Striking Distance

Laura looked up at him and spoke in Arabic.

He answered, reached for Laura’s hand, and switched to English, speaking with only a faint Arabic accent. “Come in! Come in! Welcome to our home.”

So this was the kid’s father, Yusif Al Zahrani.

Naturalized citizen. Works as a cardiologist. Pays his taxes. Votes. No arrests.

Laura followed Al Zahrani indoors, Javier close behind her.

Apart from the somber mood, what Javier found inside was not what he’d expected. Men sat on chairs and couches in the living room, wearing sports jackets or nice sweaters, some with trimmed beards, others clean-shaven. Women bustled in the kitchen, some wearing scarves over their hair, some not, one clad in a black abaya, her face exposed. He’d been inside a lot of homes in Afghanistan and Iraq, but he’d never seen men and women mingle casually like this.

The dining room table was covered with serving dishes heaped with food—pastries, dates, cheeses, breads, salads, sliced pineapple, grapes, olives, desserts, rice, meats, and a big pot of what looked like lamb stew. The spicy aromas of the different dishes mingled with the exotic scent of incense.

All conversation stopped.

Javier was still on edge from his little flashback, or whatever the hell that had been, and his instincts kicked in hard, his gaze taking in the entire room at once, watching for sudden or suspicious movement as the women turned to face Laura, the men rising to their feet. Still speaking Arabic, Laura was introduced to them one at a time. Some shook her hand, gave her polite nods, the men as well as the women—but not all of them.

An older man with a trimmed beard refused. He spoke to Laura in Arabic, his tone of voice gruff. Javier moved closer to Laura, uneasy about the way the man was looking at her, his eyes cold, rage on his face.

Laura replied, her voice soft.

Javier was about to ask who the man was and what the hell he’d said to her when a door opened, and a woman appeared in the hallway. She wore a long tunic of embroidered gray silk with matching silk pants, an ivory scarf draped loosely over her long, dark hair. Her eyes were red from crying, the grief on her face unmistakable. Behind her, women stood in the doorway of what appeared to be a bedroom, peering out at Laura.

Karima Al Zahrani, the boy’s mother.

Naturalized citizen. Teaches Arabic at CU-Denver. Votes. No arrests.

The house fell silent.

The woman reached for Laura with both hands.

Laura went to her, again speaking in Arabic.

The woman replied, took Laura’s hands in hers, bent down, and kissed them.

* * *

LAURA WASN’T HUNGRY, but she made herself eat the food she’d been offered, washing down Medjoul dates and bread with sips of strong coffee while her hosts and their other guests spoke about young Ali, the boy they’d all lost. Zach had been right about them. They weren’t extremists. They weren’t even strict.

Many were U.S. citizens, had teaching jobs with the university, and maintained very progressive attitudes. Most of the women didn’t cover, and few of the men had beards. Rather than being separated, men and women mingled freely. They reminded Laura of some of the families she’d met on her one and only trip to Saudi Arabia, families that adhered to the strict laws and traditions of their country while in public but lived a very different life behind closed doors. At the same time, they embodied everything she loved about Middle Eastern culture—warmth, generosity, hospitality.

“We are most anxious to get his body back for burial,” said Hussein Al Zahrani, the boy’s paternal uncle, who ran a halal grocery store on East Colfax. More conservative than the others, he had declined to shake her hand and was furious that his nephew’s remains hadn’t yet been returned. “When will his body be released to us?”

Laura wished she had an answer for them. It was Islamic tradition to bury the dead before sunset on the day they died. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

“Come.” Karima, Ali’s mother, rose to her feet.

Laura walked beside her down the hall and into Ali’s bedroom, Yusif, the boy’s father, and Javier following behind them. Laura wasn’t sure why they were bringing her here. Maybe it was their way of sharing their love for Ali, of trying to show her that there was more to their son than the act of violence that had led to his death and would now come to define his life.

It was clear that federal investigators had combed through the room inch by inch, searching every nook and cra

And then Laura began to notice the details. Little League trophies on the shelf. A ball and glove in the corner, a bat propped up beside them. A framed high school diploma. A plaque for making the honor roll all four quarters of his senior year. A poster of a young Marilyn Monroe on one wall. One of the Avengers on another.

How had he gone from all-American boy to suicide bomber?

Laura ran her fingers over the Little League trophies, over the frame of the diploma, mementos of a young boy’s achievements, now reminders of a wasted life.

Karima’s quiet weeping came from behind, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.

Laura turned to see Karima sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands pressed over her face. Laura sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, speaking in English now. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was a good boy, a good boy. I loved him so much. My son.” Karima sobbed out the words. “There was no hate inside him. He was born here. He was a citizen. He loved America.”

Karima’s grief cut through Laura, touched close to her own deepest grief. And yet Laura couldn’t imagine what Karima was feeling. Karima had raised her son, watched him grow from the day he was born. Laura had never even held Klara.

She pushed her own sadness aside. This wasn’t about her.

Then Yusif spoke, chin quivering. “Ali wanted to join the army, but I didn’t want him to go. He is our only son. Our only child. I didn’t want to lose him. He accepted our decision. He stayed and went to college. And now he’s dead.”

Karima looked up at Laura through tear-filled eyes. “He would never have tried to hurt you. When you were taken, when we saw on the news that you’d been killed, my boy cried. He was only fourteen then. He was angry at the men who’d hurt you. He told me that no true Muslim would harm a woman like that. He felt no respect for Al-Nassar. I ca

Yusif wiped tears from his face with a big hand. “He was never in trouble. He worked hard at school and at his job. Every afternoon after classes he went to work at my brother’s grocery, stocking shelves, cleaning. He never complained, even when he worked late. How could such a fate have befallen him?”

Laura swallowed hard, tears sliding down her cheeks, her heart feeling as if it might burst. She looked from Karima to Yusif to Javier, who stood in one corner, arms crossed over his chest, a grave expression on his face. “I . . . I don’t know. But I’ll do my best to find out.”

CHAPTER

13

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND it. How could the kid cry when he heard I’d been killed and then a few years later try to kill me himself? How could he be on the dean’s list in December and a terrorist by February? It doesn’t make sense.”