The Apostate (33 page)

“And this Tariq? Why'd you shoot him? Edwins asked.

“He shot me first, and he was about to do it again.”

“So you claim self-defense?” Allek questioned.

“Yes, I do.”

“And the man you killed at the farmhouse. That was self-defense, too?” Edwins looked decidedly unconvinced.

Ray scowled, feeling even this slight movement painful. “He held a gun at me.”

“Which he had a license for, and you were trespassing on his property,” Allek pointed out.

“And, conveniently, you took his gun with you,” Edwins added.

Ray shrugged, and this movement sent a sharp stab racing through his shoulder. Half his body seemed enveloped in white bandages, and the dark rails on either side of the bed seemed even more prison-like. “I…I'm not sure why I did that. It just seemed to make sense at the moment.”

“So let me add this up,” Allek said. “You've killed three men, all in self-defense.”

The detectives stared at him in mutual disbelief.

“Have you spoken to Perkins? He can back me up.” Ray knew this was a lie, and a futile one, but he had to create more time to figure out what he could do. He couldn't just get up and leave the hospital room. No charges had been levied against him—yet. But from the detectives' demeanors, one or more charges looked imminent.

“We're trying to reach such a person,” Edwins said. “No one seems to know him or such an agency.”

“We checked with Homeland Security and the FBI,” Allek said. “Zero.”

The detectives looked at him as if he had invented everything. Perkins had set things up brilliantly. He had no proof of his association with the PAS. Probably his offshore account was gone too, if it ever existed. The bastard was willing to trade off a few deaths at the complex to protect the secret identity of the PAS.

“Look, I suspected Tariq, and I was right. He was planning a bomb at the complex, and one went off. Right?”

The detectives nodded.

“And Abra…and my wife died there.” Ray did his best to control his emotion. He felt he might cry, but no tears came.

“We're sorry about that,” Allek said.

Edwin's cell phone rang. He turned aside to take the call. “Okay,” he said tersely after listening a few moments. “Yes, I understand.”

Edwins turned back to Ray with a dissatisfied look. “Looks like you're off the hook, Dancer. Ever hear of state secrets?”

***

Who was going to get him first was the constant question in Ray's mind as he worked feverishly to finish his book about his experiences. Would it be a Muslim assassin obeying the
fatwa
put out on him by the head cleric in Iran, or closer to home, someone dispatched by Perkins? Probably Perkins was even more eager to prevent disclosure of his operations, which had remarkably escaped attention in the aftermath of the bombing of the complex. The much abused doctrine of state secrets prevailed again in stopping truth from emerging. But to make sure his home had been gone over by the police, ostensibly to seek evidence of his involvement in the bombing. Moving his material out of the house, and hiding it at a locker at the train station, had been one of the few smart things he had done. His clothing and car had been searched, but the locker key hadn't been found. Like his notes, it was virtually in plain sight attached to a bunch of house keys in his desk. Being suspected of causing Abra's death was a bitter and ironic pill to accept, but it obviously fit Perkins' master plan, which had been successful. So far.

Recollecting events for his final chapter, Ray could visualize the distressed imam, still in shellshock over the bombing, reporting in a newspaper story that Tariq had gone to collect Ray and to tell him about the bombing. Vaguely, the imam reported that Tariq claimed to have received an anonymous phone call on where Ray was. Anonymous, bullshit! It had to be Perkins betraying him.

He should have foreseen this, Ray thought. He was just a pawn, and he had let writing a book and appearing before a congressional committee go to his head.

It was quite clear that Tariq and his companion had come to the safe house apartment to kill him. In that fashion, Tariq and the PAS would both be spared incriminating details. Perkins, or his superiors, had planned his assassination. But it was Tariq who was gone. And so was both his and Tariq's version of the
ummah
for American Muslims. A doubleheader of defeats! The status of American Muslims United was unclear, but probably some other one-dimensional leader would rise up and try to salvage the nascent political party. Perkins probably knew about Tariq's plan before he did, and was just waiting for the right moment to reveal it with a big splash, showing how marvelously effective American security efforts were.

Wellstone, utilizing one of the boilerplate clauses in the contract, had voided the deal. His manuscript had been taken by the police and was probably residing in some dusty archive of unused evidence.

Ray reread his words detailing how Perkins cleverly exploited the state secrets privilege. Whenever the government wanted to cover anything up in a legal case it could claim sensitive state secrets were involved that might harm national security and judges would invariably rule in their favor. Meanwhile, he was subjected to an extended visit from a psychiatrist who diagnosed him as a potential schizophrenic. To avoid force-feeding of pills he swallowed them, willing himself to deny their effect.

The reason for this treatment was clear, Ray thought with a lingering bitterness. In this fashion anything he might say would just be attributed to him being disturbed, badly distraught over his wife's death, and using the bombing—still unsolved—to blame Tariq, who he assassinated. Suspicion was carefully prepared to make it seem he was initially involved in the plot and then had tried to bow out. Crossing every t, dotting every i. In effect, he was a killer of three, though his self-defense claim was strangely accepted.

Released finally from the hospital with a new diagnosis that he wasn't a danger to others or himself, and with a new slew of pills he was supposed to take, he had managed to slip away. At this point he wasn't sure anyone was paying attention to him anymore. But they were all making a big mistake!

Incredibly, the police bought all these lies, or were forced to. Now the complex had been investigated, with the scare of Islamic violence causing a nationwide scrutiny of every center and mosque. Far from generating sympathy for American Muslims, and gaining them more political traction, Islamophobia was stronger than ever. The discovery that Tariq had set up a slush fund for political activity further incriminated the center, though the imam insisted he knew nothing about such a fund. Neither had Abra, Ray was sure.

Sweet Abra! So intelligent and so supportive, though she would never have accepted his treachery. But despite his lies and deceptions he was sure she had known that he was sincere in trying to help American Muslims in his feeble, misguided way.

Now he was setting the record straight. In writing what had actually happened Ray tried to succinctly get across how thoroughly frustrated he had been by not being able to prove that Tariq was involved with the bombing plot. He hadn't been able to prove a damn thing!

But maybe his book, if Perkins didn't get it destroyed first, or didn't use a misguided court to prevent its publication on more state secrets baloney, would balance things out.

Now he was holed up in another cruddy furnished apartment in Park City, Utah.

He had still to be anywhere near the ski slopes, shopping rarely and at night. His self-cut hair, now a light tan, was close to being a rough crew cut. His full beard still itched. He estimated he had lost about twenty pounds. He looked different, but it probably wasn't enough. Avoiding use of his credit card, he just used cash.

Finally, Ray finished his manuscript, which he decided to call
The Apostate
. He destroyed all his notes, and packed his few belongings in a small suitcase he had purchased in a Park City department store. He had been an apostate to Islam, which was a fine and true religion despite terrorists and political/religious renegades like Tariq. Perhaps he had also been an apostate to the United States, his country of birth, by espousing so much of Islamic values. And even more cuttingly, he had been an apostate to Abra. If only she had survived, and he had been able to at least explain his role, which had ironically become a dual role. Would she have understood? Forgiven him? He would never know.

Ray transferred his manuscript onto a flash drive in his apartment, and then went out to an Internet café and sent the manuscript in an attachment to five major New York-based publishers. He gave his name on the title page but no contact information. He was going to be on the move continuing his vagabond existence, so there was no way a publisher could contact him—or the authorities to find him. He'd learn eventually if the book got published. Publishers though, he realized, might be warned off by the government.

His first choice for his next location had originally been Edmonton or Alberta in western Canada, or perhaps one of the less visited islands in the Caribbean. But now you needed to show your passport for these Western Hemisphere destinations. So he settled for Spokane in Washington. He didn't mind a little rain.

Relieved at having finished his book, Ray decided to go for a walk. It was dark already and he was tired of being cooped up. He'd sleep one more night here and leave in the morning for Spokane. It wouldn't be that long a bus ride, and the newer buses were more comfortable these days with tinted windows and other amenities. Maybe he could even stop and do some sightseeing, but that would be too risky. Still pondering his choices, he put the flash drive in his pocket.

Outside, the streets were filled with people, both skiers and social skiers. The air was brisk with a bracing and invigorating coldness. The restaurants and bars were hopping with vacationers and tourists. No one seemed to pay much attention when he was knocked aside by a stocky man with a ruddy complexion almost as red as the cotton hat on his head. Excusing himself with an apologetic smile, the man leaned close to Ray as if helping him up and injected his right leg with a fatal, heart-stopping drug.

“Perkins said hi,” the man whispered, and then walked away as Ray stumbled to his feet, feeling woozy.