Borderline by Allan Stratton Page B

you.”
    The snake coils in my belly. This IS about Toronto. It’s about your dad. His lies. His secret phone number.
    I don’t know that.
    So tell them. If it’s not about that, what does it matter?
    It matters because whatever I say will look bad.
    That’s not your problem. Why suffer because of your dad?
    Because he’s my dad!
    But think what he may have done. The FBI doesn’t break down doors for nothing.
    Sure they do. They make mistakes. Like with Dad’s friend, Mr. Ibrahim. He got strip-searched at Newark coming back from the Hajj because of a mix-up with his name.
    Who says there was a mix-up? Maybe he just got lucky.
    No!
    Have it your way. Ibrahim was innocent. They let himgo, didn’t they? Your dad’ll go free too, if he’s clear. Like he says, who needs privacy if there’s nothing to hide?
    I won’t snitch on Dad!
    It wouldn’t be snitching. The FBI knows everything. If they don’t, they will. You won’t be giving them anything new.
    â€œStop it! Leave me alone!” Oh god, I said it out loud.
    The man swoops in behind me. “If you know something and don’t say it, you’re toast. Got that? If people die, you’ll be an accessory to murder.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He squeezes my shoulders hard. “You heard me, Sami. You’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”
    Save yourself! Save yourself!
    The man whirls my chair around. He plants his hands on my arms. Sticks his nose in my face. His breath is hot, pores huge. “You tell me, and you tell me now,” he hollers. “Where is Tariq Hasan?”
    â€œTariq Hasan? Who’s Tariq Hasan?”
    The man doesn’t blink. “Don’t play dumb.” His head’s big and boney, cheeks hollow, hair so cropped he might as well be bald. I should be shaking, but I can’t. I’m frozen.
    The man relaxes his grip on my arms, grabs the chair behind him, swings it around between his legs, and squatson it. He’s older than he looks. I can tell by the veins on the back of his hands, and the tight flap of skin under his chin. One thing’s for sure: He’s important. Not like the others. No, this one’s in a blazer and dress pants.
    He leans forward. “I asked you a question, Sami,” he says evenly. “Don’t make me ask it again. Where is Tariq Hasan?”
    â€œI don’t know who you mean. Really.” My voice is so light it could float through the ceiling.
    The man reaches his arm toward the woman. She hands him a folder. He takes it without looking, pulls out an 8x10, holds it in front of my face.
    It’s shot from across a street. The guy in the center of the photo is in his early twenties. He’s slouched against a wall between a shaded window and a short set of cement steps, wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt that drops to mid-thigh and matching baggy pants pulled in at the ankle. Oh, and he has a sketchy beard, a skullcap, and a sandal on the foot that’s pressed against the brick; and he’s smiling. Maybe he’s seen a friend. Maybe he’s thinking about a joke. Or maybe that’s just how he is.
    â€œThis is Tariq Hasan?”
    â€œYou know him by another name?” the woman asks.
    â€œI don’t know him at all.”
    The man looks right through me. He still hasn’t blinked. I’m surprised his eyeballs haven’t cracked. If they had, he wouldn’t notice. He’s the kind of machine who’d do one-armed push-ups on a busted elbow. I wonder if he has a wife. Or kids. I wonder what he’d do if strangers broke into his house in the middle of the night, threw his wife in a room, his son in the basement, and scared the living shit out of them.
    He puts the photograph back in the file and pulls out another. “Take another look.”
    It’s a close-up of Hasan’s head. He’s looking way up, like at something in a window. Or maybe he’s just