Borderline (13 page)

I
hit Meadowvale Secondary at lunch break. It's a zoo. Crowds of students lounge around the front steps, stuff their faces on the lawn, and catch a few autumn rays on the bleachers by the track to the right. The smokers cluster on the sidewalk across the street, off school property. I recognize a few of them from my eighth-grade class; if they see me, they don't show it.

Andy and Marty. Where are they? A stream of cars shuttles out of the student parking lot. Damn, I'll bet they've gone to the mall for a burger.

But I'm wrong.

“Sammy!”

I look to my left. Andy's loping toward me. Marty's
right behind him, wiping chocolate off his face. “Buddy, what's up? You okay?”

They hustle me to the Deathmobile. We drive out of the lot, onto the main road, and shoot past the mall and the box stores. The whole time they're blabbing away, and I've never felt so good in my life.

“Why didn't you call?” I demand.

“Why didn't
you
?” they toss back.

It turns out their folks took their cells; they were freaked that Homeland Security might tap all their phones since I was a friend of their kids. Andy's mom was a little drunk: “If we've been bugged,” she said, “I hope the FBI heard your goddamn father moaning for his goddamn whores!” But Andy and Marty didn't give up. They tried me a bunch of times from pay phones. Those must have been the calls I thought were from cranks and deleted.

“We wanted to knock on your door,” Andy says, “but there were all those cameras. Plus with everything else going down, we figured you didn't need us bugging you.”

“Are you kidding? I wanted to see you so bad. I thought you'd bailed.”

“Bailed?” Marty exclaims. “Insult us or what!”

“I told Marty you'd find us when you needed us,”
Andy says. “The last two days, we've been waiting out front, before and after school and at lunch.”

“I've been going through Mall Withdrawal,” Marty moans.

I grin. “So everything's good!”

“Great. It's so fantastic to see you again!”

I tell them about getting expelled, and how I'll probably end up back with them. They whoop so loud I practically go deaf, and I have to scream at Andy to watch out or he'll slam into the van in front of us.

We turn into Fenton Park. Andy pulls under the shade of a maple at the end of the tennis courts. A couple of old guys are batting a ball. Apart from them, we're alone. We get out of the car, stretch, and check the nearby picnic tables for a Bird-Shit-Free Zone. Andy and Marty claim a clean patch of table top. I stand.

“Guess you've heard about Dad's e-mail to the Brotherhood of Martyrs,” I say. Talk about a conversation stopper.

Andy hesitates. “So what happens now?”

“Not much. Except…” I glance over at a squirrel, try to make it look like what I'm about to say is no big deal. “Except you have to get me into Canada.”

Andy shakes his head like he heard wrong. “Say what?”

“The thing is, I have to get into Canada, and I don't have a driver's license, much less a car. Even if I did, I'd get stopped at the border, what with my name and Dad being my Dad and all. So I need to cross where they don't check, which means by water, which means I need you to take me on the Catalina. Cuz I don't have a boat, and even if I did, how would I steer it? I'd plow into an island or something.”

Marty scrunches his nose. “Are you on drugs?”

“No.”

“Well you should be. Heavy-duty prescription.”

Andy fishes in his pocket. “Want some Ritalin?”

“Guys, I'm serious. I need to get into Canada. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“It's the middle of a school week.”

“Since when have you had a problem cutting class? Tell your folks, I don't know,
The National Enquirer
's chasing you for a story. Or a pervert saw you on the news and is stalking you. Whatever. The point is, convince them you need to get away, or you'll say or do something that'll get the whole family in trouble.”

“Whoa!” Andy interrupts. “Why do you need to get into Canada?”

“I have things to do in Toronto. You can take me in
that Chevy you've got mothballed at the cottage. It's just a few hours' drive. You and Marty can see the Jays, the Leafs, go up the CN Tower, take your pick. I'll do my stuff, we'll meet up and come home. Over and done in a day, two tops. It'll be fun. What do you say?”

“I say this isn't funny,” Andy says. “What ‘stuff' do you have to do in Toronto? Why is it so important it can't wait?”

“Don't ask questions, you won't get in trouble.”

“Don't answer questions, you won't get anywhere,” he shoots back.

I bang my fists on the table. “I thought you were my friends.”

“We are,” Andy says. “But you gotta trust us. What's the deal?”

“It's about Dad.” I try to keep my voice steady. “He says he's innocent. I know it looks bad, but what if he is? I have to help him.”

“How?”

“By getting the truth. And that means finding Tariq Hasan.”

“The terrorist?” Marty asks, like maybe I mean some other Tariq, like Tariq the plumber or something.

“Yeah, the terrorist.”

Now they look at me like I've
really
lost it.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Andy asks, his eyebrows rising off his forehead.

“First, I have to get to Toronto. That's why I need you guys. I found Hasan's phone number. I even tried it. I have his address too.”

“So what?” Andy says. “Hasan's split.”

“Yeah,” Marty echoes. “You think he's holed up in his closet or something? Maybe hiding behind his shower curtain? You think he's, like, ‘Hey the FBI's on my tail, not to worry, I'll just paint myself the color of the wall, blend in, yeah that'll do it.'”

“Face it, you won't find Hasan,” Andy says. “Nobody knows where he is. Not the FBI. Not Homeland Security. Nobody.”

“That's not true,” I fire back. “Somebody always knows something. Look at gang crimes. Almost every time there's a shooting, there's witnesses. But nobody snitches. Why? Loyalty? Fear? Lots of reasons. Well, this is like that. Wherever Hasan is, there's got to be somebody feeding him, protecting him. Maybe a girlfriend or a relative. There was a woman on his voice mail—maybe her, or a friend of hers, or a friend of his, or a neighbor, or someone from his mosque.”

“Okay,” Andy says, “but whoever it is isn't talking. So why would they talk to you?”

“Because,” I tap his chest, “I'm the son of Hasan's supposed accomplice—the son of category-four bio-lab director Dr. Arman Sabiri, aka Dr. Death.”

I let that sink in, then press ahead. “According to the e-mail they read in court, Dad had stuff packed and ready for Hasan. The arrests happened before Hasan could leave Toronto to get it. So if I'm Hasan, I want that package. And when my contact brings me word that Dr. Death's son has dropped by my old apartment, I'm gonna wonder if maybe he's got it.”

Andy and Marty stare at me. Only this time, not like I'm crazy.

“It's true, I don't know who's hiding Hasan,” I say. “And it's true I can't hunt him down. But I don't need to. All I have to do is show up. Then Hasan will find
me
.”

Andy goes slack-jawed. “You're going to turn yourself into bait.”

I nod. “People don't talk to cops. But I'm not a cop. I'm a short, skinny brown kid. I can slip in under the radar.”

“Hold up, this isn't a video game,” Marty exclaims. “No offense, Sammy, but you're hardly a hero. You can't even stand up to that Eddy guy at the Academy.”

“Who cares about Eddy? This is my dad we're talking about. You get that, right?”

“What I get is this is way past borderline crazy. It's right off the friggin' map. No way the three of us can do this. You need the FBI, somebody serious, to go with you.”

“No!” I circle the table. “If Hasan suspects he's being set up, my plan's dead. Besides, do you think the FBI would let me get close? The second they'd know where Hasan is, they'd move in. He'd be killed in a shootout, or locked up, with everything he knows classified forever. Either way, Dad's screwed.”

“He's kind of screwed already,” Andy says.

“Andy's right,” Marty piles on. “You're risking a lot for nothing. You're asking us to risk a lot too.”

“I'm not! Hasan has no reason to hurt me; I'm the son of his ‘buddy,' after all. As for you guys, there's no way he'll ever know you exist. The worst that can happen to you is the school will mark you absent.” I lean against the table. “Anyway, I need an answer: Are you with me?”

Andy's foot taps like Thumper. Marty wriggles. They glance at each other, then down at the grass.

I exhale. “So that's how it is?”

Andy shrugs helplessly. “It's too much. It's too fast. Maybe if you asked some other time…”

“There is no other time.” I check my watch. “You two better get back to school. Wouldn't want you late for class.”

I turn on my heel and march to the Deathmobile. Andy and Marty follow. Andy starts the engine, turns on some music. We head out of the lot. Nobody says anything. Andy keeps his eyes on the road. Marty and me look off at whatever. We drive past the box stores.

“Want me to drop you at home?” Andy asks quietly.

I shake my head. “Leave me at the side of the highway.”

“What?”

“I asked for your help. You said no. Fine. I'll make other arrangements.”

“You're going to Toronto on your own?” Marty blinks. “How?”

“None of your business.”

“Of course it's our business,” Andy says. “You're our friend.”

“It sure doesn't feel like it.”

“Sammy—”

“Look, stop the car. Let me off.”

“No way,” Andy speeds up. “Not if you're gonna do something crazy. We need to talk.”

“What for? I've got stuff to do and I'm doing it. You can't stop me.”

“Who said anything about stopping you? It's just—” Andy grips the wheel. “What you want—it's enormous.”

“Who cares? If Dad's innocent and I do nothing—how do I live with that?”

“And if he's guilty?” Marty blurts.

“At least I'll know the truth.”

Andy turns off the music. The silence is unbearable. We drive, none of us knowing what to say or do. Finally Andy blurts out, “You talk about living with something? If you go alone and get hurt, how are Marty and I supposed to live with
that
?”

“That's for you to figure out.”

Marty wipes his hands on his jeans.

Andy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “What you said in the park makes sense,” he says at last. “Hasan has no reason to hurt you. And he doesn't know who we are. Hey, you may not even get to see him anyway. So maybe there's no risk at all. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

Andy pulls over to the side of the road. He rests his head on the steering wheel, then throws it back against the head rest. “Okay. Give us the night to work on our
folks,” he says quietly. “I'll offer Mom to close up the cottage for the winter. I'll tell her it'll take a day or two, and I'll need Marty's help. I'll say it's the perfect time cuz nothing's happening at school what with everyone talking about you-know-what. Once Mom's on board, she'll call Marty's mom and we should be good.”

“You fine with that?” I ask Marty.

He glances out the window. “You calling me a coward?”

It's not exactly an answer, but I let it pass.

“One thing.” Andy looks me straight in the eye. “If we go with you, you let us know wherever you're going. If there's a problem, we need to be close by to get help.”

“Okay.”

“Another thing,” he adds. “If you see Hasan, the second you leave his hideout, we call the cops.”

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely, absolutely,” Marty says. His cheeks are a mass of red blotches.

Andy gives Marty a buddy-punch to the shoulder. “Who knows, Marty? If we find Hasan, maybe there'll be a reward. You can get a lifetime supply of Ben & Jerry's. Just remember to bring a clean pair of underwear in case you have an accident.”

Now all of Marty's face goes red. “Ha ha. So what time do we meet?”

“I'll pick you up at five thirty,” Andy tells him.

“
A.M.
?”

“Whaddaya think, the middle of the afternoon? Of course
A.M.
It's called the ‘Element of Surprise.' We don't want to be followed, so no pissing around. I hit your driveway, you're in the front seat, good to go.”

We synchronize our watches.

Andy turns to me. “Sammy, in case anyone's watching your house, don't use the front door. When you hear my car, slip through your backyard hedge and run across the golf course. We'll be over the fence from the twelfth hole, by the little park on Braddock Crescent, five thirty-five. Got it?”

“Got it.”

W
hen I get home, there's a note on the kitchen table: “I'm upstairs with a migraine. Please do not disturb. Stuffed peppers in the fridge. Love, Mom.”

The phone light's flashing. Two messages. The first is from Mr. McGregor: “I'm sorry to inform you, blah, blah, blah, school fees cannot be refunded.” I press DELETE.

The second is from the pharmacy: “Neda, Deb here. Don't take it bad. You know how people are. I'm sure Frank'll get your shift back once things have settled down. Call me if you need me.”

Frank'll get your shift back
? I play the message again. I heard right. Mom's lost her job.

I throw open the fridge door, really mad, but before
I can get anything, I go dizzy. I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and drop my head between my knees. Mom's unemployed, Dad's in jail. Where's our money going to come from? How'll we pay for Dad's lawyer? Will we have to sell the house? Will we end up on the street?

I press my hands against the back of my head. “It's going to be all right. It's going to be all right.” Oh yeah?

I forget about supper and go to bed. I have to be rested for tomorrow. I have to clear Dad's name. Not just for him, but for Mom and me. Our lives depend on it.

Sometime after midnight, I eventually drift off. I wake up at four, drenched in sweat. For the first time since I can remember, I have this need to pray. I wash my hands, face, and feet in the laundry tub. Lay a blanket on my bedroom floor as a prayer rug. Face Mecca, and begin to bow, kneel, prostrate myself, praying in Arabic for God's blessing.

I've prayed the first chapter of the Qur'an so many times, I've stopped hearing the words. But now, in the predawn dark, they ring clear. Each syllable connects me to a power bigger than myself, a world of others praying the same words. My forehead tingles. I'm not alone. I'm not afraid. I'm going to save Dad, my family, Inshallah.

 

Five thirty. Dead quiet. I've packed a change of underwear, shirt, socks, and a toothbrush in my knapsack. I leave a note for Mom by the coffee maker:

“Hope your migraine's better. I'm with Andy and Marty. Couldn't ask for permission cuz you were asleep. If I'm not back tonight, don't worry, I'll call. Everything's fine. Love, Sami.” I feel a bit guilty about the permission bit. I mean, it's true, but I wouldn't have asked for permission even if she'd been awake.

I hear Andy's car.

I grab my knapsack and split through the backyard. A wriggle and I'm through the hedge, onto the golf course. There's no moon. In my black jeans and hoodie, I'm next to invisible. Even so, I crouch low and skitter like a ferret to the shadows by the rough. I zigzag across fairways, through sand traps, around water obstacles. Head for the elms on the twelfth fairway. Scramble over the fence. Race to the street.

No Andy.

A heartbeat, and the Deathmobile swings onto the crescent. I dive into the back before it stops, and lie flat till we're out of the subdivision.

Andy's pumped, like he's mainlined a quart of espresso. Before we split up yesterday, I gave him Hasan's address.
He got directions from the cottage to Hasan's doorstep, courtesy of Google. He also downloaded a ton of stuff: points of interest along the way, Toronto maps and transit routes, things to see if the mission's a bust, and a list of youth hostels in case we stay over. It's all stuffed in a file folder code-named
Geography: Independent Study Unit: Toronto Field Trip
.

“On top, I've put a map of the downtown for each of you,” he says. “Note the red star at the corner of Yonge and Dundas Streets. There's an open-air plaza there, opposite this big mall, the Eaton Centre. It'll be our rendezvous point if we get separated. Put your copy in a pocket now, before you forget.”

We do as we're told. Mine goes next to the ballpoint pen in the front pocket of my jeans.

“If you spent as much time researching essays, you'd get straight As,” I say.

“Yeah, well, that's not all I've got us,” Andy winks, his voice a tickle of mystery. As we turn onto the State Thruway, he reaches across Marty and pulls a heavy-duty paper bag out of the glove compartment. “Check my little surprise.”

“What is it?”

“Protection,” he grins. “There's one for each of us.”

“No way, Andy!” I freak. “No guns.”

“Don't wet your pants. Cell phones.”

“But our folks returned our cells in case of problems at the cottage,” Marty says.

“Yeah, with instructions not to call Sammy. And don't think they won't check.” Andy drives with his left hand while reaching into the bag with his right. He tosses us each a piece of plastic crap. “These are burn phones from Dollar Value. They come with a little time. No subscriber ID. You use 'em and ditch 'em. Untraceable. Exactly what we need to keep in touch, in case Sammy gets in trouble.”

Way to make me feel good. Not.

 

What with it being midweek, fall, the Alexandria Bay marina's pretty dead. Just a few retirees in jackets and wool caps, hunched over their fishing poles at the end of the pier.

“Think normal,” Andy whispers.

We buy bait from a vending machine, to make it look like we're out to catch fish instead of terrorists. Then we make our way to Pier 4, Well 22.

“There she is,” Andy says. “Good old
Cirrhosis of the River
.”

We stash our stuff, get the life jackets out of the storage bins, loosen the moorings, and cast off. The old man that Andy always waves at is here again, stomping his feet in the sharp morning air. He gives us a nod, blows into his hands. A squint at the sun, and we're skipping into open water.

I feel queasy. Not sure if it's fear or the drive-thru McBreakfast. I call to Andy to slow down. He makes like he can't hear me over the bay breeze. I cling to the side of the Catalina and pretend it's tomorrow, today's already happened, and we're safe.

I'm better by the time we dock at the cottage. Marty commandeers the can for his morning extravaganza. Minutes later he runs out, screaming, “Bats! Bats!” Turns out he disturbed a baby bat hanging off the curtain rod. And this idiot's going to help me track down a terrorist ringleader? What am I thinking?

Andy goes to the kitchen. When they're away, the Js disconnect the Chevy's battery and store it in a cookie box over the fridge. It keeps the battery charged and the car from being a thief magnet. By nine thirty, Andy's got it hooked up. The tires are a little soft, but good enough to get to the gas station up the road.

He opens the trunk and takes a wrench and a tire
iron out of a plastic crate. He whaps each of them against his hand. I hope he's not planning to play hero. All the same, he's the only one of us who can take care of things in a jam.

Andy's pants are a maze of zippers and Velcro; they're the Swiss army knife of khakis. He slips the wrench down a side pocket along his calf, and slides the tire iron under the driver's seat. I pretend not to notice.

We lock up the cottage and double-check the dock to make sure the Catalina's secure. I take a last look at the waterfront. Will I ever see it again?

“Sammy, get your ass in gear,” Andy hollers.

And we're off.