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The door slams shut, and Jeremy rests his hand on Gus’s other shoulder. “She doesn’t understand, does she?”
He mutters something, and Jeremy says, “I know that’s the same for train spotters over in the UK.”
Gus’s eyes flick back and forth on the lists of numbers and abbreviations, “Oh, we’re much more than train spotters,” he says. “For one thing, we don’t need to go out and get wet and cold. We can use computer programs that, uh…well, we can tap into railway systems and their dispatch centers to see exactly what’s going on. Oh, okay, here we go: northbound train number HV412-29, set to depart Hoboken in about fifteen minutes. Carrying…number two fuel oil, lumber, shipping containers, fertilizer, chemicals, and…that’s about it.”
Jeremy says, “Any other trains?”
“Sure,” Gus says. “Southbound number HV414-29, left Albany about ten minutes ago. Carrying shipping containers, empty flatcars, chemicals, and…oh. Hoo boy.”
“What?” I ask.
Gus says, “That’s interesting. The tail end of number HV414-29, hauling four flatcars, is carrying casks from the Department of Energy.”
“Nuclear waste,” Jeremy says.
“You know it.”
Jeremy turns to me and says, “That’s it, Amy: nuclear waste. That’s what Rashad is doing—he’s going to explode those two trains and make the world’s biggest dirty bomb, right next to Manhattan. That’s it.”
I look right at Jeremy and wait for a heavy moment, then say what I hate to say:
“No, that’s not it. It has to be something else.”
Chapter92
ON THISday of days, this morning of mornings, Rashad Hussain is running late, due to his PATH train’s being delayed from Hoboken to the World Trade Center station on Vesey Street, but he is still in good spirits. On this day he has planned for delays and schedule problems, and his plans are still on track.
Outside the crowded terminal, carrying two heavy black cases, he has luck again, for he is able to hail a cab withinjust a minute. Allah’s will, no doubt, and the driver happily emerges and helps Rashad place his two cases in the trunk. The driver is tall, thin, and angular, and Rashad guesses that he is a Somali immigrant. Taking a chance, he says, “As-salamu ‘alaykum,brother.”
The taxi driver grins widely. “Andwa ‘alaykumu as-salamto you, brother.”
Seated in the rear of the cab, Rashad notes the driver’s city identification and name—AXMED SAMATAR—and knows his guess was correct. After listening to Rashad’s destination—an address near Rockefeller Park on the Hudson River—Samatar instantly starts talking about his family here and back home in Mogadishu, how happy he is to have his green card, the challenges of raising a pious family in New York City, his hope that he and his family will finally make the hajj to Mecca next year, and on and on and on.
On the short trip west, Rashad nods and gives polite one-word answers. Though their circles have never met before and never will again, he is touched by this immigrant’s work ethic and piety.
Rashad reaches his destination less than fifteen minutes later. Samatar jumps out, opens the trunk, and unloads Rashad’s two bags onto the sidewalk.
Quickly thinking what he should do, Rashad recalls a word the Jews have in their religious writings about doing a good deed—they call it amitzvah—and their saying aboutIf you save a life, it’s as if you save the world.
“Axmed?” he asks.
“Yes, brother?”
Rashad has nothing personally against Jews. After all, he and they are both descendants of Abraham, and it was simply their misfortune that they decided to settle where they did, rather than in Uganda, which would have prevented so many problems. But they are a wise and industrious people indeed, and in this moment he takes heart in their beliefs.
He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, then another, and then another. He pushes them into Samatar’s trembling hand.
“You are a good man, and you will listen to what I say,” Rashad says. “Where does your family live?”
“Queens,” he says.
“Good,” Rashad says, closing the man’s hand over the money. “Then leave Manhattan, leave it now, and pray for me.”
Rashad picks up his two cases, which now feel as light as feather pillows.
Amitzvah,indeed.
Chapter93
