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“Not to help identify someone who was killed?” I said it as gently as I could. “So his family won’t have to keep wondering what happened to him? Never knowing, always wondering?”
“Yes, sir. I started thinking about my parents, and how upset they’d be if I disappeared. And what it would be like for them, if they never knew . . . that I . . .”
“Who do you think it might be, Hassim? And how do I find his parents?”
“His name is Shafiq. Shafiq Mustafah. His parents are in Egypt. Cairo, I think. He was here on a student visa, studying at UT. Engineering or computer science—I’m not sure which. But he had a problem with his passport.”
“What kind of problem, Hassim?”
“His parents were dissidents—they were part of the pro-democracy protests a few years ago, in the Arab Spring—and when the military took control, they got arrested, and Shafiq’s passport got canceled.”
I thought—or hoped—I was following him. “You’re saying his passport got revoked, or canceled, by the Egyptian government? Because his parents were pro-democracy dissidents?”
“Yes, sir. At least, that’s what I think happened.”
“But didn’t that mean he had to go back to Egypt?”
“That’s the thing. He was supposed to go, but he didn’t want to go. His parents were already in prison, and he was afraid he’d be arrested, too. He wanted to apply for political asylum here, but he had a hard time finding anyone to help him, and he was afraid he was about to be deported. I thought maybe he had been deported. And maybe he was. Maybe he’s not the one who was killed.”
“But maybe he went into hiding? So he wouldn’t be sent back to Egypt?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He sounded miserable.
“Hassim, this is very helpful,” I said. “I appreciate it, and I won’t tell anyone you called.”
“Thank you. I . . . I hope it’s not him. But if it is, I appreciate what you’re doing.”
After I hung up, I thought—fretted—about what to do if case number 16–17 turned out to be UT student Shafiq Mustafah. How would I even go about contacting his parents, somewhere in an Egyptian prison? How would they be able to bear it, these parents who had entrusted their son to America—the nation that held itself up as the world’s shining beacon of democratic enlightenment and decency—when they learned that his fate had turned out to be far worse than theirs?
Most of the time I loved my job, but as I contemplated the conversations that might lie ahead, I hated this piece of it. Can’t be helped, I thought. Won’t be easy, but has to be done.
Opening my desk drawer, I took out the UT Directory and flipped to the listing for the Center for International Education, the office that dealt with foreign students and the mountains of paperwork they brought and generated during their studies here. My eye was caught by a familiar name: Deborah Dwyer, the center’s assistant director, had been Kathleen’s secretary many years before. Kathleen had always praised the young woman’s abilities, predicting that she would go on to bigger and better things than secretarial work. It pleased me to see that Kathleen had been right.
I dialed Debbie’s extension, and she answered on the second ring. “International Education, Deborah Dwyer.”
“Hello, Deborah Dwyer. It’s Bill Brockton, in Anthropology. How in the world are you?”
“I’m doing well, Dr. Brockton. How are you? It’s good to hear your voice.”
“I’m hanging in,” I said, then—to my own surprise—added, “I still miss her, Debbie. After all these years, I do.”
There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded thick. “I know. So do I. She was such a fine woman. Very special.”
“She was. Thank you. She always spoke so highly of you. I know she’d be proud of how you’re doing.” I cleared my throat. “But listen, I didn’t call to make you and me cry. I called to ask a favor.”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering what sort of information you have on a student from Egypt—a young man named Shafiq Mustafah.”
She didn’t answer right away, so I went on, “He’s studying engineering or computer science or some other STEM field. Or was, I think. Maybe not now.”
“Is this the name of someone who’s taking a class from you?” Her voice had gone guarded. A bad sign, I thought.
“No, it’s not.”
“Do you have a records release? Signed by the student?”
“No, why—do I need one?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But he’s a student at a public university. I’m a faculty member. Why can’t I see the file of any student I need to?”
“Same reason students can’t see your file. It’s personal information, subject to strict privacy protections. Takes a court order, a request from the Department of Homeland Security. Unless you can get a release from—what did you say his name is?”
“Shafiq. I can’t get a release from Shafiq, Debbie, because Shafiq is dead.” I heard a soft gasp, but I barged ahead. “That’s what I’m afraid of, anyhow. I’ve got the skeletal remains of a twenty-year-old Middle Eastern male here, and I’m trying to identify him, but I’m having a hell of a time. I’ve just learned that Shafiq Mustafah went missing about six months ago. At this moment, he’s my only lead. But so far all I have is a name.”
“God in heaven,” she said, then I heard her draw a deep breath. “Dr. Brockton, I don’t think we should be talking about this on the phone. Can you come see me?”
“If you can’t give me any information, I don’t see any point,” I said. It came out sounding more sulky than I intended. Or maybe it came out exactly as sulky as I intended.
“The privacy protections are very clear,” she said. “All the same, I wish you’d come see me. Please?”
“Well, since you put it that way. When should I come?”
“Are you free now?”
“Well . . .” I checked my calendar. “I’ve got a meeting with the provost in an hour, but if you think we can be done in time for me to make that?”
“Come on over,” she said. “It’ll be good to see you.”
THE CENTER FOR INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION WAS housed in an aging building on Melrose Avenue, just in back of Hodges Library. The building’s old bones were attractive enough; it was a typical academic building from the 1940s or 1950s, a four-story brick edifice whose doors and windows were trimmed in stone. But any scrap of elegance or dignity it had once possessed was shredded by the air-conditioning units jutting from windows on every floor. The air conditioners gave the building a sort of third world look, which was sad yet somehow appropriate, I supposed. The sign at the entrance read INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION in large letters, and, in smaller letters below, INTERNATIONAL STUDENT AND SCHOLAR SERVICES. Beside the latter label, someone had spray-painted the letters “ISIS.”
Debbie Dwyer’s office was on the second floor; her window—one of the few that was unobstructed by an air conditioner—looked out on a courtyard where maple trees blazed red and orange. When I knocked and entered, she stood and walked around the desk to hug me. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You have,” I said. “You look a lot more . . . important now.” She was wearing a power suit—fitted gray skirt and gray jacket, softened by a white silk blouse—but something else was different, too, although I couldn’t quite tell what it was.
