The Apostate (22 page)

“I'm sorry,” Benson said, glancing at his paper cluttered desk for an instant. He looked truly penitent, Ray thought. In truth, he deserved to be sacked. It's what he would do if he was in Benson's place.

Ray shrugged. Losing his position wasn't such a great setback, now that he had the book he edited to his mounting credits. In time, unless he became an utter pariah and outcast in the publishing industry, he'd be able to find another job. “No surprise.”

But Benson looked puzzled. “What happened, Ray? How did you suddenly become such an activist?”

Ray smiled. “Driven by belief. Why should that be a surprise?”

But of course it was, and to everyone who wasn't a Muslim, and no doubt to many like Tariq who were. He had become a practiced liar, or was this a latent talent just waiting to manifest itself? Ambivalence was still the driving force of his life now, increasingly affected by an uncertain guideline that had oddly grown. Behind all the bold attention-seeking assertions was the realization that he could genuinely be a force for what was good about Islam, though that was hardly the mission that Perkins recruited him for, and which he had expected to follow.

History was cyclical. American ascendance was in decline, with China on the upswing. But beyond these forces, and well past his lifetime, the world of Islam would surge again to a spectacular world dominance or heightened presence in just a few centuries. A new golden century of science, medicine, philosophy, and literature would flourish just as it had in Moorish Spain and the caliphate in Baghdad during the Middle Ages. A new Avicenna and Averroes and other stalwarts would stamp their genius on the world. No other religion was gathering more adherents. In a way, such a swelling momentum of people of all colors and from all countries was frightening. Unless properly channeled, it could turn into a deadly force of religious intolerance. Islam should only be spread by ideas, not the sword. And he, in a small way, could help tip the contemporary scales toward Islam as a universal good. But this wasn't exactly Perkin's credo. Nor, he suspected, was it likely to be centermost in Tariq's vision of the future.

“Well, it is,” Benson said, breaking into Ray's thoughts. “I'm sorry, but you have to leave the office today. Company policy. Like I warned you, we don't want to be perceived as somehow connected to American Muslims. You're getting a month's severance, plus vacation time.”

“Any references?” Ray asked, smiling. He had never been fired from a job before and the experience, while hardly pleasant, wasn't as bad as he thought it might be. His major concern was how Abra would take it, though he had warned her that his days at Kindred were probably numbered.

“I won't say anything bad,” Benson said with a straight face, and then smiled as they shook hands. “Be careful, Ray,” he advised as Ray turned to leave.

“Always,” Ray said.

“Rather than put a stop to Mongoose and threaten the entire operation, we've decided to put his verbal diarrhea to use—but with tight guidelines. Are you with me?”

“Yes, sir,” Perkins said.

“Let him expound his nonsense, but not so much that he fires up all the young Muslims who want to do something for their precious
ummah
. We know what
ummah
means, and it can be bad news if left uncontrolled or misdirected.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So no blank check for Mongoose. It's a balancing act. Restrain him without alienating him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he still cooperative?”

“More or less, sir. He acts confused about his role, and I can see why. We asked him to become a Muslim and—”

“But not such a damn problem Muslim! I know what his nickname is–the agitator.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What we want now is less agitation and more usable intelligence. Can you get that across to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Tell him the new ground rules. He can express himself, but within limits. He should go over his public media appearances with you in advance. If he resists this, then let me know. We may have to take firmer steps.”

“Yes, sir.”

Perkins wanted a sit-down meeting. It couldn't be to compliment him, Ray thought, as he parked in the rear of another cafeteria. More likely, he would be subject to another barrage of complaints that he was overstepping his mission. What fake manuscript would Perkins have today? The PAS operative was sitting in the rear of the cafeteria, which was half filled. He signaled to Ray with a nod of his head.

As soon as he had ordered coffee, and the waitress had left, Perkins said, “I caught your TV show.”

“It wasn't my show,” Ray corrected.

“Seems like you made it so,” Perkins said.

“I wanted to make a splash and I did.”

Perkins nodded, and then waited until the waitress brought coffee. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. You went overboard. I warned you.”

“How did I go overboard?” Ray said, his face clenching with the criticism. “What I said was a natural corollary to previous statements. And as was patently obvious, Ranch provoked me.”

Ray didn't expect to get a vote of confidence, but being criticized was another matter. Perkins was being a pill, but a pill with power over him.

“Look, are you believing your own stuff now?”

Perkins looked at him as if he had transgressed off widely accepted modes of conduct for someone in his situation. And, for that matter just what was his situation now? Hardly the same as when he began.

“What do you mean?”

“You're instigating terrorism with your anti-American comments. Blowback, and probably a lot of it.”

Ray shook his head in denial. “I'm solidifying my position in the Islamic community. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Perkins frowned. “Yes, but not this way. I'm getting a lot of heat now from my superiors. They're wondering if this program is backfiring.”

“I gave you one plotter.”

“Yes, and even you thought it might be a way to test you.”

“You found bombs, didn't you?”

“Yes, but that Assi could have been a sacrifice. He was the only one caught.”

“Lassi,” Ray corrected.

Perkins pouted. “Whatever. Tone it down. Got it? Don't make me ask again.”

“Sure,” Ray said, astounded at this turn of events. Just when he thought he was in high gear, the powers-that-be were putting in new brakes. The imam was also concerned he might be overzealous. What was he supposed to do now? Tell the imam, who he truly respected, and Tariq, who he didn't, that he had to take a step backwards? Abra might be pleased if he was less of a lightning rod, but only if everything else about him remained a secret.

“I got canned at Kindred, you know.”

Perkins shrugged. “You weren't surprised, were you?”

“No.”

“And it doesn't affect your mission, does it?”

Perkins' logic was correct. Not that he expected or wanted any sympathy, but it was crystal clear that it was the mission, not the man, that mattered to the PAS. And now Perkins and his superiors were creating a different version of himself and his goal. But what could he do about it?

Ray wasn't unemployed long enough to even apply for let alone collect unemployment checks. The complex gave him a modest stipend, quite a bit less than his salary had been at Kindred. His offshore account was growing, though he couldn't tap into it without going through Perkins. And now he was also getting speaking engagements. He set his fee at $1,000 plus expenses. To his mild surprise, his fee was often accepted, though he was negotiated down a couple of times. Universities were most interested. He drew opposition from some quarters at these places of higher learning, and the resultant publicity was very satisfactory. Ironically, it seemed he was successful if he spoke or not.

Then, to his enormous delight, he received an offer to write a book on the emerging Islamic community in the U.S. He didn't even have a literary agent and the proposal, including a modest advance came from Wellstone Press, a well-known New York-based publisher. Wellstone wasn't a giant in the publishing field, but it was strong enough to get its books into the shelves of book stores. His advance, more than what Kindred provided but less than what the really big publishers might offer, came in three stages: at the signing, when the manuscript was turned in and accepted, and when the book was published. His and Abra's lifestyle wasn't going to have any great change.

Still Abra was delighted.

“I'm so proud of you,” she trilled. “And now maybe you can spend more time at home. But this is a wish and not a criticism.”

“And taken as such, as long as you promise to be my in-house editor. I'm sure I'll get one from the publisher.”

“Always,” Abra said, giving him a loving look. They embraced. Abra was a rock in a secret life with evolving loyalties. As loving and intimate as they were, it pained him that he couldn't share his innermost thoughts and problems with her.

But other than his constant deception of virtually everyone, everything was going well, Ray thought, as he left the house after Abra had already driven to work. As usual, he had breakfast with Abra. Afterwards, he washed and dried the dishes and then went to his makeshift study to start work on fleshing out his outline for the book. He had a used desk and a new laptop computer. His old printer sat on the same table, now repainted a spotless and unstained white. A small bookcase was already crammed with books and pamphlets, and it was evident he really needed a floor-to-ceiling bookcase to accommodate their growing library. Abra's books were almost as many as he had.

When he was ready to print material he saw he needed computer paper, and there was none in the closet where such supplies were kept. It was a nuisance, but he had to go to the nearby store and buy several packages.

As he was leaving the house and turned toward their garage, a shot rang out from a parked car across the street. Ray fell to the ground, a bullet lodged in his right shoulder as the car sped off at high speed.

***

“Any idea who took a shot at you?” the detective asked Ray as he lay with his shoulder bandaged in a hospital bed. A second detective looked on. It was remarkable how rigid both their expressions appeared, like they were cast out of the same mold. Both men were tall and sturdy, probably in their forties, and each wore a sports jacket over slacks. Hardly a fashion statement, but looking dapper wasn't their job as they waited for his response. They had told him their names, which he had already forgotten.

Abra stood by the bed, which had guard rails that made Ray feel like a prisoner. She looked like a stern guardian ready to leap to his defense.

“No,” Ray said. “Not a clue.”

“Any enemies?” the second detective asked.

“Or too many?” the first detective immediately added. “You're kind of well known.”

Even their voices seemed similar, Ray thought, no doubt a result of their training at the police academy. He shrugged, and the movement gave him pain. The last pain killer had worn off. The answers to both questions were fairly obvious. Of course he had enemies, but how could he assess that congregation numerically? Stock questions, which brought stock answers.

“I have no idea who shot me,” Ray said in a flat tone. Perkins must know by this time what happened, but there hadn't been any chance to contact him. And even then, Perkins might feel constrained in calling him or calling off the police, though the PAS seemed to have a good deal of clout.

“Do you think the shooter wanted to kill you?” the first detective asked.

“What do you mean?” Ray asked, puzzled.

“Could have been a warning shot?” the second detective suggested.

“Which isn't hard if the shooter was a pro,” the first detective added.

“I don't know,” Ray said, glancing at Abra. She was watching and listening with a greater intensity than he was probably showing, even though she had been at the hospital for many hours. Creases marred her pale forehead and she looked tired. The imam and Tariq had paid a visit, wishing him well, and left. But Abra stayed. “I suppose it's possible. The guy was right across the street.”

“Did you get a look at the shooter?” The first detective was quick to pose this question.

“No.”

“Then how do you know it was a man?” the second detective asked.

Ray scowled. The interrogation seemed to have a beforehand element. Neither detective had shown a notebook or jotted anything down. Didn't they have to turn in some paperwork? “I made the assumption.”

“And you didn't get the type of car?” the first detective asked.

This was the usual litany of questions, Ray thought, but it had to be endured. If it was a warning shot, who was behind it?

“I wasn't paying attention to a car parked across the street,” Ray said. “I was just heading to my car in our garage.

“Detectives,” Abra broke into the conversation with an impatient tone, “do you have any clues?”

“We're investigating,” the second detective said. “But there's not much to go on right now. We have the bullet and know the type of gun used.”

“We'll keep you posted,” the second detective said like he was prompted by some internal rote process.

As soon as the detectives left, Abra said, “I don't think they liked you much.”

“Probably thought I deserved it,” Ray said. “Staunch patriots.”

“God save us from such patriots,” Abra declared. She leaned over to rearrange the blanket over Ray.

“Not to be sacrilegious, Abra, but I think God needs help.”

Finally, as he was itching to leave—his doctor, a non-Muslim, who like the detectives, didn't seem at all sympathetic to his viewpoints—signed his release. His nurse, a motherly-like woman in her fifties, had been far friendlier. He had probably lost several pounds, unable to eat the unappealing hospital food. Abra promised to restore his accustomed weight in short order.