SWEEPER: TWISTED INTENTIONS

by Lew Stowe

The man looked familiar as I watched him move down the sidewalk on Spiggot Street in the territory. Even in the near-darkness, it was obvious something was wrong. He wobbled a bit each time he put a foot down and shifted his weight, as if trying hard not to stagger. A blue backpack hung on his left shoulder. He passed a building with an open door that had once been boarded up, but now gaped like a mouth waiting to be fed.

The man paused. Then he edged unsteadily backward until he reached the opening and disappeared into it.

I crossed the street. He was in the second room off the center hallway to the left, sprawled face-down in a corner. Shone my flashlight on him. Blood oozed from a hole in the back of his yellow jacket.

He half-turned over in response to the light. “Sweeper?” he said in a low voice. “Thank God it's you. Thought . . . maybe someone else.”

Mohamed Akbar was his Muslim name. He had been a Black Muslim, but when a community of Muslim immigrants from various middle-eastern countries established tself in the territory, he enthusiastically joined them, as though the real thing had finally arrived. We had known each other for a while.

“You've been shot,” I said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Naw, Sweep. Too late for that. Ain't gonna make it.”

“Let's get you over there and find out for sure. The doctors can--”

“Useless, man.” He raised his head and groaned, put it down again. “What I need is . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Just listen to me. Gotta tell you something. Important. Just listen, okay? Say okay.”

“Okay,” I said.

He launched into a strange, rambling, semi-coherent story. About a plan to use plastic explosives and children to blow up the state capitol building. The name of Abu Shah, cleric and spiritual leader of the local Muslim community, was mentioned. After a few seconds, I reached into my canvas shoulder bag. I felt past the 22. automatic with the silencer, and my piece of iron pipe, and my cellphone, and switched on the recorder. I let Mohamed talk on and on, his voice getting weaker as he continued. He said something about the terrorist organization Hezbollah and martyrdom operations. Finally, he stopped.

“Is that all?” I asked.

No answer.

I touched his throat and couldn't find a pulse. He was gone. Opened his backpack. It was full of money. Mostly larger bills, all neatly banded together. Gave it a quick count. Unless I had made a major mistake, there was about three million dollars in there .

I called the police and gave them the location of the body. They probably wouldn't send anyone until daylight, because it was hard to get people from the outside into the territory at night. Couldn't blame them. The territory is a crumbling, inner-city area of some twenty blocks that leads the state in crime, poverty and general human misery. The worst of the worst in just about everything.

I left, taking the backpack with me.

* * *

So now I had three million dollars and a murder to look into. Where I live in the territory--an inconspicuous brick lean-to in an alley on the side of an abandoned warehouse--is hard to find, even harder to get into unless you're me, and as safe as any place except a bank vault, so I left the money there. I needed more information about Abu Shah and Hezbollah, so I decided to talk to Officer Hanley, our street cop. Hanley is a few years from retirement, and nothing more than a symbol, so he can't be expected to stick his neck out for anything. But he had valuable contacts which I wanted to use.

“I need to talk to someone,” I told him.

Hanley looked at me suspiciously. He had never been quite sure what I was--just a retarded street sweeper or something more. But he always listened when I talked.

“Like who?” he asked.

“Jim Burns.”

Now I really had his attention. His face reddened. “Sweeper, what do you know about Jim Burns? Where did you get his name?”

“I know he's a friend of yours. And he's FBI. And he's also associated with Homeland Security. And an expert on terrorism.”

“What do you want to talk to him about?”

“Something I stumbled across. I'll tell you if you really want to know, but I don't think you do. Honest.”

Hanley looked off into the distance. He tended to do that a lot. Being stuck in the territory and trying to balance duty with self-preservation was never easy. He had my sympathy.

“I'll get in touch with Jim,” he said, wheels obviously turning in his head, still trying to figure me out.

* * *

Jim Burns was stocky, short-haired, tough-looking. He gazed at me without flinching, which alone was impressive, because my face was burned badly a long time ago and I'm nightmare ugly.

“Hanley says your name is Sweeper,” he said. “And you sweep the streets around here.”

“Right,” I said.

“What happened to your face?”

“Got burned.”

“What's in that shoulder bag of yours?”

“Equipment.”

“What kind of equipment? Mind if I take a look?”

“Yes, I do. Nobody gets inside the bag except me.”

He smiled briefly. “Okay, fair enough. What's this all about?”

“I need some information about Abu Shah.”

Burns showed no recognition of the name. “Who's that?”

“A cleric in the local Muslim community.”

“What kind of information you looking for?”

“Whatever you have on the guy. For example, is he associated with any terrorist organizations?”

That got a reaction. Burns leaned forward. “Look, my friend,” he said in a tone that exuded intimidation. “If you know anything about terrorist activity, anything at all, I suggest you stop playing games here and tell me what it is. I'll take care of it.”

But I don't intimidate easily. “Doesn't work that way,” I said, staring back at him. “We need to share information. I don't have to know everything you do, but I need what I need. If you aren't willing to give me that, we're wasting time here.”

Burns leaned back, smiling again. “Street sweeper, huh? I suspect you do a lot more than that. Okay, Abu Shah is a consolidator for Hezbollah cash collections in about a quarter of the country. He funnels it up and launders it through Canadian banks, and from there distributes to various terrorist cells--all closely associated with Hezbollah. We've had an eye on him for a long time.”

“Know anything about a plot involving plastic explosives and children to blow up the state capitol?”

“Huh? Where did that come from?”

“A man named Mohamed Akbar. Now deceased.”

“Akbar was one of Abu Shah's assistants! How reliable do you think the information is?”

“No idea. He could have been delirious. But I know how to find out.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Just waiting for you to ask,” I said.

But I didn't tell him everything. Didn't mention the three million dollars.

* * *

I followed the man for two blocks. Finally, I sent my dog up ahead of him and had the little mongrel stop in the middle of the sidewalk. When the man tried to step around him, Snarl moved to block his way. The man shifted to the other side, and Snarl shifted with him. Snarl is almost as ugly as I am, but not intimidating, so the man wasn't frightened. But he realized that I was coming up behind him and turned to face me.

“I have no money,” he said.

“Don't want any,” I said. “Just would like to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“You. Your family. Your honor . . . Sharif Yassin.”

“How do you know my name?”

I shrugged. “You have a reputation as a leader in your community. Your name is well-known.”

“But you are not of my community. You are . . .”

“Sweeper,” I said. “And I sweep the streets. Maybe I am too lowly a person for you to talk to.”

“Not so,” he said, flushing. “I will speak with you, Sweeper.”

I took him to the Pritch Circle Soup Kitchen and found a table in a corner. The place was quiet and almost empty. Sharif Yassin was dark and handsome and in his middle forties. He looked at me expectantly, but suspiciously.

“You have two young daughters,” I said.

“So?”

“They may be in danger.”

“You are threatening my children?” His eyes flashed. “If anything happens--”

“That wasn't a threat. If your daughters are in danger, aren't you interested in knowing?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“Only trying to help you. And maybe help others as well.”

He settled back in his chair, calmer now. “What is this danger?”

“Do you know anything about Muslim children visiting the state capitol?”

“There has been some talk . . . yes. All the children of the community have been invited to hear the governor speak. And see the legislature in action. A day trip. In about a month. What is the danger in that?”

“I'm not sure. But what I've heard sounds bad. Something about explosives and martyrdom and Hezbollah.”

He half-rose from his seat, furious again. “What is this? More American paranoia? You hear rumors, then try to blame us for every fantastic notion your minds can conjure? Just because we embrace Islam makes us all automatically murderous devils interested in blowing everyone up?”

I let him rant for a while, then held up my hand.

“If it is true,” I said, “wouldn't you prefer to know? Or ignore it?”

“So who is supposed to be behind this evil plot?”

“I've heard one name. Don't know if it has any validity. But I've heard it.”

“Who?”

“Abu Shah.”

The name seemed to take all the combativeness out of Sharif Yassin. He sagged in his chair and stared at the table top. He shook his head.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Abu Shah is our Imam. We look to him for spiritual guidance in our lives.”

“Is he providing that?”

“He works at it. But whether it is what we want or need is questionable. We are here in this country to be Americans--but he talks of killing our American oppressors. He tells us that our only allegiance is to Allah and all of us should be ready to give our lives at a moment's notice. Paradise awaits those willing to be martyrs. But what he means by martyr is suicide bomber. His message is one of hate and violence and death. He floods our brains with it. Yet, we cannot find any of this in our Korans.”

“Religion is easily twisted.”

“Especially by twisted individuals. But to use our children to further the destructive ambitions of an organization like Hezbollah . . .”

“Wait a second. Everything I've said is just hearsay. Words blowing in the wind. We have no idea how much, or if any of it, is true.”

“How do we find out?”

“I was hoping you would know.”

“You want me to become a snitch? A traitor?”

“I don't want you to do anything that violates your sense of honor. But there's no way to verify the true objectives of Abu Shah without information from inside your community.”

“So I should snoop around and report back to you?”

“Something like that.”

“And what will you do? Talk to the CIA ? The FBI? Who will then raid our homes and humiliate us and create fear and resentment? Treat us like vermin rather than fellow Americans?”

“I certainly hope not,” I said. “I want you and me to handle this as quietly as possible. The quieter the better.”

“What authority do you have?”

“None. I'm only a street sweeper. But I know the right people and how to get help if needed.”

“Okay, Sweeper.” He sighed heavily. “Let us discuss this. Perhaps we can work together. Perhaps I really have no choice.”

“There are always choices,” I said. “This one is especially dangerous. A man close to Abu Shah has already died.”

“Who?”

“Mohamed Akbar.”

“He was a friend! We spoke often. He was as ambivalent about Abu Shah as I am. Now I know I have no choice.”

He put out his hand, and I took it. He had a strong grip.

* * *

The details of the plot emerged piece by piece over the following week. Sharif Yassin was an intelligent and perceptive man and did a fine job of gathering information. Mohamed Akbar's death had created a vacuum in Abu Shah's inner circle, allowing Sharif to quietly slip into the opening. He made a point of socializing with Abu Shah's two bodyguards. They became very friendly with him--and talkative.

The plan itself had come directly from Hezbollah. Abu Shah was to purchase plastic explosives for concealment in cardboard lunch boxes. About sixty-five children were making the trip to the state capitol in buses. Each would receive a lunch box containing food and a small backpack to carry it in. The false bottoms of the lunch boxes would be lined with lead, allowing explosives and detonators to get past metal detectors or x-ray equipment. The backpacks, lunch boxes already inside, were to be distributed after the children reached their destination.

After the children had gathered in the gallery and the governor began to speak, a call from a cell phone would detonate the explosives. The blast, it was estimated, would be powerful enough to bring down the domed capitol building, martyring the children and sending their souls to paradise. Killed would be the governor and all the state legislators. A glorious victory for Hezbollah and Islam. A fitting--and chilling--lesson for America .

But Abu Shah had a big problem. A major part of the money he was going to use to purchase explosives had come from Hezbollah collections--and now it was gone. Mohamed Akbar had stolen it, although one of Abu Shah's bodyguards--Abdul Azeez-- had caught him in the act and managed to put a bullet in him. The last thing Abu Shahwanted to do was admit to Hezbollah that the money was gone, because he would look incompetent. He was trying to squeeze the local community for additional funds, but these were poor people who had already given him everything they had. Abu Shah was frantic. He desperately needed to find some way to purchase the explosives on credit and cover up the loss of the money.

Being an opportunist, I figured I could locate someone willing to accommodate him.

* * *

We had gathered on the prairie. This is an area of about twenty acres of broken- up, pockmarked pavement where old factory buildings once stood. They had been bulldozed and the rubble piled up some fifty feet high along one edge. Abu Shah was there, along with his two bodyguards and Sharif Yassin. With me was Nick from a paramilitary organization I dealt with occasionally. Sharif and I pretended we didn't know each other. We were all there to finalize the sale of the explosives. Nick was the dealer, I his assistant. Abu Shah was our customer.

For the most part, everything went smoothly. Abu Shah, dressed in robes like a Iranian ayatollah, was quite pleased that he had found someone to supply him with explosives on terms he could afford. He was affable and cooperative as we showed him a sample package of the lunchbox and backpack, with the explosives in place. We demonstrated it by placing the backpack some fifty yards away and giving him a cell phone with which to set it off. The package exploded nicely.

Nick explained that the blast, multiplied sixty-five times, would be more than adequate to bring down the capitol building. Which was probably true. However, in reality, there wasn't going to be any blast. All sixty-five packages would be constructed to appear authentic, but with zero explosive properties, allowing the capitol building to continue to stand, hopefully for many years to come. And the children to go on living.

Nick, of course, didn't mention that part. A device in my canvas shoulder bag was recording the entire session. That wasn't mentioned, either.

Everyone was ready to leave when things turned a little strange. One of Abu Shah's bodyguards, the wiry, intense one with dark beard and squirrelly eyes, kept staring at me and making comments under his breath. I thought maybe he recognized me from somewhere. But it wasn't anything so mundane. He finally walked over to me.

“I am Abdul Azeez,” he said.

I nodded.

“You are by far the ugliest man I have ever seen. Why has Allah cursed you with the looks of an evil devil?”

I shrugged.

“You are obviously evil and should be killed. An infidel with your looks is an insult to Allah and should not be allowed in the presence of believers. Your hideous sins are written across your face. When I am ready to become a martyr, I should take you with me--except I will go to paradise and you to the fires of hell.”

I stared into his eyes and realized the man wasn't rational. This was a rabid fanatic and not someone who could be reasoned with. Extending my neck, I gave him the Sweeper glare, which means my left eyeball looks as though it's ready to squirt out of my eye socket. A truly frightful sight, and Abdul Azeez didn't like it. Then I puckered my lips and made a kissing sound. He went ballistic.

“You contemptible devil!” he screamed. “Evil scum! Vile animal!” He began fumbling in his jacket pocket for something, and I thought I might have to yank out my piece of pipe to protect myself. But the other bodyguard and Sharif Yassin quickly ran over. They each took one of his arms and dragged him off, struggling and kicking. “I will kill you!” he yelled back. “I will send you to hell!”

Nick and I watched them move away. “What was that all about?” he said.

“I don't think he likes my looks.”

“Don't think he wanted to kiss you, either.”

“Too bad,” I said. “We might have been so right for each other.”

* * *

“You what?” Jim Burns said. “Without letting me know?”

“Couldn't,” I said. “The group I was working doesn't much care for the FBI. Couldn't risk spooking them. Had to do it on my own.”

“Look, I need to build a case against Abu Shah and his people. How can I do that without--“

“I recorded the entire thing,” I said. “Lots of incriminating stuff.”

“You recorded it?”

“Yep.”

“What do I have to do to get the recording?”

“Just ask,” I said. “Got it right here.”

* * *

Over the next few weeks, I did everything I could think of to make the operation as foolproof as possible. After all, a lot of lives were at stake. Jim Burns and I met several times and planned the details down to a ridiculous degree. The security people at the capital knew exactly what to expect. No real explosives would be allowed into the capitol. The building and grounds would be crawling with FBI personnel, and all I had to do to get them to my side was raise a hand and snap my fingers.

I talked to Sharif Yassin over and over again. He was understandably reluctant to allow his daughters, and the other children, to make the trip. I calmed his fears, pointing out the extraordinary precautions being taken. Nothing could possibly go wrong, I told him. We had everything covered.

I should have known better.

* * *

On the morning of the trip, Snarl and I were on the capitol grounds at 6:00 A.M. The children weren't due to arrive until 8:30 . I roamed around, searching for the hidden flaw, the overlooked detail. Didn't find one.

But shortly before 7:00 , I got a frantic call from Sharif Yassin.

“He's gone!” he shouted. “Vanished!”

“Who?” I asked.

“Abdul Azeez!”

He had new information, and it was ominous. The previous evening, Abu Shah presented Abdul Azeez with two things. One was a long-sought permission from Hezbollah to become a martyr. The second was a suicide bomber's vest pre-fitted with explosives. Abdul Azeez spent the night in prayer. Then before dawn he strapped on the vest and disappeared.

No one knew for sure where Abdul Azeez had gone.

But I had a pretty good idea. The Capitol City Craft Festival was underway at the big conference center next to the capitol. I figured that Hezbollah wanted Abdul Azeez to be frosting on the cake. As soon as the capitol explosion went off, he would merge with the crowd pouring out of the conference center and quickly blow himself up, adding another thirty or so casualties to the total. But since there wasn't going to be a capitol explosion, Abdul Azeez was now a terrifying wild card, literally a wandering bomb that could go off anytime, anywhere.

“I have to stop the children,” Sharif Yassin said, his voice tense. “I cannot allow them to leave under these circumstances.”

“Wait,” I said. “Let me find Abdul Azeez. Give me an hour. I'll call you back.”

I went over to the conference center. People were streaming into the large glass doors on the front. I looked for Abdul Azeez. Had he disguised himself? Was he inside? Snarl and I circled the building. No sign of him. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he had gone somewhere else, creating a whole new set of problems.

Where the hell was he?

Kept looking. I finally saw him. Off in the north corner of the grounds, under a small tree, waiting. Snarl and I made a big semi-circle and edged up behind him.

“Yo,” I said.

He turned quickly--and smiled as if happy to see me.

“It's me, the ugly man,” I said.

“Yes, ugly man,” he said. “Stay close to me today. We will journey together in death, the two of us. But we will end up in different places.”

“We sure will. But neither of us will be dead. Not today, anyway.”

“You think you can stop me?”

“I know I can. See the dog on your left? See that oversized pitbull head? You make one move with your left arm and he'll snap it like a twig. Any move with your right arm and I'll smash it before you can pull the detonator.”

“You think that little dog can break my arm?”

“Faster than you can say Muhammad was a terrorist. I'll take care of the other arm at the same time.”

“Allah guides my actions. Allah is in control. Do you believe you are powerful enough to block the intentions of Allah?”

“No, just powerful enough to block your twisted intentions. Allah isn't served by slaughtering innocent people. Allah doesn't have anything to do with this.”

He laughed. “You are ridiculous, ugly man.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But you aren't going to make one step toward that building. And if you try to pull the detonator, you're going to end up with two broken arms. And, by the way, forget about the capitol building going down. That was all a big joke.”

“A joke? What do you mean--”

I was aware of people moving in from behind me, but I didn't dare take my eyes off Abdul Azeez. Inside my canvas bag, I tightened my grip on my piece of pipe and got ready to give Snarl the signal. But I didn't have to. Sharif Yassin and three other men moved past me. They were chanting something in what must have been Arabic, a low, hypnotic sound. Abdul Azeez stared at them as though paralyzed. Sharif Yassin went up and embraced him. Then he reached inside the man's jacket and switched off the detonator. I heard the click very distinctly and let out a long breath.

Thankfully, it ended with a whimper rather than a bang. Abdul Azeez collapsed in the grasp of the four men and began to weep.

I raised my left arm and snapped my fingers. Just as Jim Burns had promised, we were quickly surrounded by FBI personnel. They took charge of Abdul Azeez and led him away.

“He is not well,” Sharif Yassin said. “Very confused. Please don't let them treat him badly.”

“I'll do my best,” I said.

* * *

This one turned out pretty good. I'd say it deserves a rating of about a nine out of a possible ten. Uninterrupted by violence and death, the children listened to the governor, watched the legislature in action, and went home impressed and happy. Maybe even a tiny bit inspired. They had a good lunch, but were required to turn in their boxes when finished. An indignant Abu Shah was arrested at the airport shortly before his flight was scheduled to leave for Canada . Looks like the Muslim community will need a new cleric.

I talked to Sharif Yassin last week. I mentioned that there was still a matter to be resolved: the three million dollars.

“ Three million? ” he said. “I had no idea it was that much. That is all Muslim money!”

“A big part of it, anyway. It should be put to good use. A college fund for area children sounds good to me.”

Sharif Yassin frowned. “You mean area Muslim children. Muslim money for Muslim children.”

“Now just a minute, my friend. Aren't you an American now? Didn't this country take you when you were part of the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free? Your entire community benefits from tax money that comes mainly from non-Muslims. Wouldn't it be a fine gesture to be American about this and extend it to everyone, Muslim or not?”

He lowered his eyes. “A good point, Sweeper.”

“The fund will need an administrator. Someone intelligent, honest and impartial.”

“I think such a person is available.”

“We have to deposit the money somewhere,” I pointed out. “But we need to be careful. A sum that size will attract suspicion--a problem, but not insurmountable. I know how we can do it.”

“You are a good man, Sweeper.”

“Good enough most days. I look forward to working with you, my American Muslim friend.”

Sharif Yassin smiled. “Just don't try to kiss me,” he said.