It was a good point. If they had anything related to charge him with, they would have. As it stood, he had been charged only with spousal abuse.
“Did you say anything at all to the police about Henry Lee or what you have been working on?”
“No.”
“Nothing that could even possibly make them suspicious about anything else?”
“No,” he repeated.
Despite his protestations, Cheng made Wazir take him through every moment of his ordeal—from his arrest until he walked back into his home. He wanted to know every question the police had asked him, every response he had given, if he had been held in a communal cell, what other prisoners he had talked to, all of it. It went on for over two hours.
Sometimes he gave the same answer, other times his answers changed. Sometimes it was three underage girls he had communed with, sometimes it was “just” two. At first he was held in a solitary cell, then he said there were only four people, and then he said he was in a cell with at least ten other men. Wazir Ibrahim had a hard time keeping his facts straight. This troubled Cheng considerably. The Somali’s word was unreliable at best.
“If you’re worried that I said anything to the police about Henry Lee or what has been planned, I didn’t,” Wazir assured him. “Even though I could have.”
“And what exactly could you have told them?” Cheng asked. Wazir Ibrahim knew very little about the attack. After the NASA internship ended, Henry Lee had brought all of the cell members together to train for one week near his ranch in Idaho. They had only gone over the mechanics of what was expected of them. The canisters they had used were dummies. None of the cell members knew what would be inside them.
“I need money for a lawyer,” Wazir responded. “A good one.”
Now he wants money for a lawyer? Though Cheng wanted to reach out and strike him, he restrained himself. “First, Wazir, let’s talk about what you think you know.”
“I know about the canisters,” the Somali said.
Cheng smiled. “Of course you do. You trained with them.”
“But I know what’s going to be in them.”
“Really? And what’s that?”
With his finger, Wazir drew a word on the tabletop in the dust between them.
Cheng was stunned. How the hell had this stupid Somali pieced it together? Maintaining his steady mask, he laughed and said, “My goodness. That’s something. It’s not correct. In fact, it’s quite fantastic. Why would you think something like that?”
If it had been a guess, it was a well-informed guess. “Because I know.”
“How do you know?”
“The engineering student I trained with said something.”
“Said something when?” Cheng pressed.
“After the training, as we were all leaving. He said he had been thinking about it, and that’s what he believed was going to be in the canisters.”
“Did he share this hypothesis with the others?” He drew out the word ‘hypothesis’ to feign how absurd he found the idea.
Wazir Ibrahim shrugged. “What are we going to do about getting a lawyer for me?”
Cheng used his sleeve to erase the word that had been written in the dust. “Everything will be okay,” he said.
“So you will get me a lawyer?”
“We may even be able to get the case dismissed.”
“Really?” Wazir said hopefully. “How?”
“Don’t worry about it. You are important to us. We need you. We’ll make this go away.”
“I have your word?”
Cheng nodded. “You have my word.”
Wazir smiled. He looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “May I pray now?”
“Of course, just don’t turn on any of the lights.”
The Somali thanked him and excused himself from the table. After washing his hands and feet, he returned to the living room, where he rolled out a small rug and began his prayers.
Cheng watched. He was familiar with the routine. He had seen it many times. The last time was in China’s Uighur region when he had watched Ismail Kashgari perform it.
When Wazir Ibrahim knelt on the rug, Cheng quietly stood from the dining-room table and slipped into the living room. He counted how many times the Somali had bowed to Mecca. As Wazir rose for the third time, Cheng stepped behind him, wrapped the garrote around his neck, and pulled the wire tight.
It was like slicing butter with a piece of piano wire. There was a spray of blood and the Somali’s body flailed wildly for several seconds before collapsing. Wazir wasn’t as strong