.”
“What was Hassan so angry about, if I may ask?”
“Everything. He had a hard time finding a job. He said he was always being picked on for being Muslim. He said America was never held accountable for the things it did to other countries. That American soldiers were killing Muslims.”
“Was that true? That he was picked on?”
“Probably. We all are, to some degree. You get used to it, after a while. It’s just something you expect to happen now and then. The stares and the whispers. Or like those two men and Kaltun, who you helped. People shouting ‘Go home!’ even if you were born here. We try to ignore it, or report it to the police if it feels dangerous. But Hassan was thin-skinned. He had a real problem with it.”
“Hard to blame him.”
“I suppose. But he didn’t lose his job because he was a Muslim. He lost it because he came late every day.” She spoke with bitterness, glancing at her parents.
“Abdi wasn’t like that?”
“No, absolutely not. He loves America. And he loves Columbus.” For just a moment the worry in her face disappeared and she permitted herself a smile. “If people said something cruel to him he’d laugh it off. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he had no reason to disappear. His life was ahead of him. He’d already figured out who his roommate at Ohio State was. They were trading messages.”
Farah stopped and spoke to her parents. They nodded in assent.
“Is it possible he’s just holed up with a friend?”
“No. We’ve checked with everyone we know of.”
“The school?”
“They say everything was normal.”
“Freddy—Mr. Cohen—said the FBI was here. What did they say?”
“They were very rude,” Farah said. Framed by the purple scarf, her pretty face hardened. “They accused Abdi of many things. They refused to believe anything we said. They threatened us, told us we could be held responsible. We could lose our refugee status.”
“It’s a common tactic,” Cohen interjected. “Especially now, with everything going on in Washington. But in my opinion they don’t have anything to go on, other than some completely uncharacteristic Facebook posts and a few tweets and of course the disappearance right after Hassan’s death. On the surface, it’s reasonable they’d ask questions. But there’s nothing concrete. I’ve told them as much.”
“How’d they respond?”
He waved dismissively. “They reminded me they have to bat a thousand percent every time and a terrorist has to succeed only once. They can’t take any chances. Which means a kid who ran away is suddenly a dangerous extremist.”
“He didn’t run away!” Farah said.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Hang on,” I interrupted. I knew it was no use pointing out to Cohen, or Farah, for that matter, that the FBI had a damn good point. That, plus the fact Abdi’s brother had been a bona fide radical didn’t help matters. I had a bigger issue to bring up.
“I wonder if I’m the best person for the job.”
“What do you mean?” Farah said. She was sitting on the edge of the couch, mug of tea in her hands, watching me closely. She had arresting eyes the color of melted caramel that seemed full of wisdom and something more painful, far beyond a woman of her years—which couldn’t be much past midtwenties.
“It’s a complicated case. I don’t speak Somali, obviously.”
“All his friends speak English,” Farah said.
“I’m just not sure where I would start.”
“I thought you said this was arranged?” Farah said, looking at Cohen.
“I warned you. He can be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult. I just—”
Abdi’s father interrupted, saying something in Somali. He spoke for nearly a minute. Farah said something else, then Abdulkadir, then Abdi’s mother. Abdi’s father replied in turn. I sipped my tea while I waited.
Farah said, “There’s the school, here. His teachers. Maybe they know something. Something they might tell you and not us.”
“Isn’t school over for the year?”
“That’s why we need your help,” Farah said, frustrated. “To work those things out.”
“I’m still not sure—”
“You were sure about Kaltun Hirsi. In the parking lot.”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
Good question. Helping the beleaguered woman was part of a pattern in my life of rushing in first and asking questions later. How many times had a coach threatened to bench me for tearing up the plan at the last second and play-calling on my own from the line of scrimmage? The fact that my choice was often the better one was of little consequence in a rule-bound sport bulging with sideline egos. I also hated bullies, since you often despise that which you yourself have been. It had worked out OK in Kaltun’s case. But was I any more a hero than the person who’d called 911 as the pickup truck peeled out of the parking lot?
“I was just trying to help,” I said.
“Like nobody else did,” Farah said.
“I’m not sure that’s true—”
“We think it is.”
I took a sip of tea to buy some time. I thought about the family’s situation. I considered what it had cost Cohen to agree to their request. Saying we had a history was like noting that summer storm clouds are black.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said at last, meeting Farah’s caramel eyes, which were bright with indignation. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Thank you. I understand.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Andy Hayes,” Abdulkadir said, clapping his hands as he stood.
“Yes, thank you, Andy,” Cohen said, rising with difficulty. I moved out of instinct to offer a hand, but withdrew at the sight of his frown. “Thank you so much for everything.”
6
CREDIBLE EVIDENCE INDICATES THAT Hassan Mohamed died May 27 on the outskirts of Aleppo. He appears to have left his home in Columbus, Ohio, two months prior and made his way first to Turkey, then into Syria. Preventing extremist recruiting of youth is a top priority for the U.S. government.
I stared at my computer screen an hour later, sitting at my kitchen table. I clicked here and there for more, but there wasn’t any. That was it. The sum total of the official government reaction to Hassan’s death. Three sentences summarizing a young life consumed by the combustion of modern warfare and ideology masquerading as theology. Of the pain in his parents’ eyes and the passion on his sister’s face as she pleaded for help involving a second potential tragedy in the family, there was nothing.
I moved on to Abdi. Googling his name in combination with Maple Ridge High got me a few hits involving soccer games, including last year’s state semifinals, when he’d scored three goals in an ultimately losing effort that still won him plaudits all around, including from the other team’s coach. I searched for his Facebook page and Twitter account, but they were long gone. Knowing I had no choice, I called the one person I knew who might be able to help find them. Bonnie Deckard picked up on the third ring. I heard yelling and a whistle in the background. I told her what I was looking for.
“If