Read Online American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) by Wesley Robert Lowe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wesley Robert Lowe
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Greyhound bus in Toronto and walked the block to Yonge Street. Toronto’s most famous street was a crazy, busy mixture of high-end designer shops, live theatre venues, drug dealing, sports jersey shops, pizza-by-the-slice joints, sex toy parlors, Jewish delis, homeless shelters and a huge mall that extended an entire city block.
There were prostitutes, professionals, punks... Racially, it was the most diverse place Fatima had ever been in. She was sure that in the two blocks she walked there were people from at least twenty countries—different shades of yellow, red, white, black and brown people, most speaking a language other than English. In other words, Yonge Street was great place to hide in plain sight, whether you were a gunrunner, a billionaire or a terrorist.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, she entered one of Toronto’s ubiquitous falafel shops, “Best Falafel.” Too late for a late lunch and too early for an early dinner, she was the only customer as she approached the order counter. The turbaned cook eyed her suspiciously.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Burger with fries, hold the onions.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“A cold Belgian beer.”
The fortyish man nodded—this woman passed the coded conversation. He took out a sign and hung it on the door. “Back in 5 minutes.” He motioned for Fatima to follow him out and locked the door behind them.
They walked half a block to a rooming house. The clerk at the front desk ignored them as they stepped into the elevator. When they were finally alone, the man said, “I’m Bobby. Nice to meet you. Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
They got off on the fifth floor and walked down the squeaky surface to Room 507. They entered a room in desperate need of a paint job, where Bobby’s hijab-wearing wife Aliya waited. She worked in Toronto’s huge film industry as a much-in-demand make-up artist but today she, like her husband, were contributing their services to the cause.
“Hello, Fatima,” she said, “we must move quickly if you want to be at the border before dark.”
“I have to. A single woman like me shouldn’t travel at night,” Fatima said.
“Of course.” Aliya took out a tape measure and took Fatima’s neck, arm and leg length measurements and had Fatima stand by the wall to measure her height.
“Done. Be back here in three hours.” Aliya handed Bobby the paper she wrote Fatima’s measurements on, then motioned the other woman to sit on the chair in front of the kitchen sink.
Changing one’s hairstyle was never as simple as it looked in the movies. It wasn’t so hard in Syria because Fatima’s hair was already the same color as Sabiya’s. It was much more complicated than throwing some ink on your hair and then getting a pair of scissors to hack off your locks, especially if you wanted to pass as an elegant, recently retired Baptist minister with salt-and-pepper locks.
Aliya used a picture Fatima took of Geraldine and her at the airport to shear Fatima’s longer tresses to a professional bobbed look. Then, she painstakingly colored Fatima’s hair, mixing various shades of dark gray and white to achieve a natural look. Then she shaped her eyebrows, cut her long eyelashes and applied heavy make-up, changing Fatima’s complexion from Middle Eastern olive to the pale, whiter skin of a Caucasian.
Bobby returned, arms full of shopping bags from the myriad of shops on Yonge St. Aliyah went through the bags, carefully selecting the perfect wardrobe. Choices made, she handed them to “Geraldine.”
“Put these on,” she ordered.
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby and Fatima looked at Aliyah’s handiwork in a full-length mirror: dark gray cowl neck tunic, comfortable light brown stretch chino cotton pants, black trendy heelless European flat shoes and a gold-plated chain necklace with six, glossy, oversized plate-glass stones.
“Isn’t the necklace a bit much?” asked Fatima.
“No, it’s intentional.
There were prostitutes, professionals, punks... Racially, it was the most diverse place Fatima had ever been in. She was sure that in the two blocks she walked there were people from at least twenty countries—different shades of yellow, red, white, black and brown people, most speaking a language other than English. In other words, Yonge Street was great place to hide in plain sight, whether you were a gunrunner, a billionaire or a terrorist.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, she entered one of Toronto’s ubiquitous falafel shops, “Best Falafel.” Too late for a late lunch and too early for an early dinner, she was the only customer as she approached the order counter. The turbaned cook eyed her suspiciously.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Burger with fries, hold the onions.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“A cold Belgian beer.”
The fortyish man nodded—this woman passed the coded conversation. He took out a sign and hung it on the door. “Back in 5 minutes.” He motioned for Fatima to follow him out and locked the door behind them.
They walked half a block to a rooming house. The clerk at the front desk ignored them as they stepped into the elevator. When they were finally alone, the man said, “I’m Bobby. Nice to meet you. Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
They got off on the fifth floor and walked down the squeaky surface to Room 507. They entered a room in desperate need of a paint job, where Bobby’s hijab-wearing wife Aliya waited. She worked in Toronto’s huge film industry as a much-in-demand make-up artist but today she, like her husband, were contributing their services to the cause.
“Hello, Fatima,” she said, “we must move quickly if you want to be at the border before dark.”
“I have to. A single woman like me shouldn’t travel at night,” Fatima said.
“Of course.” Aliya took out a tape measure and took Fatima’s neck, arm and leg length measurements and had Fatima stand by the wall to measure her height.
“Done. Be back here in three hours.” Aliya handed Bobby the paper she wrote Fatima’s measurements on, then motioned the other woman to sit on the chair in front of the kitchen sink.
Changing one’s hairstyle was never as simple as it looked in the movies. It wasn’t so hard in Syria because Fatima’s hair was already the same color as Sabiya’s. It was much more complicated than throwing some ink on your hair and then getting a pair of scissors to hack off your locks, especially if you wanted to pass as an elegant, recently retired Baptist minister with salt-and-pepper locks.
Aliya used a picture Fatima took of Geraldine and her at the airport to shear Fatima’s longer tresses to a professional bobbed look. Then, she painstakingly colored Fatima’s hair, mixing various shades of dark gray and white to achieve a natural look. Then she shaped her eyebrows, cut her long eyelashes and applied heavy make-up, changing Fatima’s complexion from Middle Eastern olive to the pale, whiter skin of a Caucasian.
Bobby returned, arms full of shopping bags from the myriad of shops on Yonge St. Aliyah went through the bags, carefully selecting the perfect wardrobe. Choices made, she handed them to “Geraldine.”
“Put these on,” she ordered.
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby and Fatima looked at Aliyah’s handiwork in a full-length mirror: dark gray cowl neck tunic, comfortable light brown stretch chino cotton pants, black trendy heelless European flat shoes and a gold-plated chain necklace with six, glossy, oversized plate-glass stones.
“Isn’t the necklace a bit much?” asked Fatima.
“No, it’s intentional.
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