Chapter 1

Mo' had seen the same images a hundred times. Like millions of people across the globe, the sight of those planes slamming into the twin towers would be forever etched in his mind.

Mo' knew right away that the perpetrators were from the middle east. He hoped he was wrong. Hoping that some deranged types, like the Oklahoma City bombers, totally unconnected to his sorry homeland had been responsible.

His parents had emigrated from Lebanon before he was born in part to make a living, but also to avoid the religious strife and which had so bedogged the place.

The Middle Eastern community in this medium-sized mid-western city had turned inward upon itself. Moslems avoided as much as possible public transport, drove rather than flew, and kept clear of the authorities as much as possible.

The harassment was not long in coming. Mo' didn't blame them, even when the F.B.I had visited his shop, because he understood the reason-sapping hysteria.

America had never had such an attack since Pearl Harbour and it's people were traumatised. Shit, he was blitzed. What they didn't understand, he mused, was that Arabs had taken this sort of hit for generations and the world seemingly, had stood by. Still, he thought nothing else to do but get on with life and keep your head down.

Mo' ran a small but growing business. After business school he had gone into partnership with his father in a wholesaling business supplying restaurants with middle eastern and Asian foods.

He had then found there was a demand among the increasingly affluent ethnic community for his supplies so he had opened a delicatessen to cater for the public. This part of the business had grown sufficiently for him to employ more staff.

He liked to have Lebanese work his shop, mostly sons and daughters of his customers. They worked hard, were punctual, and he believed he was helping his community, as well as his business. He had 5 or 6 girls who regularly worked shifts in the shop. They were honest and clean and the customers liked them, that was the important thing.

In his thirties, Mo' had never married, despite his mother putting up candidates. He was westernised to the extent that he wanted to do his own picking.

"But Mohammed," she would say.

Only his parents used his full name.

"That young Khoulouri girl would be just right for you."

In exasperation she had turned to his younger brother for which he was grateful. Not that he was against marriage, he just hadn't found the right one, and, he thought to himself, all the candidates were a bit over the hill for his taste.

Mo' liked the fresh young things. He had secretly fancied a few of the girls he'd hired but alas he had to keep them strictly off-limits. In his community, everyone knew everyone else and most of the teenagers were connected to his customers in some way.

Although most of them were more or less westernised when it came to morals, most of the families would take a very dim view if he bedded any of them.

It's not that he wasn't desirable. He was reasonably good looking, slim with pale olive skin. He was also quite well to do and managed his money carefully.