The Apostate (14 page)

This was like a movie, Ray thought, but he still followed Mehdi's car. There was little traffic at this time of night and in this part of the city. Not one pedestrian appeared in the silent streets. After a few moments Mehdi pulled into the rear of another cafeteria, roughly parallel to the first one but on Coldwater Canyon Boulevard to the west. They entered the nearly empty cafeteria one after another, and took a seat in a booth by the plate glass window.

A tired looking waitress came and took their order for coffee. Mehdi ordered a pastry dish as well.

“Can I talk now?” Ray said, more in irritation than anything else. Had he let himself be drawn into some wild goose chase?

“Yes. But be patient.”

“I have been.”

Suddenly, as if materializing out of thin air, another man joined them. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Dancer. I'm sorry for the security, but it's necessary.”

Ray stared at the newcomer. He was a tall, well built man with blond hair that was closely cut over a broad forehead. While Mehdi looked like a swarthy Middle Easterner this man looked as American as he did. His face was deeply tanned making his age hard to judge, but Ray thought he was probably no more than thirty. In another situation he might be taken for a longshoreman or machinist, something industrial involving his hands.

“My name isn't important,” the man said in a low, gravelly voice. “My experience is. I was born in the United States. I grew up here. I graduated from high school here and attended college for two years. It was at college that I become interested in Islam. Just like you, I understand.”

Who else had a file on him, Ray wondered? Or did someone conveniently loan this so-called
mujahideen
the one he knew about? Was this American-born
mujahideen
a plant designed to subtly shift his opinions to influence the very radicalization he opposed? Not all
jihadists
were necessarily terrorists, but a
mujahideen
had tasted battle.

“Do you want to hear more?”

“Yes,” Ray said.

The stranger nodded. “So I became a Muslim. I was disillusioned with our foreign policy, never the people. One can easily read our history differently than the nonsense we are taught and which we read in newspapers. It's clear that the Muslim lands have been economically exploited. I thought that was wrong, and still do. And then we occupied Muslim lands, including the holy places.”

“So that's what motivated you to fight the U.S. in Iraq and Afghanistan?”

The stranger's face tightened. “I have no desire to fight and kill Americans. But one must take sides, and I have. But let me make it clear, I don't believe in sharia. I don't believe in the subjugation of women. I couldn't care less about a caliphate, which isn't something that can ever happen. I do believe that pure Islam is the answer for a corrupt world, and that we ought to get the hell out of Afghanistan. The sooner the better. England and Russia didn't win there, and neither will the U.S.”

“What brought you back to the U.S. now?” Ray asked. Mehdi, he saw, maintained silence throughout the entire exchange.

“Let's just say it was personal. If I told you more I could be traced. You can tell the FBI or whoever you want about meeting me, but I really don't see the point. I'll be out of the country soon and you'll only be opening yourself up for investigation. You know how these things work.”

If he didn't he was finding out, Ray thought with irony. He was sitting with an American-born Islamic mujahidjeen or even a terrorist. This man might have killed Americans. He hadn't really denied that.

“So tell your readers what motivated a normal, home grown American boy to fight as an Islamic warrior.”

“I will,” Ray promised. “But I'm curious about the road to radicalization. I can understand how sympathy for Islam comes about, but what drives one to cross the line into actually becoming a warrior, to fight and die even against your countrymen. What makes one become a martyr like this?”

The man regarded Ray with steely eyes. “It depends on the person, but the common factor is the recognition that the
jihad
is a war for Allah. The wars of our countrymen are for oil, land, and economic exploitation of those weaker than us. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, it helps,” Ray acknowledged.

“And write, if you dare, that an American in Los Angeles and an American, say in Berlin, don't feel like brothers. But Muslims in both cities do feel like brothers. Allah makes us brothers, and Americans need to understand this.”

“I understand,” Ray said. It was true that Islam generated this accord, but it was equally valid that Islam, lacking any central religious authority other than the Qur'an, made it easy for impressionable youngsters to be susceptible to radical leanings.

“And understand as well,” the man continued, fire in his eyes, that my countrymen spread many afflictions on Islamic nations and indeed all around the world through their aggressive foreign policy, economic exploitation, immorality, destruction of the environment in search of profits, and many other things.”

Quite a litany of complaints, Ray thought, committing them to memory. He had written nothing down, but he knew he would remember.

“The only reason I wanted to see you, Mr. Dancer, is to make you understand these things. Do you?”

Suddenly, the man's cell phone rang. He picked it up and read the message without speaking, before his face clouded for an instant. “We have to go.”

No one was evident outside the cafeteria. Streetlight broke the darkness only in small pockets, with the cool night air bracing. Suddenly, without the slightest warning and in a lightning-like move that was almost a blur, Ray saw the American
mujahideen
pull a pistol from behind his back and shoot Mehdi in his forehead. The go-between slumped to the concrete, a tiny trickle of blood surrounding a hole beneath his hairline, with his dark eyes still open without expression.

He had witnessed an execution, Ray thought with horror. Right in front of him.

“He was an informant,” the stranger said with a disdainful look at the slain man. “Go home,” he directed Ray standing and still frozen in a state of shock. “Write the truth.”

***

Shaken, Ray hurried to his car, parked in the street. He drove away quickly, but after several blocks he pulled to the curb. Should he report what happened to the police, or just drive home and say nothing? Finally, he called Perkins.

“What is it, Ray? It's late.”

Perkins probably had company. He wasn't married, and Ray never had the impression he had a girlfriend. Probably consorted with call girls and prostitutes.

Ray related what took place.

“Are you an idiot?” Perkins stormed. “Why didn't you call me before you went?”

Obviously, he didn't call because then wherever they met would be surrounded by police or agents, and he might have been the one with a gaping hole in his forehead. Perkins could figure this out, and Ray thought it best to let his distraught handler's ire dissipate.

“Alright,” Perkins said, calming down. “Tell me again where this happened.”

Ray gave the address.

“Get out of there. Say nothing. We'll take care of it.”

It was remarkable, Ray thought, how normal life could be after you watch a man shot to death. No matter how bizarre his experience was, death still seemed so banal or was he just developing resistance to violence? He just swam through the next few days, finding it increasingly easy to store away the unsettling experience. He hadn't heard again from Perkins. On a more positive note, he hadn't gotten any attention from the police. Nothing about Mehdi, if that was his real name, appeared in the newspaper or on television. Perkins must have somehow disposed of the body before anyone else found it, or somehow got the police to keep any news about the murder from the media.

Attending to mundane tasks helped restore as regular an existence as he could hope for.

It was easy to meet and chat with people at the laundry store where Ray brought his wash. He thought little at first of how the conversation with Zoe began. She was there with baskets of clothing and small rugs. He had never seen her before, but then she could have said the same about him. He only needed one washing unit whereas she was busy pounding small rugs into one of the three units she was using. Another unit, Ray figured, was for white clothing and a third for darker, a distinction he didn't always bother to observe. She must have an arsenal of quarters.

“Do you need some help?” Ray asked.

“Like a hammer?” the trim brunette said with a laugh. Her sky blue eyes sparkled and her voice had a lively verve. She was wearing a light green blouse and he could see the tops of her white breasts as she bent over the washing unit. Jeans hugged her curvy figure. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties.

Ray smiled, not expecting the vivacious response. But quick comments and conversations with other people taking care of their various items were often part of a laundry visit.

“Thanks,” she said. “I think I got it.”

She closed the lid, and leaned back against the unit, facing Ray with a self-derisive look. “Well, that's my exercise for the day.”

Ray smiled.

“You really shouldn't mix whites and darks,” she counseled. “I couldn't help noticing.”

“I'm a little backwards that way,” Ray acknowledged.

“But cool in others?” the girl suggested.

Ray was a bit taken aback. The girl just looked at him openly. There was no come hither look, but he was sure she was hinting she'd like to know him better. What she said could be interpreted in different ways. He wasn't interested, but he didn't want to sound like a nerd either.

As if aware of his uncertainty, the girl extended her hand, “Hi. I'm Zoe.”

Ray hesitated a moment, then took her hand. “Ray,” he said.

Was he imagining things? Was there a subtle squeeze to her grasp that was quickly withdrawn? Flirting went on consistently at the laundry store. It was a great place to meet girls. He had flirted several times, without much to show for his past efforts. But that was all before Abra.

“I'm pretty new in the neighborhood,” Zoe said. Light red lipstick framed her white teeth. “Have you lived around here long?”

“Not that long,” Ray said. Zoe wasn't wearing a ring, but she couldn't tell what his situation was. She was fishing for information, and probably anticipating he would do the same. He knew the pattern but he wasn't interested. Another time he might have been, but not now. Too much was at stake.

“You must know all the good places to go,” Zoe said. Her eyes were warm without being inviting. She seemed so cute and apparently available that Ray almost wished he could ask her out.

“Some,” he said cautiously.

Zoe's face turned serious. “You seem like a nice fellow,” she said not at all abashed at her approach. “If I give you more laundry advice, would you buy me a cup of coffee and tell me the good spots around here?”

Ray had to smile. Zoe was forward but cool and humorous about it. He admired her stance. But then her body arched, with her breasts thrusting out more, and Ray felt something was wrong. Zoe was coming on too strong.

“Another time,” Ray said, turning around to spot an empty dryer. No one was looking at them. Chatter like this was common at the laundry store.

“Are you sure?” Zoe said. This time her intent was undeniable.

Ray gave her a smile in recognition of her talent and moved away. The question now, he thought, was who had put Zoe up to this little exercise? He was sure she wasn't acting on her own. He wasn't that good-looking and she was too attractive and fetching to need to lure guys. There wouldn't seem to be any motivation on the part of Perkins, so it had to be Tariq trying to tempt him into wrecking his engagement to Abra. But how could he prove it, and even if he could establish it, how would it help him with Abra or the imam? If he told Abra, she'd be upset and deny that Tariq would do such a dastardly thing.

Better to keep quiet. Just another test. Probably more challenges about his loyalty and fealty to Islam as well as Abra were coming as well.

At least no one had died in the laundry.

Omar Radon was a thin, balding man with an elongated face and high cheek bones. He had no beard. Glasses shielded dark eyes that glanced around the office as if taking mental notes. According to his biography, which he had emailed earlier, he was forty-two and had been born in Dearborn, Michigan. Two well-received novels and one book of essays had been published and he taught literature at a community college in Detroit. He had combined a trip west to see relatives in San Francisco with a quick flight down to Los Angeles.

“Thank you for coming,” Ray said. Radon was the first American Muslim author he was interviewing. Three others had shown interest in the book project, but they all sought to have their expenses covered for an in-person meeting. Kindred wouldn't spring for that expense. Many agreements were reached with authors without the benefit of a personal meeting, but Radon might have the advantage now.

“I'm glad it worked out,” Radon said. He had a metallic voice, Ray thought, wondering if there were some unseen transference from Detroit's car industry.

“Let me start,” Ray said, “by asking if, as an American Muslim, you grew up reading Islamic fairy tales.”

He had roamed through Radon's novels, both in the coming of age genre, and then spent more time absorbing his learned essays, which were about literature and not at all about any Islamic issues. But no doubt Radon held political opinions, some of which sneaked through his essays.

Radon smiled. His teeth were white. “I read many fairy tales up to a certain age. Some were of Islamic vintage. As you know, the roots of some fairy tales are hard to determine. They may be associated with one country, or culture, but have their antecedents in another. This is certainly true between Arabic and Persian fairy tales.”