He’s the concierge. He never mentioned that in our emails.

Before they’d fled into the desert from the training camp in Syria, Omar had located his father and had had Hussein initiate contact. They’d emailed back and forth twice, but beyond Omar knowing that he worked at the Grand Hyatt—because that was the email address Omar had found—he’d never mentioned being a concierge. Which was both good and bad. Good in that it meant that his father had worked his way up from the bottom, and was valued by the hotel management, but bad precisely because he would hold his reputation before anything else.

The stranger stopped in front of him, and Hussein was at a loss for what to do. He tried a smile, which came out as a grimace, and his father said, “Ali.” The stranger stared at Hussein for a moment, overcome by emotion. He said the name over and over again, as if to convince himself it was real. “Ali, Ali, Ali, I never thought I would see you again.”

Then his father embraced him.

Hussein was shocked. He plumbed the depths of his memory, trying to remember anyone showing him true affection. He could not. Even the love he’d experienced with women had all been paid, either in dollars or drugs. He was unsure what to do, his arms in the air looking for a place to go.

His father drew back, holding both of Hussein’s shoulders at arm’s length. Hussein actually saw a tear in his eye. Unable to come up with anything else, Hussein said, “Hello, Father.”

Which caused another round of embracing. The entire episode was confusing to Hussein. He’d expected to cajole or beg, knowing that his father wanted nothing to do with him. After all, if he did, why did he leave so long ago? He had so many questions.

His father said, “Come, come,” leading him to a table in the foyer, away from the front door. “Sit, sit.”

Hussein did so. His father said, “How did you come here? How is your mother?”

“She’s in jail. Drugs. I haven’t seen her almost as long as you.”

The smile faded from his father’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.”

Hussein had a planned speech. A quick way to get what he wanted, the same act he’d used to get through most of his life. A plausible lie wrapped in a pit of treachery. What came out surprised him.

“Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?”

His father glanced out the window, staring but not seeing the street beyond. Reflecting. He said, “I always intended to come back. I never wanted to leave. I was on a visa when I met your mother. She became pregnant, and I began to apply for citizenship. Then she became hooked on drugs.”

His eyes teared up again, and Hussein felt his conviction falter. His mission began to dissolve. His father continued, “I was a taxi driver. I made no money, and she began to burn through it all. I tried to get her out, but failed. Then, the terrorist attack in New York happened. The World Trade Center fell, and everything changed. She was arrested one more time, and my visa was revoked. They said I was involved in her crimes, then accused me of planning attacks against America. They threatened me with jail, and I saw the news about the detention centers in Cuba. They couldn’t prove anything, but I was so scared. They just deported me as a nondesirable. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t fight it.”

He began to cry, and Hussein rubbed his arm, reeling with the truth that obliterated all of his pent-up loathing. “It’s all right, Father. It’s okay.”

His father looked up and said, “I am ashamed that it is you who had to find me, but I’m proud at the same time. You are what I would like to be. You look good.”

Hussein laughed and said, “No, I don’t.”

“That’s true. You don’t, but you look good to me.”

They sat in silence for a moment, his father drinking in the visit and Hussein conflicted about why he’d come. Eventually, his father said, “So, what can I do for you?”

Snapped out of his thoughts, Hussein gave his speech. “I’m only here for a month. I traveled a great distance to see you, and I’ve used up all of my funds. I have a place in east Amman. It’s paid for, but I need work to live. I need a job.”

His father said, “Nonsense. You’ll come live with me. Leave that place behind.”

Which was the complete opposite of what Hussein had expected. He thought about it. Freedom, tantalizingly close. Then he remembered Omar. Remembered that Omar knew where his father worked. Knew everything, including how to punish.

There was no easy way out.

“No, no. I want to make my way. I want to work. I want to establish myself. Let me do this my way. All I ask of you is a job.”

His father leaned back and said, “I wish I could do that. I can give you my home, but I can’t give you a job. You are probably too young to remember, but terrorists blew up this hotel in 2005. I was working, and it was horrible. Since then, they’ve become very, very strict about hires. Background checks and everything else.”

“I’ll do anything. Clean rooms, maintenance, whatever. I’m not looking for a cush job. Just one that lets me survive.” And gives me a key to a door away from the security.

He banished that thought as something to deal with later. When he could analyze where he was.

His father said, “It’s not the position. Everyone gets the same scrutiny.”

“But I’m an American citizen with a well-respected father. Right? Surely that counts.”

His father reflected for a moment, then said, “There’s an opening in the kitchen. It’s a cleaning position. You’ll have to spend your time scrubbing ovens and hauling trash out of the building, but I think I can get through the red tape because of the unique circumstances.”

Hussein said, “I’ll take it.”

His father patted his arm and said, “Let me get the applications. Help you fill them out.”

He left to gather the paperwork, and Hussein wondered again at his father’s love. Wondered if he had it in him to use that love to kill.

23

Rashid al-Jaza’iri said, “Play the tape again.”

The man to his front clicked the digital button on the computer, and the conversation came out anew. A voice discussing a meeting, and another voice agreeing. The second man on the recording was the one that intrigued him.

He said, “That isn’t Adnan.”

“I know. We believe that Adnan was killed in a crusader air strike. Everyone is talking about it. Much like happened to us.”

The man speaking was an emir of Jabhat al-Nusra, and the one who had bankrolled, sheltered, and championed the Khorasan group. He had a direct line to the heart of al Qaida, and wasn’t someone to trifle with. Even so, Rashid—known as the Algerian—understood the respect he commanded. As Rashid was one of the few remaining Khorasan members, and a man who’d served faithfully in both Afghanistan and Syria, Jabhat al-Nusra listened to what he had to say. He’d fought valiantly on all fronts, but that wasn’t what made him special. Like many before him, he’d come from a European state, but unlike them, he brought with him some specific skills.

He’d defected from French intelligence, the highest-ranking man in any country to ever do so. He’d served in the belly of the beast of the DGSE—Directorate General of External Security—learning the dark arts, and then had decided to use those skills in the fight for Allah. He hadn’t been instructed in the ways of tradecraft and treachery at some camp serviced by camels. He’d been trained by the best, in a first-world country, and everyone knew it.

A fact he could now use, even as he was talking to an emir in Jabhat al-Nusra.

“So, this new man is the go-between to get the explosives we developed? He’s the new contact?”

“Apparently so.”

Rashid hit the play button again, just to be sure. When the conversation ended, he said, “What, exactly, is the Islamic State planning?”