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“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“He always sends me mail on special occasions,” Vera said. “He loves his aunt Verochka.”
“And you had no idea he was here in the US?”
“None at all.”
“Do you have any photographs of your nephew?”
Vera stood up quickly and went to a series of framed photographs sitting on a bookshelf. She walked back with a particularly large one that showed a group of more than twenty-five people.
Vera pointed to a young man, no more than fourteen or fifteen, in the corner of the photo. “That is Temir. This was at a family gathering in Moscow about fifteen years ago. His father had died and we thought it was important for him to have male role models. Konstantin’s brothers all spent time with him.”
“Do you have any idea when he might’ve become radicalized and interested in attacking the US?”
Konstantin said, “I’m not sure I understand. Radicalized in what way?”
“Had his belief in Islam twisted to where he felt he needed to participate in a jihad?”
Konstantin said, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t understand any of that. We’re not Muslim. We are Russian Orthodox. The whole family is Russian Orthodox. We are all, to my knowledge, devout and law abiding. Are you sure you have the right suspect?”
Suddenly I had some doubts. They had identified their nephew through the photograph I had. The ATF had taken the fingerprint from the truck used in the bombing. I had fought the man in the photograph hand-to-hand. He was the right suspect, but did we have the correct motive?
I’d have a lot of explaining to do when I got back to Manhattan.
Chapter 22
AFTER I’D INTERVIEWED Temir Marat’s family in New Jersey, I took my time driving back to the Federal Building. I lingered in the lobby and called home to make sure everything was all right. Then, God help me, I sneaked back into the task force office. I felt sheepish, like a dog who had peed on the carpet.
Now I had to figure out how to explain my trip to New Jersey and all the interesting information I’d found out.
Darya was working on some notes at a table on the side. When I sat down next to her, I noticed the report was written in Cyrillic.
Darya glanced up and said, “When I’m in Moscow, I write in English. It’s quite convenient. Like my own secret code. Because no one tries to learn anyone else’s languages anymore.”
I said, “Thanks, grandma, for the lecture. Besides, you’ve been with me during most of the investigation. There’s nothing you could write that I haven’t already heard firsthand. Probably from someone with a thick Russian accent.”
“Where have you been?”
“Jersey.”
Darya gave me a smile and said, “Seeing a girlfriend?”
“Ha, that’s funny. Until I think about my Irish fiancée. Then it’s scary. If I went to see a girlfriend in New Jersey, it would probably be my last trip to New Jersey ever.”
Darya said, “While you have been out sightseeing, your friend the FBI agent and I have come up with an interesting wrinkle.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve found the phrase Marat said before detonating the bomb, hawqala, the one that means ‘There is no power nor strength save by Allah.’”
I said, “What do you mean you ‘found’ it?”
Just then Dan Santos strutted up to us and said, “It’s a phrase that has been used by people being blackmailed into committing an attack.” He looked between Darya and me, then just kept talking. “A Georgian soldier said it before he detonated an explosive vest at a police station, killing eleven, including himself. Turns out his mother was being held by a group that forced him into the attack. Apparently Georgians love their mothers.”
“What happened to his mother?”
Darya answered. “They released her. They want people to believe them when they say they’ll release someone for carrying out an attack.”
