Taucher thanked them for agreeing to meet us on short notice, although — she pointed out — it was their duty as American citizens to be vigilant against terror. Marah nodded. Alan didn’t.
“Tell us what happened to your father,” she said.
“You know exactly what happened to him, Agent Taucher,” said Alan. “You probably know more than we do. He was blown to pieces by an American drone on April twenty-second, 2015.”
“I’m sorry for your loss and I understand your anger,” Joan said briskly.
“You certainly do not,” said Alan. “I have less than one hour before work.”
“I’ll be direct,” said Taucher. “An assassin has murdered one of the three drone operators whose targeted strike killed your innocent father and eight others. That drone operator’s name was Kenny Bryce. We know that this assassin intends to murder both of the other operators as well. He has called his actions ‘justice’ and ‘vengeance.’ So we are here to find out — do you know who this assassin might be? Do you know any relatives or friends of the collaterals who died that day and who are angry enough to kill in revenge? Have you heard of any such person, perhaps even secondhand? A rumor, even. A suspicion.”
I wondered how Taucher’s calling their father a “collateral” would sit with them.
Marah collected Alan’s empty teacup and excused herself to the kitchen. I could see her back and hear the clink of porcelain and the faint sound of liquid being poured.
Alan Ames folded his hands on his lap. “I do not murder. My sister does not murder. We do not associate with murderers. Are we finished?”
“But you have other brothers and sisters overseas,” said Taucher. “Uncles and aunts and cousins. Have any of them ever communicated anything about avenging your father’s death?”
“Ask them if they are murderers,” said Alan.
Marah returned with Alan’s teacup and saucer and set them beside him. She sat again, her face passive, looking at me.
“They’re half a world away,” said Joan.
“Mr. Ames, do any relatives or friends of your father live in the United States?” I asked. It was certainly possible. My IvarDuggans.com search had failed to reveal both Marah and Alan as related to Dr. Ibrahim Azmeh, yet here they sat.
Alan’s face closed on his sister. “Marah? Speak to these people.”
She leaned forward. “Friends, certainly. Dad was a great man. He was fun and outgoing and popular. Tons of friends. Friends from his childhood in Damascus have immigrated here. Friends from his college days in Paris. People who laughed and argued and smoked and hugged you and talked about ideas and politics. And he had even more friends from medical school here in L.A. Like, I couldn’t count them if I had to.”
She cleared her throat. I sensed truth and gentleness in her, in the way her words and emotions and expressions came out as one. Authentic and undiluted. “He left my mother and the United States to return to Syria when I was ten years old. Which meant more friends and more children for him. He married twice again, but not through divorce. This is legal in most of Syria. I can’t even guess about my father’s friends in America, but none of his children are here that I know of, except for Alan and me and Ben.”
I glanced at Taucher, who eyed me back.
“Correct,” said Alan. “Our father was the stereotype of a Muslim woman-owner. He wasn’t devout. But he liked the three-wives idea. He was still married to all of them the day you slaughtered him.”
Marah took a deep breath and a shamed glance down, then politely changed the subject. “Ben is the youngest,” she said. “Benyamin. He lives in Santa Ana. I didn’t hear back from him about this meeting.”
“We’d like his address,” said Taucher.
“Yes, sure,” said Marah.
“Is there anything else to talk about, then?” asked Alan.
I hit him with a quick jab: “Did you ever think of getting vengeance for your dad?”
He considered, eyes hooded. “I was furious when I heard. I would have probably killed the messenger if it hadn’t been Marah. But serious, actual revenge? No. Impractical. I couldn’t see myself going up against the U.S. Air Force, or the CIA, or whoever was responsible for firing that missile into a group of doctors and nurses.”
“Never fantasized that you could get away with it?” asked Taucher.
A consideration, then a smirk. “We all have our fantasies, Agent Taucher. Maybe even you.”
“You’re a rude dude,” she said.
“I’ll be happy to report that remark to your superior.”
“I’ll give you his name and direct number before we leave.”
“Which will be soon, I hope—”
“Alan...”
Alan stood. “I can’t be late for work. I don’t want your boss’s name or number. I loved my father and you killed him for no reason. We received twelve thousand dollars for him. I will never forgive and never forget.”
Alan embraced his sister and whispered something in her ear and did not look back on us. The front door slammed. Marah sat back down on the couch, sat forward and lowered her head, then snapped back her mane of copper-black hair and looked at us.
25
“Sorry,” she said. “Alan’s, like, really pissed at America for not doing enough in Syria. Yet managing to kill Dad. Dad loved America. That’s why he came here to study and start a family. We’d visit Syria to see our relatives and roots, but he thought America was our future. Alan hated the drones long before Dad was killed. For Alan, it became a point of honor to collect the condolence payment. It was very difficult to get. Interview after interview. Delays. He felt like a suspect in a crime. One of the conditions was that we couldn’t speak in public or to the media about the payment. They didn’t tell us the amount being offered until after we had signed everything. When the check for twelve thousand five hundred dollars came in, Alan just about choked, he was so mad.”
“I might have, too,” I said.
Taucher gave me her battle glance. “It’s war. Things happen in them.”
Marah faced Taucher with a nod and silence.
“Does Alan talk about vengeance for your dad?” I asked.
“Some angry threats at first,” said Marah. “Then nothing. He doesn’t have room for that. He’s a busy father and his wife is pregnant again and his job pays well. They live just one block away.”
“Is he always that hostile to the authorities?” asked Taucher.
“He gets along well with the local police,” said Marah. “He helped operate on an officer in the ER a few years ago and they became friends.”
“So he’s just reacting to my fizzy personality?” asked Taucher.
A small smile from Marah.
“Is your mother still in the U.S.?” Taucher asked.
“She lives in France.”
“Tell us about Ben,” I said.
“The baby,” she said. “He’s twenty-two now. Two years younger than me, and four behind Alan. Ben is our free spirit. Very American. He travels and studies what interests him. Likes art and adventure. Stays in campgrounds. Surfs and climbs rocks. Some college, too. Serial girlfriends until lately. Works but always needs money. Odd jobs, usually in the health-care field. Dad’s doctoring had a big influence on the three of us.”