The Protector (14 page)

Farshad
had no need to pray. Allah had already spoken to him.
 

**

The look on Ike’s face as he savored his lasagna had
Eryn
biting her lower lip to keep her pleasure from showing. She willed the flush of satisfaction from her cheeks. It was obvious by the reverent way he chewed each bite that he loved it, though he hadn’t said a single word.

Words weren’t always necessary, she assured herself. She ought to know that from teaching English to speakers of other languages. Body language conveyed thoughts just as effectively, if not more so. But she wasn’t comfortable sitting at a table across from someone and saying nothing. Seeking some way to fill the silence, she attempted to continue the conversation he had aborted earlier. “So, you grew up in Ohio. Which part?”

He shot her a dry look. “Small town outside of Columbus,” he admitted shortly.
 

“Anywhere else?”

“No.”

She couldn’t imagine growing up in just one place. “I’ve lived in Northern Virginia, South Korea, Japan, Germany, and Jordan,” she offered, ticking off each locale on her fingers. She looked over at him, awaiting a response.

It took him several seconds to respond. “Which was your favorite?”
 

“Germany.” She didn’t have to think about it. “Oh,
my gosh
, every kid should have such an experience! On weekends we’d take the train into bordering countries, even across the channel to England to sightsee. That’s where I got Lancaster, remember? You’ve been to Europe, haven’t you?”
 

“Turkey,” he said, getting up for a second helping.

“Oh, I’ve been there, too. I went on this fantastic archaeological dig with my mother when I was eleven. She was crazy about ceramics. Everywhere we went, she collected pieces. And on this dig in particular we got to uncover a mosaic that dated back to the Byzantine era.”

Ike sat across from her again, his gaze lingering on her face, which she knew was lit up with nostalgia. “So where have you done your tours?” she asked, trying to put the focus back on him.

He stabbed at his dinner. “The usual tourist traps,” he
said,
his mouth quirking with cynicism. “You know, Iraq, Darfur...Afghanistan.”
 

She could only imagine what his adult years must have been like, trading one hellhole for another. “I didn’t care much for the Middle East,” she admitted, “though don’t tell my students that. There’s just not enough foliage. I need color. I need green.”
Like the color of your eyes,
she almost added.

“Jordan’s not bad,” he said, forking up a bite.

“I guess not. Dad got orders to go to Iraq the same week my mother was told her cancer was spreading. She wanted to be close to him, and Jordan was the only stable country with decent hospitals.”

Ike lowered his fork. It chinked against his plate. “Stanley talked a lot about your mother.”
    

His confession put a weight on
Eryn’s
chest. “They were crazy about each other,” she agreed. “If Mom hadn’t been sick, I’d probably have a dozen siblings.”
   

A log in the woodstove popped and sprayed sparks. Ike cut the edge of his lasagna with the side of his fork, but he didn’t eat it.

“Are you an only child?” she asked, crossing her fingers that he would give her an answer this time.

“Have an older brother,” he said shortly.

“Were you close?”

“He beat me up to keep me in my place.”

His words told her more than he knew. “I guess having a sibling doesn’t guarantee you’ll get along,” she said, subdued.

He grunted in agreement, stuck his food into his mouth and chewed.
 

Eryn’s
goal had been to get
him
to talk, but maybe if she set the bar, he’d follow her example. “I was thirteen when my mother died. We brought her body home and buried her in Arlington so that she and Dad could be together again one day.” She hadn’t meant to get emotional about it, but tears rushed unbidden to her eyes and spilled over. Embarrassed, she dabbed her wet cheeks with her napkin.
  

“I’m sorry,” Ike murmured, looking uncomfortable. He put his fork down, pushed his plate away, and brooded.

Here it comes, she thought, sensing the words building in him. He was going to tell her something of himself now.

“I was wondering…”

“Yes?” She realized she was holding her breath in anticipation of his disclosure. She was that keen to get to know him better.
 
 

“Did Stanley ever teach you how to shoot?”
 

The question was so unexpected that her mind went blank for a moment. All she could do was stare at him, disappointed. “No,” she finally managed, expelling her held breath. “He-he tried teaching me Hapkido when I was a teenager, but I figured I had him to keep me safe. Why do you ask?” She was curious despite herself.
  

“I want to teach you to shoot.”
 

“I thought I had you for that,” she said stiffly.

“You do.” He blinked as though just realizing that she was annoyed with him. “We
’ll can
talk about it later,” he suggested.

“No. That’s fine. Obviously this is something you’ve been thinking about.”

His expression was a mix of wariness and determination. “Look, eventually you’ll have to go back to your own life,” he said, distancing himself with his words rather than drawing nearer. “You should learn to defend yourself. What would it hurt?”

She had to concede that learning to shoot couldn’t hurt anything. The thought of returning to D.C. as vulnerable as when she’d left it terrified her. “Fine,” she agreed. “You can teach me how to shoot.” She envisioned what that would look like—lots of one-on-one time with Ike. Maybe it just took time to get to know him. “When do we start?” she asked, her optimism returning.

“Tomorrow.”
He excused himself from the table.
 

Eryn
watched him wash his plate in the sink. “Did you like your dinner?” She knew he had, she just wanted to
hear
it.

He glanced up, obviously surprised. “Dinner was excellent,” he assured her, making her glow inwardly. Drying his hands, he felt over the top of the kitchen cabinet and came away with a gun. “This is a Glock,” he said, carrying it toward her and extending it out for her to take.
 
It fit snugly in the palm of his hand.

Eryn
refused to take it from him. She’d never talked weapons over dinner before. Her gaze flickered to the rifle he kept hidden under the sofa. “How many more weapons do you have tucked away?” she asked him tartly.

“Plenty,” he admitted, avoiding her searching look.
     

His answer underscored how very different their worlds were. She had grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. He’d grown up as his older brother’s punching bag. Their differences put a gulf between them where
Eryn
craved some commonality. Did she and Ike have anything in common, aside from their mutual affection for her father?

“I’ll clean up supper,” she offered, slipping from the table and turning her back on him.

Or did she just crave a friend right now to stave off her loneliness and fear?
     

**

Returning to his parents’ home, Shahbaz Wahidi logged into the fictitious online email account, eager for the Teacher’s feedback about Imam Nasser’s sermon.

Just as he expected, the Teacher had scripted a lengthy and caustic retort about the imam’s weak interpretation of the
Qu’ran
. Following his rant, the Teacher gave Shahbaz his first assignment: to approach Mustafa Masoud in person and ask him if he could please discover where the Commander’s daughter had disappeared to.
 

Shahbaz’s heart trotted with excitement. As it turned out, he knew where Mustafa worked:
 
at the
Wardman
Park Marriot Hotel behind the concierge desk.

Shahbaz rubbed his hands in anticipation. All his life, he had dreamed of punishing America for advertising itself as the land of the free, home of the brave.
Hah!
His life had been nothing but a cesspool of unfairness and discrimination. Finding himself under the guidance of the mysterious Teacher was providence. To be chosen for such a task was a privilege.
 

Hastily, Shahbaz typed a succinct reply, saving it as a draft for the Teacher to read the next time he logged on:
I will do it tonight
.

Mustafa Masoud finished with a hotel guest before giving his attention to the broad-faced youth lurking nearby. He had recognized the boy as a member of the Brotherhood, possibly one of the extremists who betrayed their political leaning by their aversion to authority.

“Do you want something?” Mustafa asked, mentally comparing him to the photos of the suspects involved in the safe-house bombing. He was too old to be the youngster filmed at the UPS store; his eyes too widely spaced to be the suspect posing as the gardener.
 

With a furtive glance around, the boy sidled closer and announced in an undertone, “I am Vengeance from the online chat.”

Mustafa pretended to neaten the stack of maps of the D.C. metro system. He was not surprised; but he was startled to be approached so overtly.

“What do you need from me?” Thank Allah the hotel lobby was virtually empty.
   

The burly youngster leaned closer, scarcely moving his lips as he made his request. “We wish to know where the girl was taken.”

Confirmation of his suspicions sent a chill up Mustafa’s spine. Pretending to adjust his tie pin, he snapped off a photo of the youth with the tiny camera the FBI had loaned to him. “Who is we?” he asked, in the hopes of learning more.
 

“I cannot tell you that.” The boy glanced toward the door as if having second thoughts. “Can you help us find the girl or not?”

Mustafa feigned disinterest. “I can try,” he said with a shrug.

“Good. When you know something, call this number.” The boy slid a scrap of paper with a number on it across the concierge desk. Without another word, he turned and darted through the turnstile.
  

Mustafa called a colleague from behind the check-in counter. “Cover me for a minute, will you? I have to use the bathroom.”

In the employee lounge, he took off his tie pin, stuck the end of it into the tiny port on his Blackberry and forwarded the photograph of Vengeance to the FBI, along with a text quoting the youth’s exact words and including the phone number given to him.
 

Perhaps this was the break the FBI had been waiting for. If they were lucky, the number would lead them straight to the terrorists threatening the Commander’s daughter. Then he, Mustafa Masoud, a follower of true Islam and an American patriot, would be a hero.

**

“Rise and shine.”

Eryn
awoke from a nightmare in which she was struggling to assemble the components of a handgun while Itzak’s killer threw his shoulder against her locked door.