The Apostate (11 page)

So he was right, Ray thought. It was a set-up, but he couldn't just make an excuse and leave. He was caught and had to submit.

“Your work on the Internet and your letter to the press are most worthy,” Ezbek said.

Ray nodded.

“And you speak Arabic as well.”

“Far from fluently,” Ray said.

Ezbek's dark eyes narrowed. “Would you like to improve your Arabic?”

“Of course,” Ray said, waiting for the catch.

“Excellent! But would you like to do it in Yemen? We have excellent schools for this purpose.”

Ray shook his head. “I have a job here, and of course I want to be with Abra.”

“Yes, yes of course. But the course would be short-lived, and your expenses will be covered. Surely you can separate yourself for a short while. I'm sure Abra would understand.”

No, she wouldn't
, Ray thought. She probably knew nothing about this meeting and would be unhappy to hear what went on behind her back. “I'm sure the class would be very helpful as far as my Arabic, but it wouldn't work out.”

Ezbek, however, was far from deterred. “While you were there you could also become more versed in our Islamic cause, and then use this greater knowledge in your work here.”

“I'm sure that's true,” Ray acknowledged. Play the game, he cautioned himself. Make no slip-up.

“Other opportunities may also arise in Yemen,” Ezbek said in an exploratory manner. Ray was taken by how something essentially sinister could be delivered in such a casual manner. Ezbek was a smooth recruiter, if that was his role. Did his recruitment also take place at the mosque? That would be something Perkins would be eager to learn.

“Such as?” Ray asked, tiring of the side meanings. He wasn't going to pussyfoot any longer. Perkins would doubtless be interested in this conversation regardless of any tie-in to the complex. Before he left he had to get Ezbek's business card. As a buyer and seller of goods, Ezbek needed to play the role of a businessman as a cover for any more nefarious activities.

Ezbek smiled mysteriously. “Here in Los Angeles the world may be seen one way, but in Yemen, your eyes may be opened further. But as they say here, think it over.”

“I'll do that,” Ray said. “And thank you for your offer.”

“It's my pleasure,” Ezbek said. Another polite smile flew from his face like a darting bird.

“May I have your card?” Ray asked.

Ezbek began to reach into a pocket. “Ah, how silly of me. I've forgotten to replenish my cards. But Tariq knows how to reach me.”

When Ray came home from work he discovered to his dismay that a burglar had been in his apartment. He saw immediately that his laptop computer was gone along with all his CDs and some old discs. Books and papers were strewn on the floor. A two-drawer teak filing cabinet was wide open, but he couldn't tell yet if anything had been taken from the folders or any folders themselves. Drawers to his desk were also open and two $20 bills and several single dollar bills were gone. His clothing seemed intact in the closet, but his wheeled suitcase and his tennis racket, which both sat at the bottom of the closet, were missing. He didn't have many things of value or they'd probably be gone, too, but he doubted the thief would make two trips. Everything was just stuffed into his suitcase.

He wasn't aware of any other burglaries in his apartment house. Why was he so favored?

Ray called the police. A detective came to his apartment several hours later. Ray gave him a list of what had been taken along with the serial number of his laptop.

“What are my chances of getting anything back?” he asked the detective, a hefty man in his late thirties or early forties with a bristling mustache and receding blonde hair

“Poor to non-existent, but I'll give you something for insurance,” the detective said without the slightest hesitation. “You have insurance, right?”

Ray nodded. “Have there been any other robberies in this building? In this neighborhood?”

“In this building, I'd say no. In the neighborhood, yeah, a couple. You didn't have the best lock, you know. Get a stronger, double bolt one.”

“And that's fool proof?”

The detective gave Ray questioning look. “Nah. It just takes longer, and the longer a thief has to work to get in someplace, the less tempted they are. It's in and out as fast as possible.”

Ray thanked the detective. He'd never see his lap top again or anything else. He checked his folders in the file cabinet and nothing seemed missing. Then he sat down and wrote everything, file or folder, that was on the computer. Perkins had warned him not to put anything about his work with the PAS on his computer or to print out as hard copy. However, an ordinary thief wouldn't presumably be interested in what subjects he had on his computer, and such a robber wouldn't know how to gain access without his password. What was the going rate for a used laptop nowadays?

But then the nagging thought came that perhaps it wasn't a garden variety thief?

Maybe someone wanted to see what his role with the PAS was? That could be someone at the behest of Tariq who had obviously been less than thrilled at the probability of an engagement announcement with a wedding to follow. Tariq's apparent duplicity with the alleged businessman Ezbek still didn't settle well. Or it could be the PAS itself, keen on knowing how sloppy he was. All he had was a list of Muslim writers that Abra had given him with any information he had gleaned about them on the Internet. Nothing very revealing or incriminating.

What wasn't found, if it was looked for, were his notes on his campaign. Virtually every night he wrote long hand about his experiences. He wasn't going to take a chance with just deleting his jottings on his computer. A professional computer expert could find a way to recapture the deleted notes. Instead, he bundled his slowly growing journal inside old clothing put in a no longer used and well battered suitcase, only marked by a yellow tag and not his name. He put the piece of venerable luggage in the basement of the apartment house where many tenants were allowed to store furniture and other bulky items.

But what should his next step be now, Ray pondered?

Finally, as instructed, Ray didn't use his cell phone. Instead, he went downstairs to the nearest public phone and left a message for Perkins.

 

“Do you think Tariq engineered the burglary?” Perkins asked as they sat at yet a different cafeteria but probably with the same false manuscript. If they kept doing this long enough Perkins might even begin to look and sound like an editor.

“I don't know,” Ray said. He had more or less ruled out Perkins as being behind the burglary though he couldn't be absolutely sure. The fact that he was a writer— unpublished but still a writer and obviously an editor—probably worked against him. Someone like him was more likely to keep notes, and to maintain a journal or diary. “Coming from meeting Mr. Ezbek, I wouldn't be surprised.”

Perkins nodded.

“So what did you find out about him, Ezbek?”

“Not much,” Perkins said. “He does have a trading operation in Yemen. He's legit as far as that goes. But we're still checking him out. You're sure you haven't seen him around the complex?”

“No, I haven't.” Ray toyed with mentioning his suspicion that Ezbek was a former suitor of Abra. It would only make him seem jealous, and he still didn't know for sure he was right.

“Well,” Perkins said. “It's a good find and it may lead to something.”

“He was oily,” Ray said with distaste. “I didn't trust him.”

“But he was clever, wasn't he? Just saying opportunities.”

“Whatever that means.”

“You know what it means,” Perkins said with a hard stare. Was such a stare a natural gift or did the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia hold classes in facial postures? He remembered the television show,
Lie To Me
, where the hero, always so unrealistic as in most television fare, had the uncanny ability to know when someone was lying or not by the expressions and twitchings on their faces. Perkins was good at his craft, but not that good.

“Yeah,” Ray admitted. “Learning how to use an AK and how to make bombs.”

“Among other terrorist skills.”

“With fluency in Arabic atop the terrorist cake.”

Perkins let himself have a thin smile. “Interesting image. But he offered Arabic language classes, which leads to the suspicion they may have another role for you.”

“Such as?”

Perkins shrugged. “Not clear yet.” He waited a beat. “So your session went well with the imam?”

Ray nodded. “Yes. He seemed pleased.”

“Good. And everything is copacetic with Abra?”

Copacetic!
Perkins was trying to sound erudite, an editor of sorts beneath the tough-edged exterior. Somehow it just didn't fit him.

“Great!”

Perkins nodded. “If you get any feedback from Tariq on your time alone with Ezbek, that's a tip-off. Give a holler.”

“Will do.”

“Just keep it going,” Perkins said, as he got up with the bill.

***

Ray went straight to the complex after his meeting with Perkins. If he ran into Tariq, he just had to pretend that he wasn't at all suspicious about Ezbek. But it was Abra he wanted to see, and she was still in her tiny office.

“Hi,” Ray said, “Working late?”

Abra smiled. “Lots to do.”

Ray decided he had to satisfy his curiosity. “I had tea earlier with Tariq and he introduced me to a Hassan Ezbek, who wants to dispatch me to Yemen.”

“Really?” Abra said, less surprised than he would have anticipated. “Are you going?”

Ray smiled. “No. I want to stick around.”

“Good,” she said, her eyes flashing with a warm glint. Abra had a low-key humor he enjoyed.

“Do you know this guy, Ezbek?”

“We met on a couple of occasions.”

There was no clue in her voice or manner and Abra, who had excellent intuition, must know what he was sniffing about with his fevered imagination. But he couldn't just blurt out what he wanted to know.

“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked.

“Great,” she said. “Just let me finish up a couple of things.”

“I'll wait for you in the courtyard.”

“Okay,” she said. But then she said before Ray left her office, “Oh, Ray, just in case you wondered, there was never anything between Ezbek and me. He's a family friend, of Tariq really, and there was no talk of marriage by anyone, especially me.”

“Oh,” Ray pretended to be disinterested, “I wouldn't have thought he was your type.”

“What's my type?”

“A funny fool?”

Abra laughed. “I'll be out soon,” she said in fond dismissal.

Fading afternoon light filtered through the ground floor apartment and Ray rubbed his eyes. He had lost track of how many days, and nights, he had spent in this mountain village a good distance from Sanaa. Nemendi, their prisoner, still sat slumped over on an armless chair in the sparsely-furnished room. His head hung over his chest as his hands and feet were severely bound by ropes. There was no need to put duct tape over his mouth. No one would hear him here in this dry scrubland. No one would come to his aid. Streaks of dried blood ran like tiny rivulets across his forehead and pocked cheeks.

“No word has come about his release,” announced Abdul Jerassy, putting his cell phone in his pocket. He stared first at his confederate, Ben Al-Debban, and then at Ray. But his name wasn't Ray anymore, Ray realized. He was now Raza Harbush, and he was a member of this secret Yemeni group linked to Al Qaida.

“The time has come, Raza,” Jerassy said with a meaningful look.

“The dog must die!” Al-Debban said, giving their prisoner a harsh look.

“He betrayed us to the Zionist pigs,” Jerassy said. “It's been decided that you must cut his throat.”

“And I will photograph this so the deed can be seen by others as a warning,”Al-Debban said, taking a camera with a flash attachment from a nearby couch with torn covers.

“This, Raza, will be your final test,” Jerassy said with an encouraging look. “With the blood of this traitor you will be our brother forever.”

“Lift his head and cut from left to right,” Al-Debban advised. “Let his head roll to the floor. It will be left on the road to Sanaa where everyone may see the fate of traitors.”

Ray, now Raza, accepted a curved dagger with ceremonial writing on its handle. Without feeling the edge he knew it was razor sharp. Unflinchingly, he stood behind the prisoner and lifted his head up. The man's eyes were glassy but horror still showed as he realized his life was about to come to a ghastly end.

“Now!” Jerassy ordered.

Ray, sure of his identity as Raza, readied his hand to make a deep sideways slash against the man's exposed throat. How much pressure did he have to apply to actually have the head come loose? Would one stroke suffice? Or would he have to saw away, looking foolish and weak? The man would surely be dead before his head was fully severed and rolling on the bare floor. How much blood would pour forth? Turning, he saw Al-Debban ready to put his deed into film.

“Now!” a third man named Hassan repeated impatiently.

“Yes!” Ray/Raza cried in triumph, about to make a mighty slash. But then he, not the prisoner, screamed. And he woke up, drenched in sweat.

Tariq was showing some uncharacteristic warmth in congratulating him on his tentative engagement to Abra and his commitment to conversion to Islam, but Ray found it difficult to believe in his sincerity. He always had to contend with a measure of lingering distrust in all his contact with Abra's uncle, whose intentions still seemed as dark as his face. The set-up with Ezbek still rankled. Perkins, shooting down any notion that the PAS was checking up on him with a burglary, suggested that the theft was probably orchestrated by Tariq. The agency's files on Tariq indicated that he was the center's point man on advancing Muslim causes around the world and especially in the U.S. But no links to terrorists had been found, financial or otherwise. The tip-off, Perkins maintained, was that the burglar went through his filing cabinet. And this only confirmed Ray's own suspicion. But there was no proof.