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it. “Call this number. This is an office in Istanbul, the best clinic. They will call me.”
    It’s over, Ramil thought to himself. Don’t say anything more.

CHAPTER 11
     
    THE SHIP LOOMED out of the Lake Erie fog, its prow knifing toward the shore like a warrior’s scimitar. The lights from the nearby docks and the highway above bathed the oil tanker in a finicky, flickering yellow, and Kenan Conkel saw that the bow was flecked red—blood, thought the young man, staring at the ship as it made its way slowly south of Detroit. It was late; Conkel had lost track of time and knew he should not linger here, knew he should rush to the small house a few blocks off the water where he had rented a room. But he stood staring at the ship, watching as the cloud wisps seemed to battle with the light, pushing and then yielding, obscuring and then revealing.
    The struggle between darkness and light was one he well understood. Wind whipped off the lake, howling in his ear, reminding him: Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar —God is Greater. God is Greater.
    Kenan stared at the ship, picturing its bridge. He could see it in his mind, the navigation gear, the lights looping over the console, the radio, even the fire alarm and auxiliary lights. It might be slightly different aboard this ship, but it would take only a few moments to orient himself. Kenan had always been a quick study, “a bright kid,” as his teachers said, though usually they followed it with a remark along the lines of, “when he wants to be.”
    They were right. It was only when he found Allah and surrendered to the will of the God of Abraham and the Prophets that Kenan reached his potential. He’d done better at the advanced training class for bridge supervisory skills than seamen twice his age, even though he had spent less than a month on ships before then, most of that as an observer.
    What a wonderful explosion a ship this size would make if it were stuffed with explosives. What a glorious statement of devotion to God.
    And the explosion of the ship would be only the start of it.
    Not this ship, thought Kenan. He did not know for certain, of course, but he had hints that the operation would be conducted far to the south. Nor did he know when—though again, he sensed it would be very, very soon.
    And he did not know the target, but surely its destruction would humiliate the People of Hell.
    One of them was watching him now. Kenan turned and began walking in the direction of his house, moving to the side of the walk where the streetlamps were strongest. He leaned forward against the wind, quickening his pace.
    But he was too late.
    “Yo, white boy!”
    Kenan ignored the shout, and then the footsteps behind him.
    “I’m talking to you .”
    The man behind him grabbed his arm and spun him around.
    “What are you doing here?” demanded the man. He was black, about his age, but at least twice his weight and a half foot taller.
    “I was coming from the masjid ,” said Kenan.
    “Masjid? Whus that?”
    “Mosque.”
    “Mosque? You Muslim?”
    Kenan nodded.
    “I thought only brothers were Muslim.”
    “God spoke to me and—”
    “Never mind that shit. Gimme your money.” The man pulled out a gun.
    Kenan had only a few dollars in his wallet, but he was reluctant to part with it. There wasn’t much he could do, though—he took it out slowly.
    “Throw it to me, punk,” said the thief.
    Kenan tossed it. The man took his eye off him for a moment and Kenan thought of jumping at him, but he hesitated too long; the man grabbed the wallet and waved it at him. “Start walking.”
    “Are you Muslim, too?” asked Kenan.
    “Walk.”
    “I need my driver’s license.” The license, an Illinois fake, was one of three Kenan possessed, but he had been warned against losing any of them because they could potentially expose the source.
    “Driver’s license.” The robber spit. He opened the wallet, pulled out the few bills, then rifled through the compartments quickly.