The Apostate (28 page)

His wife was doing all the fighting, Ray saw, but he felt constrained in supporting the show as it might seem egotistic on his part.

Finally the imam spoke in a musing tone as if he hadn't made up his mind. “It's true that such a show would give us a mighty voice.”

“But how expensive a voice?” Tariq asked. He turned toward Ray. “Ray, I share your excitement over this possibility, but how can you know in advance how many people will watch the show?”

“I can't,” Ray admitted. “But television is very popular. Even cable.”

Abra broke in to change the focus. “We can contact other centers. I'm sure some will be interested.”

“Some may think it un-Islamic to advertise in this fashion,” the imam continued to ponder.

“No, uncle, that's not true today,” Abra said. “And it isn't advertising. It's a news show.”

The imam nodded at this correction, favoring his niece with an approving look. It was clear the imam was looking for a compromise.

But Abra, as Ray knew she would, stayed on course. “Al Jazeera is on network TV. All sorts of religious and ethnic shows are on TV. The world has changed. We have to adapt, and this is a tremendous way to get our message across.”

“But the show has to be newsworthy,” Ray interjected. He didn't want the putative show to have a conversion feel to it, and he couldn't just sit there like the proverbial potted plant.

Abra flashed a look of denial as if Ray had betrayed her. “I don't mean religious in that sense.”

“This is what also worries me,” Tariq said. “There will be much confusion.”

“It's how we couch the proposal,” Abra said.

“I agree,” the imam said, finally taking a position. “We'll send our thoughts on this idea to other centers under my name.”

“Fine,” Tariq said in a hard to read, dispassionate tone.

As he exchanged a glance of solidarity with Abra, Ray sensed that Tariq was secretly pleased though he had argued otherwise. Now the next challenge was Perkins, who would have his own arguments.

“Ray,” Perkins said guardedly, “this TV show can be a good thing if you work it the right way.”

Perkins stared at him as they sat at a corner booth in a cafeteria in a different part of the city. At this rate, Perkins could probably write a book about inexpensive eateries in Los Angeles. Now Perkins dispensed with the cover of a false manuscript as he was no longer an editor. Ostensibly, they were just two friends getting together, unless someone took a closer look at their tense faces.

“What's the right way?” Ray questioned.

“Come on, Ray,” Perkins said with a punishing stare. “This is no time to be coy. Don't get everyone riled up, both Muslims and everyone else, with your talk about media, elections, and all the controversial stuff in your repertoire. It can blow up in your face.”

Ray winced at the word
repertoire
. Was this what his campaign meant to Perkins and the PAS?

Oblivious to Ray's reaction, Perkins went on, “We want to influence American Muslims, particularly youths, to be lawful and peaceful citizens. Did you forget that?”

“Nope. If the show actually goes on, that's what I'll try to do.”

“Don't try. Do it! Don't go overboard!”

“Yes, sir.”

Perkins smirked. Somehow, Ray thought, he had managed to reach an acceptable balance of how much lip he could give Perkins before a storm took place.

“What's the hold up?” Perkins demanded to know.

“Sponsors.”

“You don't have enough?”

“I don't know,” Ray admitted. “Letters have gone out to other Islamic Centers, but I would much prefer if we could have non-Islamic sponsors. I don't want the show, despite this message, to be perceived as religious in tone in any way. I want the content to be newsworthy and cover American Muslims in entertainment, sports, politics—the entire spectrum of contemporary American life. It will be far more effective that way.”

“Sounds good if you tone things down,” Perkins said. He hesitated a moment. “We can possibly get you a sponsor.”

“Really? Who?”

Perkins lowered his voice. “It would likely be a shadow company the CIA uses. Let me look into it. What's the time frame here?”

“The producer, Herb Wenner, is already working on getting the show set up on Sunday mornings. He assures me that if you have a show, sponsors will come.”

Ray grinned to show he didn't take Wenner seriously on this score and didn't expect Perkins to either.

Perkins, picking up his cue, scoffed. “Must be an occupational hazard. Wenner's a Jew, isn't he?”

“I don't know,” Ray said. This was the first suggestion that Perkins might be anti-Semitic, and somehow he wasn't surprised.

“I'll let you know on my end and you keep me posted on the other centers and how they respond,” Perkins said. “That might be a tip-off on other things.”

Always suspicious, Ray thought, Perkins' occupational hazard. Perkins stared at him as if an important issue had been settled.

In truth, Ray thought, here was another potential chapter in his strange life. From a nobody, he was becoming a somebody, and the process was eating away at him.

Leslie Gold, the entertainment journalist interviewing him, was a ravishing brunette. Her long and lustrous hair hung down to her shapely shoulders, surrounding a tan face marked by large and luminous blue eyes, a well-shaped nose, and full lips. Her white blouse was open at the neck just enough to see the forced closeness of her ample breasts. A silver Indian necklace with an intricate design hung from her neck. She was attractive, she knew it, and she wasn't abashed at suggesting her charms. But when Leslie spoke she had a restrained and respectful manner that immediately appealed to Ray. He was married less than a year and he was entranced despite himself, desperately afraid Leslie was able to read him.

Wenner had set up the prospect of an interview with the weekly publication, and they presented him with the responsibility of picking the exact time and place. He was also expected to pick up the tab for the lunch, this time at a Hollywood Boulevard restaurant not far from the publication's offices.

“How close is your show to airing?” Leslie asked, pulling out a notebook and pen. She had a professional demeanor, Ray thought, but he still was afraid to get caught in the brilliance of her dancing eyes.

“Herb Wenner would know better than me.”

It was absurd, Ray chastised himself. He was looking sideways at Leslie like someone driving a car on the freeway at night while trying to avoid the glare of bright lights from oncoming cars.

“Have you invited your first guests?”

“Invitations have been sent out.”

“Can you say who to?” Her question was reasonable, but she made her smile too alluring. Did she think he was a pushover for her charms?

“I'd rather not,” Ray said, “until they confirm. But our guests, and please make it clear in your article, won't necessarily be Muslims. They'll be from all religions and cover all bases of American life, culture, politics, what have you.”

“But all with an Islamic slant, right?” Her eyes challenged him, but this time he dared to dance in their lure. Leslie couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three and she was playing, and with some skill, with a secret agent.

“If you mean covering the lives of American Muslims by slant, then yes.”

Leslie nodded, and wrote in her notebook. Then they took time to eat lunch. Leslie had a chicken salad while Ray ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich. Neither wanted wine, with Leslie getting a coke, while Ray selected iced coffee.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” Leslie said after they finished lunch and she asked a few more questions. “It's very convenient for me. The office is nearby and I only live a few blocks away.”

Why was she telling him this? Was this a hint? Did she want him to come on to her? Walk her home? Accept an invitation to come in for coffee or a drink? A sudden embrace and shedding of clothes for an afternoon quickie? Or were all these erotic thoughts the product of an overheated imagination? Ray was ashamed of himself at the same time as images of her naked body squirming under him circulated in his mind. Was he so easily tempted to stray from his marital vows?

“How was lunch?” Abra asked as they washed and dried dishes after a delicious meal of coq au vin. Abra was an accomplished cook, and she delighted in preparing sophisticated dishes. They both exercised in the house separately but regularly. Buying an exercise bicycle, on their purchase list, was still toward the bottom of this sobering roster. Money was still tight, despite the second installment of his book advance.

“Good,” he said. “It should be a solid story.”

Ray felt oddly tense and wondered why. He had a clear conscience as far as the delectable journalist. Their parting had been outside the restaurant, cordial and professional. She walked, presumably, back to her office. He watched her leave, her behind twitching, and then went to the rear of the restaurant and its small parking area. His thoughts were normal, and he felt delivered from temptation. Abra probably ran into men she thought attractive. What continued to grip him, and cause this constant strain, came more from the prospects of even further national exposure and the inevitable deepening of his colossal deception. He vowed never to cheat on Abra. Any sexual straying would go beyond wrecking his marriage. It would fatally mar his campaign to wrest something great and good from the deception his mission necessitated.

“I'd like to meet this producer,” Abra said.

“He's a bit of a character. Very enthusiastic.”

Abra shrugged. “Well, he seems to be moving ahead.”

“That he is. Anything new from other centers?”

“Not yet. They don't move that fast, and this is something they're not used to. I would think they're giving the proposal serious consideration.”

“Let's hope so,” Ray said. “How were the good ladies of the auxiliary?”

“Chatty, but we got a lot done. We're going to have a talent show for children next month. Something new. We've never done that sort of thing before.”

“Sounds interesting.”

Abra nodded. “Oh, by the way, I got home before you, and I did a little cleaning up in the garage.”

Ray immediately felt alarmed. Perhaps leaving his notes in clear sight had become a mistake.

“Don't look so unhappy,” she said. “I just consolidated a few things. I put your stuff in a lower shelf. It looked too heavy to be where it was. Everything will tumble in an earthquake, and we don't have earthquake insurance. But you can see where I put it.”

“Fine,” Ray said, trying to cover up his initial concern. It was just a small after-shock, but it showed how vulnerable he was. His notes were buried inside old bills, letters, and other material, all from before he was married, so there was no reason for Abra to look for anything in the plastic container. He was extremely careful about adding new material, which was always done when Abra wasn't home. There weren't any love letters to and from old girlfriends, nor was there any reason for Abra to think so. What was there, though, would be far more shocking to her if she read everything.

Palpitations came when anything about his notes was broached, but it looked like there wasn't any problem. Now.

“Welcome to
Islam In America
, the news show that tells you clearly and candidly what's going on with American Muslims.”

Ray felt the breath in his mouth dissolve once he was on the air. He was speaking to an unseen audience, except for the television technicians and one or two executives. Abra stood near the set next to a monitor with a taut expression on her face. This was the pilot show. Sponsors were no longer a problem. A Northern California Center joined his center and Perkins came through with Premier Consulting Corporation, which ostensibly supplied international business counseling. The company had a street address in Houston, and an impressive client list. And it was all bullshit!

“Our subject today is Islamophobia. Does it exist? If so, how bad is it? What can we do about it? What is the government doing about it?”

Wenner had suggested he make his first show as controversial as possible and he was certainly obliging his producer. Perkins was probably another matter, but he'd cross that less than sturdy bridge later.

“Many people wonder if Islamophobia really exists. And if it does, why? And does it deserve to exist. We'll try to answer these questions, or at least shed some light on the subject.”

Ray looked to the right and saw his first guest, Ed Merkeim from the Department of Homeland Security. He wasn't head of the federal agency, but he held a sufficiently high position as a deputy. Merkeim took his seat opposing Ray as they sat across from each other at a small table. He was a tall and lean man with a narrow face and a crop of closely cut white hair.

“Let's get right into it,” Ray said. “Is there Islamophobia in the U.S. today?”

“I wouldn't term it a phobia,” Merkeim said with an air of authority. “American Muslims get the same treatment under the law as anyone else.”

“You're saying there's no difference in attitude or treatment?” Ray said. His expression of incredulity obviously irritated Merkeim. How it fared in whatever homes the show was being watched remained to be known.

“None,” Merkeim insisted. He kept a steady lock on Ray's face like this treatment would induce retraction or just confusion.

Undeterred Ray asked, “What about those swept up after 9/11 and kept in detention with absolutely no evidence against them? What about others since who have been taken into custody on false suspicions and then released? There have been several cases.”

“Mistakes have been made,” Merkeim conceded, “but the same kind of mistakes could have been made to anyone of any religion or ethnic group. No difference.”