Free BioKill by Stuart Handley Page A

took a moment to recall the incident. “Yeah, so what? We searched the place, spoke to some raghead, nothing, except…” Maitland hesitated. The stamp, the stamp on the wrapping paper was the same one his nephew had shown him in his stamp album. “Where did that guy say he came from?”
    “Syria, I remember it was Syria.”
    Maitland sat back down. “The lieutenant, he said something to look out for, what the fuck was it?”
    “I took notes, he said to look out especially for anything to do with Syria.”
    “I know that, what was the other thing?”
    Martinez brushed though his notes. “The lieutenant mentioned to be diligent about anyone from Syria and any mail we might see.”
    “You know what, kid? You might just do OK. Come with me.”
    Martinez followed Maitland to the lectern at the front of the room.
    “Hey, Sarge.”
    The roll call sergeant was putting his notes back together when Officer Maitland approached him. “Don’t ask me for leave, Maitland, we’re short staffed as it is.”
    “We might have something for you regarding the Syrian thing…”
    “Keep talking.”
    “The rookie and me got called out to attend a domestic. When was it, kid, yesterday? Yeah, yesterday. Turned out it was just two guys probably pissing off the old lady next door by praying all the damn time.”
    “Congratulations, you want a medal or something?”
    “The guy we interviewed said he was Syrian. And he had an empty parcel wrapper…”
    The sergeant looked up. “Follow me. You too, Martinez.”
    The lieutenant looked up from his office desk at the sound of the single knock; his sergeant leaned forward, one hand on the door jamb, the other on the handle of the half-opened door.
    “Lieutenant, you might want to hear this.”

Chapter Ten
    Five times a day their religion required them to face holy Mecca and prostrate themselves. Twice already they had ritually cleansed themselves and carried out their obligations. The second time was within a much shorter interval than usual, as they would soon be traveling and prayers would only be taken when the opportunity allowed. Yusuf and Bashir locked their apartment door for what could be the last time. They saw their first few steps down the corridor as the first steps to martyrdom. Both men felt the weight of responsibility that had been placed on their shoulders. There was no choice but to succeed in the mission to help bring down those of another book, the infidels of America. Nothing the men had ever done had felt so satisfying. Millions of future followers would one day recount their names with great reverence.
    The door to apartment twenty-seven shut quietly, the lock turned and a security chain rattled as the old woman’s wrinkled black hands fumbled to secure her door from the inside. Taking a piece of paper from a drawer she scribbled down what she had just seen. The two Arab men left the apartment at ten past ten, wearing jeans, one with a black hoodie with I love Montana written on the front. Other one had a white T-shirt with Patriots for Patriots. Both carrying a blue duffel bag with white straps. They yabbered twice this morning, first time woke me just after five a.m. The old lady had been making notes about her neighbors long before she had phoned the police the day before. The piece of paper along with the pen was carefully placed back in the desk drawer. The men kept on annoying her with their continual praying — damn caterwaulin’ don’t sound like no prayers to me. Looking at her phone on top of the table she picked up the receiver to call the police. Yesterday she had memorized the older policeman’s number and written it down . She thought about phoning and asking for him to come on out again. Fancy them Arabs wearing a shirt that said Patriots for Patriots. That’s un-American, them wearing that shirt. Police should do something about it , she thought to herself. The old lady started dialing nine-one-one but the pain in her arthritic fingers bit