The Apostate (19 page)

“I was asked to conduct a couple of town hall meetings and go over impressions, some right and some wrong, that circulate about Muslims. I do think American Muslims tend to get a bad rap in media.”

Benson shrugged. “Be that as it may, this call for a creation of a Muslim truth squad to challenge everything you, or the Muslim council or whatever, don't like is too much.”

“Just a warning across the bow to be more even-handed in their coverage,” Ray said.

“Some warning!” Benson gave Ray a dubious look. “And this notion of a Muslim Peace Corps to the U.S. is kind of insulting, don't you think?”

“Just trying to shake things up a bit,” Ray said, “but I think both ideas deserve discussion.”

“Well, if that was your goal, you've achieved it,” Benson said. He gave Ray a doubtful glance.

Benson was unhappy, which was to be expected. But Ray felt a surge of satisfaction, which he tried hard not to show. Unwittingly, Benson had hit upon the core of his strategy.

“It's hard to believe your idea of a book on Arabic fairy tales wasn't conceived as part of…your conversion,” Benson said sourly as if he had been deceived. “I think you should have told us.”

“I didn't want you to think the two were connected,” Ray said, doubting his lie would work. “They weren't.”

Benson gave him another dubious look, his eyes roaming around his office as if a resolution would manifest itself on the walls or glass.

“I realize it may seem that way,” Ray felt obliged to add, “but it wasn't. Not really.”

But Benson was still doubtful. “Ray, your activity as a Muslim advocate isn't going down well with management. I've been directed to give you a warning. Cool it. This has nothing to do with your religious views, just that the company doesn't want to be perceived as some pro-Islam publisher. We're not pro or anti. We just don't want any label attached to us.”

“I understand,” Ray said.

“Good. A word to the wise.”

But Ray complimented himself as he left Benson's office on his own small stock of wisdom.

“Perkins, what the hell's going on with Mongoose! He's all over the fucking media.”

“He had to do these town hall forums to solidify himself with the community, sir. His wife was egging him on, too. It was unavoidable.”

“It was avoidable! You just didn't handle it right. Now we have a so-called sleeper agent making all kinds of noises.”

“It's under control, sir. And he may be able to turn in useable intelligence more readily now.”

“I hope so for your sake, and the program, too. Make sure he stays in bounds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We may have to modify the program due to what's going on. Can't term assets as sleepers when they're such raging activists.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Has Mongoose turned in anything useful?”

“Yes, sir. He's given us a good idea of their set-up. Nothing operational, though.”

“I see. Well, we're still going to review the parameters of the program. Meanwhile, keep a close eye on Mongoose. Don't let him stray off the reservation again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now that you're a media personality, it should be easier to angle in on any plans for terrorist activities, here or abroad.”

Perkins must have a map of Los Angeles cafeterias, Ray thought, as they sat at yet another eatery supposedly discussing important editorial matters. But it was upon another subject that Perkins issued his edict.

“Does that mean I get a raise?”

Perkins pouted, not enjoying Ray's sense of humor. But then Ray was unhappy at Perkin's general demeanor. He hadn't seen his handler for quite some time, and he had gotten used to following his own instincts. He wasn't fishing for compliments, but Perkins could have said something that noted his success, especially as it was a radical new direction and not one that the PAS operative had charted for him. But that wasn't the man's style. The more he did, the more Perkins would want. That was clear. But trying to nibble too soon and see if there were any terrorism plots could undo everything he had accomplished so far. Perkins should realize that.

“I'm always alert to anything smacking of a terrorist plan, but trying too hard to find out would destroy my effectiveness.”

“Well, I leave it up to you, but you may be in a stronger position than you realize. You've made a splash. But Ray, tone down all the bold statements. We want you to keep in good graces with the community but not as such an activist. Do you understand?”

“I'm not sure. I thought I was doing what was needed.”

Perkins pouted. “Yes and no. We're delighted that you're in a solid position with the community. Couldn't be better. But some of your statements stirred up questions from my boss.”

“I see.”

“Just tone things down a bit.”

“Okay, but still as a spokesman, doing forums? Just local ones, here in California?”

“Sure,” Perkins said as if the word was almost caught in his throat. He caught himself and added, “Go ahead, but as directed.”

Ray nodded. “I have to deal with Tariq. No matter what I do or say, I get the feeling he's still suspicious.”

Perkins nodded. “Tariq is a bad ass, all right. How are things with the imam?”

“Fine. He's on my side, though he thinks I may be a tad too bombastic. Tariq thought I was too timid. Can't please everyone.”

“Please us. Be less bombastic.”

Ray tried not to scowl. “I have some interviews coming up. I'll try not to make any earthshaking news.”

“Good,” Perkins said, ignoring Ray's sarcasm. “And how are things with your wife?”

Ray hated such an intrusive question, but he understood that it was part of Perkin's purview. “She's very supportive. She just doesn't want me to be away too much. She's also afraid someone might take a pot shot at me.”

“Comes with the territory. But we can assign a man to the town hall meetings to help keep an eye out for you. I don't think you're quite ripe for assassination.”

“That's very reassuring,” Ray said.

Perkins gave Ray a thin smile. “The town hall meetings are good if you don't get too excited. What's coming up?”

“San Diego and San Francisco.”

“And work?”

Ray shook his head. “I've been warned to desist. After the next forum in San Diego, I'll probably be canned.”

“But the complex or council will subsidize you?”

Perkins looked concerned like he was planning a raid on the federal coffers. All Perkins worried about was how looming unemployment might affect his status with the complex. How many undercover agents were collecting unemployment checks, Ray wondered?

“So I've been told.”

“So you weren't born a Muslim?” Dempsey Malter asked.

There were eight of them at the dinner party that Abra was invited to by Marsha, an old college girlfriend. She and her husband, Jerry, were gracious hosts. No one was over forty. Just a group of so-called yuppies, though Ray wasn't sure he really belonged in that category. Marsha and Jerry lived in a lovely two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica not far from the ocean.

Malter, a broad-shouldered, heavy-set man in his early thirties who owned an electronics store, was there with his girlfriend, Agnes, an attractive black-haired girl who worked for an insurance company. The other couple was James and Sara Wilkie, probably in their late twenties and early thirties, who owned and operated a travel agency. Jerry was an accountant and Marsha freelanced as an interior decorator.

He, Ray, was an imposter.

Conversations in general, and between couples, were pleasant. But then Malter learned that Abra was a Muslim. He wasn't too surprised, commenting that it was great that college had paired Abra and Marsha, of different religions, as roommates in their dormitory. But then he turned to Ray and asked, “And are you a Muslim, too?”

“Yes,” Ray said. He feared this subject would come up, but he was ready to deal with it. He couldn't go through daily life denying or avoiding this topic, and he wasn't about to dishonor Abra with an evasion or outright lie.

“How did you meet?” Marsha asked. She looked at her former roommate with a mix of surprise and admiration.

“At the Islamic Complex,” Ray said.

Abra decided to explain further. “Ray came to the center to find out more about Islam,” she said if this curiosity was greatly to his credit.

“Oh,” Malter said, jumping on this revelation. “Then you weren't born a Muslim?”

“No,” Ray said.

“Now we're roommates,” Abra said, smiling with pride.

“Wonderful,” Jerry said, with Marsha nodding quickly.

“Fate,” Agnes said. “Or kismet.” She gave the others an ethereal smile for an instant and then stopped abruptly when Malter gave her a sudden glance.

“Had you planned a conversion for a long time?” Malter asked as if he were directing the conversation again.

Malter's expression, Ray thought, was one of incipient disapproval. No honest answer could be given, and he didn't care much for Malter's take-charge and intrusive attitude. Everyone else also seemed uneasy.

“Long enough,” Ray said.

Malter didn't seem at all content with moving on to other subjects. “Must have been a difficult decision.”

“Not really,” Ray said, giving Malter a restraining glance.

Marsha, acting as the careful and competent hostess, intervened, “So, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkie, how is the agency doing? Are people still going to Europe with the weak dollar?”

“It's picking up,” James said.

“But it's still a slow year,” Sara added.

Conversation was desultory for the rest of the evening, though Ray sensed Malter was brewing over his conversion. As it turned out, the Wilkies left first. Several minutes later Abra signaled Ray and they gave their thanks for the dinner party. Without any obvious regard for Agnes Malter rose for them to leave. There was an unnatural silence in front of the elevator until Malter asked Ray, “Tell me, Ray, have you changed your name, too? How does that work when you become a Muslim?”

“He doesn't have to change his name,” Agnes answered curtly before Ray could respond.

“I see,” Malter said as if he didn't see. They descended to the ground floor in pregnant silence. Once outside the building, and in the street, which was empty of people, the two couples faced each other as if about to say good night. But then Malter resumed his interrogation.

“No problem then with work? You're an editor, right? Everyone knows.”

The cool night air was refreshing, but Ray had had enough. Malter was an obnoxious bully. It was obvious in the way he treated Agnes, his docile date, and how he messed with him.

“Look, I don't know what your problem is, but becoming a Muslim hasn't been a problem for me. Why is it for you?”

But now Malter was offended. “Hey, don't get pissy with me. I was just wondering what would make an American man jump ship, so to speak. If you were born a Muslim, that's one thing. Converting? Well, that's sort of being a turncoat in my book.”

“Well, your book is shitty then,” Ray said.

Malter didn't hesitate at all but launched a blow at Ray who easily ducked. He followed up with a long blow that glanced off Malter's shoulder. As Abra and Agnes cried out to “Stop,” Malter charged Ray and brought him to the ground. While Malter was heavier, Ray was able to squirm loose from under him and get in a good shot to Malter's head. In turn, Malter was able to strike back and hit Ray in his mouth, drawing a trickle of blood.

They sprawled on the concrete for moments and then separated as if a bell had rung in a professional bout. Both stood, glaring at each other.

“Fucking towelhead!” Malter shouted as Agnes led him away.

“You're the fanatic, asshole!” Ray shouted after him.

“Are you hurt?” Abra asked, applying a handkerchief to his mouth. “You're bleeding.”

“I'm okay. I got him, too.”

“He was an asshole,” Abra said, “but why did you have to fight?”

“Not my idea,” Ray said. “He just got to me finally, and anyway, he started it.”

First blood of his conversion, Ray thought, and mostly his, too.

Ray had first noticed Paul praying at the mosque last weekend, but now their eyes met after he stood up at the end of evening prayers. The young man didn't look anymore like a Muslim than he did, if there were a stand-out look for an American Muslim. But Ray still wondered if the bespectacled man, who looked to be around his age, was also a convert. The best way to find out, he thought, was to manufacture a meeting, which he did shortly after prayers as they apparently bumped into each other in the courtyard.

“You're the man they call the Muslim scourge of media,” Paul said as if suddenly recognizing who Ray was.

“That's me, but not so much of a scourge,” Ray said.

“You're called
al-azabic
,” Paul said, impressed by the Arabic nickname.

“Yes, the instigator,” Ray acknowledged. He wasn't sure who had first come up with this sobriquet, which he had first seen reproduced on a blog. Since, the nickname had caught on and had even been cited in a couple of newspaper stories. Perkins had not seen fit as yet to comment on his unsought nickname, which was just as well. Abra, on the other hand, thought his Arabic byname had a sexual power to it. Both his mind and his loins felt about the same, but being in the news was good, and if it took such a cognomen to accomplish a steady media presence, that was great.

“I noticed you at prayers,” Ray said in a friendly tone. “I hadn't seen you before.”

Paul Lassi was lanky with an angular face. Glasses sat a bit over his sharp nose. He appeared to be in his late twenties. Sword tips of dark hair met above his dry lips with a wide swatch of stubble on his chin. Evidently, Paul was growing a mustache and beard to offset his thinning hair, or was it in some hirsute fervor to show his devotion to Islam. The more he immersed himself with Muslims the more he noticed how often they showed in the most ordinary of chatter and conversations their adherence to Islam. Such declarations of faith probably matched the utterings of born-again Christians, Ray mused, but such public affirmations went against his grain. No one had complained so far, not even Tariq, over this sort of silence. His instigating evidently was sufficient evidence of his faithfulness to Islam.