The Apostate (4 page)

“I'm not interested,” Ray said flatly. “I prefer to die of old age. I'll take my chances with the police thing.”

“Bad move, Ray,” Perkins said. “Young guys like you don't do well in jail. You'd be fresh meat.”

A sobering image, Ray had to admit. But maybe he had seen too many prison movies.

“The stakes are high,” Perkins said. “Certain reasonable risks have to be taken. If you can access the inner councils of any of Al Qaeda's splinter groups, the intelligence you could provide us would save countless lives. We're living in an age of difficult trade-offs. This is one of them.”

“I'm flattered, in a way, that you actually think I could carry this off,” Ray said. It was ridiculous of him, but he couldn't help wondering if he could turn such an experience into a book, either fiction or nonfiction. Perhaps it might be worth it after all. He could quit before any conversion took place. There hadn't been any mention of his having to show anything he wrote prior to commercial publication. People who worked for the CIA had to sign such agreements, he knew, but maybe that wasn't the case here.

“We'd train you, secretly. Your payments would start as soon as you agree. Like I said you'll have quite a retirement package for your old age.”

“If I lived to enjoy it,” Ray said.

“You don't have to decide now,” Perkins said. “Think it over. This is a lot to consider, so I'll give you a week from today. If we don't get a yes, expect to get a police summons.”

Perkins handed Ray an official-looking business card. “Call me.”

“Perkins, make sure any candidate for the program is thoroughly vetted. Secrecy is vital.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This program needs a certain kind of individual, but there really aren't any psychological tests that are fool-proof for what we're attempting.”

“I understand, sir.”

“We won't know if this program works obviously for some time. If it does, it can be a major asset.”

“Most definitely, sir.”

“But if it crashes we'll have a hell of a mess on our hands despite all the measures we've put in place for plausible deniability. If it's leaked to some headline-seeking, gung-ho congressman, they'll give us a hard time.”

“I understand, sir. We'll take all due precautions.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arguing with one of the company's writers under contract wasn't such a good idea, Ray realized, but he was struck by the author's snide sense of superiority. He was also dismayed by the looming decision he had yet to make, but now he put it out of his mind to deal with this snotty writer. Desmond Rafe acted as if he were in total charge and talking to a lowly subordinate. They were sitting in the conference room to discuss his manuscript,
America Growing & Glorious
, which was part of a new series of historical novels for eighth to tenth graders. Ray knew he had a right to make comments; in fact, it was his job, but Rafe seemed to dismiss this salient fact.

“Look,” Rafe said. “I'm not sure you understand the theme of the book.”

His sallow face tightened, with his cheeks bellowing like flesh balloons, and then a sheen of derision dropped like a curtain. Sparse light brown hair coated his narrow forehead like flattened feathers. Hollow pockets lay under his black eyes. Rafe, according to his bio, was just thirty-eight, but he looked older.

“I understand the theme perfectly well,” Ray said, controlling his growing ire. “It's how to handle it that I want to discuss.”

“What's to discuss?” Rafe said in a combative tone. “The language is appropriate for this age group. The book has a beginning, a middle, and end. It's historically accurate. And it's uplifting.”

“That's just it,” Ray said, pouncing on the latter concept. “It's too uplifting. It's so uplifting that it's propaganda, and silly propaganda at that. It's like one of the old westerns where the Indians were always the bad guys and the cowboys were all good.”

Rafe shook his head in sour-looking disagreement. “This isn't a college text. What I wrote is appropriate for this age group.”

He wasn't getting through to this smug, head-strong writer, Ray saw. Rafe was too self-insulated with his own intrinsic literary worth to accept a criticism from a lowly editorial underling. Rafe wrote well, but planting the seeds of such nonsense into young minds was wrong.

“Even if it lodges a false impression of American history in their young minds?”

Rafe stared at Ray, his dark eyes glistening with anger. “It looks like you have an agenda that goes beyond my book. I don't know what it is, but I resent being called a propagandist.”

“I don't have an agenda,” Ray came back instantly. “And I didn't say you were a propagandist, only that what you've written is extremely contrary to what historians now write. One example is your treatment about the frontier and the old west.”

“Well,” Rafe scoffed, “I don't agree with you, and I don't intend to change a word of the manuscript, based on your silly nit-picking.”

“Truth is nit-picking?”

“Coming from you, yes,” Rafe charged. “I don't know what your game is. Maybe trying to make a name for yourself as a tough editor. Whatever, you're off base here.”

Nettled, Ray responded, “I'm asking you to consider toning down the blatantly false, my country right or wrong, bullshit in your book.”

“Wow!” Rafe said with a sneer. “Well, this meeting has gone well. Let's see what your boss thinks.”

“By all means,” Ray said, but he had a sinking feeling he had gone too far. He was the one who had lost control and cursed. While his criticism was reasonable, his behavior wouldn't be seen that way. Rafe had provoked him with his patronizing attitude, but that was no excuse for losing his cool. The tension over his uncertain legal and now religious status had gotten to him. He had to get a grip.

Perkins, who had poked too much into his life, didn't know everything Ray thought as he walked his date, Gloria, to her apartment. This was his second date with the eighth grade teacher. She was lively, intelligent, had a great figure, and lived alone within walking distance from his place. Everything was good and positive, and maybe he'd get to make out tonight. It had been a while. His social life was a complete bust these days, and it had been some time since he had sex.

But friction had started while they were still having dinner at a nearby Chinese restaurant. He wasn't in a good mood, Ray knew, still irked over his afternoon foray with Rafe and the ticking clock if he wanted to get back to Perkins. He could find absolutely no reference to this so-called Protect America Service on the Internet or any rundown of federal agencies, either by itself or under the aegis of the vast Homeland Security apparatus. Perhaps, it was contracted out to a private organization, just like all the private contractors making out like bandits in Iraq and Afghanistan. Since 9/11, the security business was booming.

The PAS offer was incredible, but the adventure aspect of it appealed to him. The financial incentive was certainly attractive; quite a different form of social security. It only took a minimal amount of research, and no contact with a criminal lawyer, to determine that he was indeed likely to fare badly if he was hauled into court. Even if he got off, he would have a record. The policeman he hit had been released from a hospital the next day, but who knew what residual damage he might be claiming.

Then, very foolishly as it turned out, he made the mistake of bringing up the subject of his literary encounter. Since Gloria taught kids around the age Rafe's book was intended for, he thought her opinion would back him up for the inevitable reckoning with Benson. Rafe had no doubt already blasted him to his boss.

“Do you have the authority to make him rewrite the book?” Gloria asked. She had short-cut auburn hair and a slightly angular face with inquisitive blue eyes and porcelain-like skin. She wore a light lipstick and no earrings, but a striking Navajo-like silver pendant hung from her pale neck. Her breasts jutted subtly against her mauve blouse.

“Not really,” Ray admitted. “I can just make suggestions.”

“You were kind of rough on him, weren't you?”

Ray did a double take. Whose side was Gloria on? “I don't think so. It was my job to offer comments, pro and con. Besides he had a snotty manner.”

Gloria nodded, showing more sympathy. “I'm sorry it didn't go well.”

Ray felt challenged. Despite a feeling it would be better to let the matter go, he plunged on. “Do you think I was right that he should be more historically accurate? While still writing to the children's reading level.”

Gloria hesitated a moment. “Well, I'd really have to read his manuscript to be able to say,” she hedged. “It isn't for high school, let alone college students.”

This wasn't what Ray wanted to hear, and he couldn't help frowning. Gloria was quick to note his displeasure.

“But the book shouldn't have any blatant misinformation,” she said. “I'm certainly careful about this in the classroom, and our curriculum is really well balanced.”

Ray wished he could carry this well-balanced curriculum into Benson's office. It might help support his argument about Rafe's unbalanced book.

“What did your boss have to say?” Gloria asked.

“Nothing so far, but I'm sure to hear about it, probably tomorrow.”

“Have you organized your defense?” Gloria asked with a smile that showed her perfect white teeth. Her manner wasn't unsympathetic, but Ray sensed she was being critical of him and he felt a rising umbrage.

“What defense?”

“I don't know about the editorial merits, but when you say that he was snotty. Well, how will that go over with your superior?”

Superior!
Ray hated that word. He especially hated hearing it come from a date. Gloria didn't know him. They had just met really. She was certainly assertive. Probably a carryover from being bossy in the classroom.

“I don't know. I'll let you know.”

Gloria pouted and gave him an irritated glance. They moved on to other more felicitous subjects, but Ray could see Gloria was just enduring the rest of their time together. When they reached her building, she said simply, “Thank you for dinner.”

No invitation came to come upstairs for coffee, not that Ray expected one. Still, her dismissive manner rankled.

“My pleasure,” he said with sarcasm. Gloria's eyes flashed with anger, but she didn't say anything. She turned to ascend a few steps and vanished into her building without a parting glance. For a long moment Ray stood like a statue, still trying to comprehend what had gone so wrong and so fast.

Nothing was going right in his life. He was stymied at work, striking out socially, a person of interest to the authorities, and a candidate for jail time. Bad news all around. Now he had to decide whether to switch religions and actually put his life, and his soul if he had one, at risk. His life was all fouled up in general. Maybe he shouldn't dismiss Perkin's offer so quickly. He needed some jolt to his life.

How would it work out with girls?

Hi. I just became a Muslim. Want to hang out?

Of all the reasons to agree to such a colossal change in his life, coming up with a gimmick to attract girls, was the worst. Incredibly immature. Yet it was the first to come to mind, spurred no doubt by the setback with Gloria. He had to really sort his options out. In a balanced way.

“Ray, what the hell happened with Rafe?” Benson asked as he stood before him in his office. There was no invitation to sit down either. Benson was obviously disturbed. Was his job on the line? As expected that pissant of a writer had obviously lodged a complaint against him. He probably should have come to Benson and explained about his argument with Rafe before being summoned. Just another one of his many mistakes.

“We had a disagreement over his manuscript,” Ray said in a controlled tone. “I tried to keep it professional, but he made it personal. He acted like he was some grand writer and I was a lowly editorial serf who couldn't attempt to make constructive comments.”

“You're not a serf,” Benson immediately corrected. “Sit down, Ray. I just want to get your side.

Ray sat and then immediately said, “And even if I am low man in the editorial hierarchy, that doesn't give him the right to be abusive or have this lordly and dismissive attitude.”

“No, it doesn't,” Benson agreed. “But his description of this encounter is quite different. He maintains that you were surly and tried to put him, or at least his book, down. You challenged his style of writing and you cursed him.”

Ray shook his head. “I'm sorry I cursed. He provoked me, but it was still stupid of me to curse. However, bullshit is a rather innocuous curse, and my comment wasn't directed at him but his book.” Ray hesitated a second, feeling he was getting too pent up. “Bruce, I challenged the content of his book, not his style. Rafe just doesn't accept a bit of positive criticism very well, at least from me. I think it was the source that got to him more than my actual comments, but what was I supposed to do? Not say anything. Not give my opinion. That's what I'm paid to do.”

“Yes, but in a way that keeps our relationships with authors on an even keel.”

“I think I did that,” Ray maintained. “His writing was too rah-rah, even for that age level. It needed to be toned down.”

Ray waited for Benson to react. It was obvious Benson, who always seemed a fair-minded person, wanted to strike some reasonable balance. Rafe was the surly one, a snippy jerk with an exaggerated notion of his own literary vision. But this was an editorial he said-he said situation. Clearly, Benson didn't know who to believe. But Rafe's writing was the real issue, or it should be.