The Apostate (32 page)

Again, he kept driving at a slow pace, following the curving road. It made sense to approach the farmhouse where Tariq was on foot. He couldn't very well drive up in front of the house. Locating a spot where he could park his car without creating a traffic hazard took him back farther than he wanted, but finally he found a place where he could lodge the car in a narrow spot between towering pine trees. He left his emergency lights on just in case.

Walking back, Ray felt a growing sense of danger. What he was doing wasn't really very bright. If Tariq was up to no good, as he suspected, then he was moving into a hazardous situation. And he wasn't armed. Actually, he thought, as he moved off the road to slowly advance toward the farmhouse from the side, he was now trespassing.

Creeping low, he got to the house and then ducked beneath a window. The window had blinds but there was a slice of open window at the bottom. Ray could see inside, and by bending lower and tilting his head he could see Tariq. It took a moment, but then Ray got a glance sufficient to recognize the red-haired man who had been with Tariq at the center. Actually, he should have brought a camera, but he didn't keep one in his car. Its presence would surely have been noticed by Abra.

Something was afoot; he was certain of it. Tariq wasn't a farmer, and this wasn't the sort of real estate he might be interested in, though a retreat for Islamic youths might be a possibility. All this might be a false alarm on his part, and a huge embarrassment if he was caught. But he was here, and things still didn't seem right. If he could just hear what they were saying he might be able to figure out what was happening.

What could he do now? Despite his amateurish detective work, all that he had accomplished was to more deeply suspect Tariq. But he had no proof of anything. The whole thing could be completely innocent, but he couldn't imagine what Tariq, hardly a farmer, would be doing at this isolated house. It didn't make sense.

Pressing his ears to the window he could only hear snatches of conversation, but a couple of words were chilling:

Detonated.

A few tourists

Yes, Muslims, too.

Ray thought he heard Tariq say, “Good.”

Good God! What were they planning? A bomb! Where? When?

Still, these isolated words weren't enough evidence for a jury, but there was no doubt Perkins would be convinced to dive into the matter. But what exactly was the plot? Detonation had to mean a bomb. And Tariq and the red-haired man were looking around the center!

Bomb the center! Why? Why would Tariq want to bomb the complex? Was there time to stop whatever was planned?

Ray moved around the house in a semi-crouch to see if he could find a better spot to listen in. As he turned the corner to the other side he tripped over a pail jutting out from the corner. The noise wasn't that loud, but it was enough to bring the redneck storming out of the house with Tariq still inside.

“Who's there?” the redneck shouted, a gun in his hand.

Desperately, Ray looked around for anything to defend himself with, but there was only the pail. He glued himself to the wooden wall, hopeful not to be noticed in the fading light. But as the redneck approached closer, Ray suddenly picked the pail up and threw it at the man's hand that held the gun. The pistol fell to the ground and both the man and Ray dove for it. They wrestled for a moment, with the stronger redneck sprawled atop of Ray. Neither man had control of the weapon. The man suddenly drew a knife from his waist. As he raised the knife to thrust it into Ray's chest Ray's finger closed upon the gun. He fired as the knife tore through his shirt, grazing his arm. The redneck fell upon him, dead.

As he pushed the dead man off him, Ray saw Tariq escaping in his car. But he didn't think Tariq could have recognized him on the other side of the house. It was getting too dark. But he'd find out soon enough, he thought with dread.

“Listen, something's going to happen at the complex!” Ray shouted over his cell phone to Perkins as soon as he got back to the main highway. “It sounds like a bomb.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw Tariq showing this guy, some redneck, around the center earlier today. It looked suspicious, so I followed Tariq and he went to this isolated farm house where this guy lives.”

“You were snooping!” Perkins charged, rage in his voice.

“And for good reason,” Ray responded. “I couldn't hear all their conversation but I heard detonation.”

“That isn't much to go on,” Perkins said, still with obvious anger. “You should check with me before playing detective.”

“It's real!” Ray shouted, furious at Perkins' attitude. Regardless if what he did was reckless, and it certainly was, what he found out was crucial. And dim-witted Perkins had to realize that. “It sounded like the plan was operational.”

“Okay, we'll check it out,” Perkins said in a calmer tone.

But Ray was unconvinced. “How? I think it's an emergency.”

“Take it easy, Ray. We'll take care of it. Now what else happened?”

Ray felt a lump in his throat, but he had to tell Perkins everything. Tariq was loose, and he must have realized that he was followed.” This man looked like a redneck, and not because he had red hair. He heard me outside the house. He came running out and threatened me with a gun. I hit him with a pail before he could shoot me. It was self-defense. I managed to knock his gun loose. We fought to get the gun, but then he drew a knife, and he stabbed me on my shoulder. But I got my hand on the gun and…he got shot.”

“You mean you shot him,” Perkins said as if correcting a verbal test.

“It was self defense!” Ray forced himself to stay calm. Perkins was exasperating, and he didn't ask about his wound. “Tariq got away. I don't think he saw me, but he knows he was followed, and he'll probably think it was me. You have to stop him, and right away!”

“We will.”

“So what do I do now?” Ray asked, stricken with uncertainty. “I can't go to the police. I was stalking Tariq, trespassing. They won't believe me, especially with a dead man. And Tariq will find a way to squirm loose and blame me for everything. Either way my cover is shot.”

“You're right,” Perkins conceded. He was silent a moment. “Okay, this is what you do. We're going to have to extract you. I'm going to give you an address to go to. It's a safe house. I'll contact you there.”

“Go right now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But check the center and Tariq. The guy I shot was looking at the ground plan, especially the athletic area.”

“Will do. Got a pen?”

Ray wrote down the address of the safe house and a new cell phone number to contact Perkins. His life was being shattered. How could he confront Abra? Aside from personal considerations, all his work could be going down the drain. Just what was Tariq up to, and could he be stopped in time?

Unexpectedly, a tour group descended on the center. Their regular guide had a dental appointment so Abra pinch-hit for her. The group, six women and ten men—all Muslims—had seen most of the complex and were viewing the athletic grounds, which were devoid of people except for several boys, sons of a staff secretary, shooting hoops on the basketball court.

The bomb, lodged near the entrance of the equipment room and detonated by remote control, showered the area with bloody body parts. No one survived, including Abra.

Instinctively, Ray gripped the redneck's pistol, stuck inside his belt, as soon as he heard a sound at the door of the apartment. Since his fingerprints were on the weapon it hadn't made sense to leave it behind, and now he was glad. Some of the PAS' training with weapons might pay off now as he lifted his gun from his waist and held it tightly. If the noise was made by Perkins, or who ever was sent to extract him, they would show caution, but this situation just didn't seem right. The door knob turned a quarter of an inch and stopped. Then there was a series of three short knocks as if they were part of an established pattern but not one he knew about.

Ray slid against the wall, his back glued to it, and his gun pointed at the door.

“Ray, Perkins sent me,” a voice he didn't recognize said from the hallway. “Open up.”

Ray moved closer to the door. “Shove your ID under the door.”

“Come on, Ray,” the man said. “Don't play games. Perkins wants to see you ASAP.”

Then he's going to have to wait, Ray decided. Something was wrong here.

Suddenly, a fusillade of shots opened the door. A man rushed in, crouching and firing his gun in a sharp series of shots in every direction. Neither hit Ray, who fired just once, dropping the assassin in the threshold of the room. Unwilling to take a chance he was still alive, Ray pumped three more bullets into the fallen man. Advancing to check any identification, he was shot in the shoulder by Tariq standing just outside the open door in the hallway.

Ray fell to the ground. Tariq stood over him with a scowl, his pistol pointed at his forehead. He had probably missed his aim the first time, but at this distance he couldn't miss a fatal shot. “It's time for your apostasy to be rewarded,” Tariq said. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, with his cold voice like a verbal icicle aimed at him.

“How did…”

“Get here?” Tariq gave him a knowledgeable glare. “The enemies of my enemies are my friends.”

Then it dawned upon Ray like a flash of lightning. It was Perkins. It had to be Perkins who had betrayed him? How was that possible? It must be that Perkins never believed him that his book wouldn't discuss the PAS, his original sleeper agent status and overall mission. They were afraid he would betray them! This way Perkins could keep his entire operation secret. Were he to stay alive too much would be disclosed. He was expendable.

But if the police took hold of him, the whole truth would come out. So that's why Tariq and his dead henchman had come to do Perkins' dirty work. Dead men tell no tales, and don't write expose books. But what was the quid pro quo for Tariq? What was he getting out of this sordid deal? What an idiot he was in trusting Perkins! But what about the complex and the bomb?

“So you understand now,” Tariq said. “Quickly say your prayers, if you still remember them.”

“What happened at the center?” Ray asked, feeling weak. His wounds, first by a knife and now by a pistol, throbbed. He felt heavy like he couldn't lift himself up. Somehow he had to stall for time.

“A slight accident, but one that will reverberate around the world. An Islamic center bombed. Even worse than a Qur'an being defiled. Everyone will flock to our cause now and the American
ummah
will become a strong force dictating American politics and policy. Our voice will be powerful.”

“So I was right,” Ray half murmured to himself. “I was helping you all along.”

“And quite well,” Tariq said with a disdainful smile. “Take pleasure before you die that you helped us gain political power, as much or more than the Jews. And even elect a president you so dramatically suggested.”

Ray shook his head. Tariq was deluded, but he had to keep him talking. “How many died?”

“Not many.” Tariq said. “Collateral damage, as the American infidels like to say in apologizing for their indiscriminate bombings.”

“From the center?”

“Some tourists and two martyrs. Hasek and Abdul, Ana's sons, and…”

Tariq hesitated, and then said in a regretful tone. “Someone you will never meet in paradise, but an accident. Another martyr…unintended.”

“Who?” Ray demanded. His voice faltered. “The imam? Abra?”

Ray didn't wait for an answer. He knew from Tariq's expression that it was Abra. Goddamn that asshole, Perkins! He told him it was an emergency. Or did Perkins let it happen on purpose? The dark thought entered his mind like a tsunami. Was Perkins playing this much of a double game? Letting the bomb go off and then swooping down on the center as an example of the Islamic penchant for violence. How much more Islamophobia had Tariq stupidly caused?

While Tariq was speaking, and letting his alertness lapse for a few instants, Ray managed to wedge his hand under the dead man's body and to grip his gun. Now he brought it out and shot at Tariq a split second before Tariq, taken aback by the sudden movement, shot at him. Another bullet winged Ray's left thigh but Tariq fell forward, his head almost at his feet. He had shot at the broadest target, Tariq's chest, and perhaps hit his heart. Shoving Tariq's head with his left foot, Ray saw no movement. One nemesis was gone.

Police sirens sounded. Too many shots had gone off and someone had to have heard and called the police. Ray wanted to stand, but he couldn't.

***

The police summoned an ambulance and Ray was taken to the hospital. No one came to see him except the same two detectives who had seen him after he was first wounded. Nothing had ever come of that case, at least anything that he was privy to. He had survived that attack, and none of his wounds, though more serious this time, were life threatening.

“So what went down?” one detective, Hal Edwins, asked.

“I told you I'm an operative with the Protect America Service. I was sent to this safe house by my handler, Sam Perkins.”

This was the first time he was actually glad to use the word “handler.” But to date Perkins had failed to come to the hospital or to call him. Ray wasn't at all surprised, with Perkins' absence even more proof of his betrayal. Perkins wanted him dead! But he was alive, and Perkins surely knew this. So what was next? His hospital room wasn't guarded. Anyone could slip in and quickly dispatch him.

“And the two men you shot?” The second detective, Mike Allek, looked at him like he was a mass murderer.

“One was Tariq Esaaba, an official at the Islamic Complex. He was the treasurer. I don't know who the other man was, but he burst in the apartment shooting at me.”