“He’s also sending money home for his family.”

“Fine, let him get a decent job. We have no plans to arrest him. He’ll be served with a summons after we confiscate his fake Rolex watches.”

Jones realized they were now surrounded by seven tough men. He knew from experience they were street savvy. One, who was tall and stocky and wearing faded jeans and a Gucci sweatshirt, protested, “Imam, we got to stop this. They are takin’ our stuff.”

The Imam walked over to him. “You need to go home, my brother.”

“Why? Why let them take our livelihood?” The man’s anguish spread to the others. “We got to stop this,” another man said.

The Imam calmed them with a wave of his hand. “We’ll have no more talk about this. Everyone leave.”

After the men had departed, the Imam walked over to Lumier. “Nothing will happen to you if you surrender the watches.” A dangerous situation was diffused. Afterward, Jones formed an unlikely acquaintance with the holy man, who remained sympathetic to the street peddlers selling knockoffs.

Jones walked up the Mosque steps. At the top were two sturdy doors. He tried the door handle and it was unlocked. Inside the walls leading into the interior were sparkling white. He moved slowly, awed by the immense silence. He came to a table where a woman, wearing a blue silk khimar, was seated. Several hard-cover books were stacked before her, while behind was a winding staircase. To the right was a prayer room with straw mats lining the floor.

“My name’s Theo Jones. I’m here to see the Imam.”

She smiled. “Second floor, first office to the right.”

He walked past her and ascended the stairs. He found the holy man sitting at a desk. Jones took a seat. Lining the walls were photos and paintings of men, nearly indistinguishable one from the other because of their full beards and turbans.

“I need your help,” the Imam said.