The Apostate (16 page)

Abra grasped Ray's hand before he could speak and he kept silent. But he glared with anger at the marshal, who was most certainly abusing his authority.

“We're not praying any more,” the Muslim in the aisle seat said. His companions nodded. They still didn't look back at Ray and Abra.

“You sure aren't,” the marshal said decisively. He summoned a stewardess standing nearby in the aisle. Ray wondered if it was the thin sharp-faced stewardess who had probably first contacted the marshal. Now he remembered that this stewardess had been summoned by a woman passenger two rows down. At the time he thought it was for information, aspirins—anything but complaining with false fears about three innocent co-passengers. “Tell the pilot to radio LA. For a priority landing. Three—make it five—suspicious passengers.”

***

Abra was more upset with him, Ray thought, than with the federal marshal as they were escorted off the jet before any other passengers deplaned. It was humiliating to be stared at by other passengers as they threaded their way through the aisle with armed policemen in front and back of them. They only nodded to the three Muslim men who preceded them in an embarrassing passage, fearful that any conversation would be misconstrued as a linkage between them.

What a horrible ending to what had been a wonderful honeymoon, Ray thought, shaking his head. Kauai was idyllic. They ate and drank, lolled and swam on the beach, went sightseeing—and made love. Ironically, given their current problem, Abra was very understanding and tolerant on the prayer subject. At their hotel room he did prostrate himself in the morning before they ventured forth on the day's itinerary. But the other four required times were chancy, and he said he prayed mentally. So did she, Ray knew. But there was no mosque to go to, which was fine with Ray.

They were kept separated from the three Muslim men and led to an interview room. It was a déjà vu time, reminding Ray of his “throw/blow” misadventure less than a year ago. Only this time he had a very irate Abra to deal with besides a disbelieving representative from airport security. Presumably, if the flight hadn't been more than half way to Los Angeles, the snide marshal would have asked that the jet return to Honolulu. Nor was there anyplace to divert the jet, so at least they were back in Los Angeles, just being detained.

“So you were on your honeymoon?” Rogers said. He was a man in his forties, with a receding forehead. Dark eyes studied Ray and Abra as if sizing them up as honeymoon candidates. Ray thought about contacting Perkins, but decided things hadn't reached that difficult point yet.

Ray nodded.

“And you never saw the other men before?”

“No,” Ray said.

Rogers looked at Abra.

“No,” she said.

“And you're both Muslims, too?”

“Is that a crime?” Ray asked, irritated by questions Rogers already knew the answers to.

“No, not at all. Why weren't you praying too then?”

Now Abra took over, her face clouded with anger. “Because Muslims don't necessarily pray the same way all the time just as Christians and Jews don't. That's why.”

“Really?” Rogers said.

“Really!” Abra exclaimed, fury gathering in her face.

It was his turn to smooth things over, Ray thought. “I spoke up because passengers were upset because of their appearance,” he said. “It was obvious hysteria against Muslims.”

Rogers shrugged. “Well, their mumblings created suspicion.”

“They were praying, not mumbling,” Abra said sharply.

“And they were mistreated,” Ray claimed. “And so are we, being subjected to this interrogation.”

“It's our job to investigate such incidents,” Rogers said. “These men said they were coming back from some Islamic conference in Jakarta. Were you there, too?”

“No, I told you. We were in Kauai, on our honeymoon. You can check at our hotel, the Pacifica.”

“We might do that,” Rogers said. “It's interesting that you and these men both took the same flight out of Honolulu.”

Ray shrugged. “What's interesting about that?”

Rogers ignored his question. “So you weren't with them. You weren't praying with them. You don't have a beard,” he indicated Ray. “And you weren't dressed like them.”

“What!” Abra exploded. “Do all Muslim men were skull caps and have beards? Do all Muslim women wear veils? How ridiculous!”

She stared at Rogers like a worm had grown tall.

Rogers looked at a pad. “My apologies, Mrs. Dancer. There was no intent to offend you, or your husband.”

But Abra wasn't mollified. “It's clear that you don't understand Islamic culture.”

Rogers was far from crestfallen. “And you should understand that we have to be vigilant.”

After a tense moment of silence, Rogers said, “Okay, you can go. My advice is not to get involved with other passengers like this. Hope you had a great honeymoon,” he added with what Ray had to accept as a sincere smile.

Abra, however, wasn't smiling as they went to take possession finally of their luggage, which had no doubt been put through the latest devices to discover semtex and other explosive material. He had taken advantage of the Muslim trio to manufacture an incident of Islamophobia. Now it remained to be seen how much use he could make of it.

“That's shameful!” Tariq stormed at the family dinner when learning about the flight incident. He looked angrily at the imam like a similar opinion should immediately be issued. But the imam was silent, sitting with a tranquil and magisterial presence at the head of the table laden with food.

They had many photos to show, Ray thought, but the most pressing thing both he and Abra wanted to say was more gratitude for the imam's financial help in their getting a bank loan to buy their first house. They purchased a two bedroom house in the San Fernando Valley part of Los Angeles that was close to both the San Diego freeway and a public school. Soon, they would be able to move in. While they already had, through their combined apartments, a good deal of furniture there would doubtless be more expenses—besides the monthly mortgage payment.

Life was moving fast, Ray thought, almost too fast. Now, he was married and a home owner. What might be next for a young couple was not coming soon. Both he and Abra had agreed they weren't ready to have children yet.

“Yes,” Abra said, seeing that no comment was coming from the imam. “It was a piece of outrageous stereotyping, and very typical. Ray was very upset and so was I. But we spoke up for our rights.”

“And for Islam,” Ray added.

Perkins had little to say about the incident, only to observe that it didn't pay to argue with a federal marshal. Unless, Ray told himself, there was some advantage to be gained, like gathering material he might later use. He was already thinking like a spokesman. Responses to his blogs, especially about his condensation of the
mujahideen's
comments, were filled with both appreciation and sheer venom. But he was making a name for himself, at least on the Internet.

“We're glad you're home safely,” the imam finally declared.

“And we want to see all your photos,” Sanah threw in with an enthusiastic smile. As usual, she had cooked up a storm with a tasty platter of
kefta—
round meat brochettes served with
cumin
and
harissa
, the fiery hot sauce. Platters of freshly baked bread and a pair of pitchers with mint tea stood at each end of the table.

“When you're settled, Ray, we need to discuss our next steps,” Tariq said, taking another roll from a bread platter.

Next steps!
What did Tariq have in mind? But Ray just nodded. He'd find out soon enough.

“I have the themes set,” Ray said facing Tariq at the center's cafeteria. He had driven down after work to discuss his forthcoming responsibilities. Many tables were already occupied and a buzz of conversation could be heard drifting over the courtyard, mixing with the fragrant smell of the well-watered shrubbery

“The focus will be on striking at the fears people have about Islam,” Ray explained. “Some visceral, hidden, and latent. We have to get people to be willing to express themselves.”

“And how will you do that?” Tariq asked, obviously unimpressed.

Ray put his feelings aside. He had spent considerable time thinking about these themes and he wasn't going to let Tariq's offsetting reaction bother him. “By asking leading questions myself, just as I might do in conducting an interview with someone who wasn't answering my questions. It's a tried and true tactic of journalists. If you don't get an answer, or the answer you want, provide the answer yourself. Often the person you're interviewing will then agree and then you can attribute your answer to them.”

“And this will work on the Internet?”

As usual, Tariq wore a dubious expression on his dour face.

“I think so,” Ray said. He didn't have to brim over with confidence. If Tariq wasn't happy, that was too bad. He was trying, and Abra and the imam knew this was the case. He didn't choose to become a model of an American, a peaceful American who had converted to Islam. Nor did he choose to become a spokesman for such conversions. His mission had changed course unexpectedly to him, and apparently to Perkins, too. It was certainly more eventful now. It was clear that the imam and Tariq saw his role in a different light, with both expecting loyalty. Meanwhile, his handler was apparently satisfied with his progress at immersion in the Islamic community but was now expecting more from the PAS investment in him.

“And then what?” Tariq asked.

“I think we should set up town hall forums in key cities. They'll be just like political ones, inviting participants to ask whatever questions they want.”

“Shouldn't the questions be pre-screened?” Tariq asked, immediately doubtful. “Some will be … unworthy.”

What Tariq considered unworthy and what he did would probably be different, Ray thought. The time to set boundaries was now, he decided. “That might be seen as limiting the discussion. I'll do the local ones, but you or someone else will have to go back east if this method works. And, to be clear, if I don't work out as a spokesman, just replace me. I've never done this before.”

“And who else could do this?”

“I was thinking maybe you would.”

Tariq's face clouded. “Me? No! Better, you. Someone who has converted.”

“Well, I have a job,” Ray said. “It might be difficult to go out of town all the time. And you're talking to a newly-married man.”

Ray smiled, but Tariq, as usual, was humorless. His swarthy face burned with concentration.

“Can't you get a leave of absence?” Tariq asked.

Ray gave Tariq a cold look. “Not for this, and I wouldn't want to ask. Maybe we can find a suitable person in each city. This would be a major campaign if it worked out and we'd have to plan it carefully.”

“Perhaps that's possible,” Tariq mused, suddenly more thoughtful. “We need a greater presence in major American cities.”

Tariq said American cities as if he were a foreigner, Ray thought. Some grandiose plan was bubbling in his mind, but how could he get details for Perkins? Perhaps once he started with the forums Tariq's own campaign would become clearer.

I'll give your ideas consideration,” Tariq said. “Write down everything we've discussed in detail. I'll discuss it with the imam.”

As usual, the word please was missing from Tariq's vocabulary. He was going to discuss it with the imam himself. If there were differences to settle, let the two wrangle it out between themselves. Neither of them probably knew just how many Americans had converted to Islam. Did Perkins know, Ray wondered?

Strange new minority. Even stranger was the fact that he was in the process of becoming, unasked, their spokesman.

“Your blogs are very interesting,” Abra said as they had coffee at breakfast. Their breakfast nook was part of the kitchen, with just enough room for a table and chairs. A wooden ramp jutting from the wall allowed space for a small television, which had yet to be bought. Eventually, they needed to have the house painted, but that expense had also been put off for the time being. “I'm surprised, though, at how…strident they are.”

“Strident? Am I strident?”

Ray made a comical face that compelled Abra to emit a short laugh. She'd be less amused if she read his journal, now secured amid old and new unpublished short stories he had written, in a plastic container in the recesses of the garage. His diary wasn't exactly in full view, but he could claim it was for a work of fiction if anyone, including Abra, ever actually went through the stuff.

“Well,” he explained, “Tariq has been after me to convert America. And the
stridentees
are restless.”

“I'm sure,” she said with a knowing grin at his word play. “But do you mean everything you've been writing? You weren't such a critic of western myopia and its mistaken image of Islam before.”

“That's true,” he admitted. “But the more I've learned about the true nature of Islam, which isn't always what people see or read on TV or in the papers, the more…opportunities I see for showing a different, truer picture. And then there's the rampant Islamophobia, which the media does little to correct.”

“My husband, the crusader,” Abra trilled. She took a bite of her toast.

“Ironic, isn't it.”

“Not at all.” Abra flashed a bright smile. “I saw a caped man in my future.”

“Cape!” Ray laughed. “That was my eyelids pushed back after a hangover.”

“What a horrible image!” Abra said, but she grinned. Then her manner turned serious again. “Really, what mix of reactions have you gotten? I haven't had time to read everything.”