The Last Infidel (9 page)

“Don’t do this, Bashar,” Cody said.  “I’ll . . . I’ll do as you ask.”

Bashar, with his eyes looking at the president of the mosque, said, “It is too late for that now.  In the event you refuse the order again, I will kill two more.”  Bashar turned and called for his two body guards.  “Take Cody Marshall and Mikey Ferguson to the clock tower.”

Cody never heard the swing of the sword, nor the cries of the worker, as Bashar’s executioner swung his dull blade.  In the end, for want of a sharp edge, the soldier had to kneel over the body of his victim.  He spent five minutes sawing, with his knee on the man’s back, and his free hand holding the dying man’s dark, brown hair. 

With his arm locked into the arm of Mikey, and with the two guards bringing up the rear, Cody assured Mikey with words of encouragement.  The group entered the courthouse, took the stairs, and reached the clock tower.

Cody held on to Mikey’s now cold hand, both of the men steadying the other; and Cody could feel Mikey’s thin, frail body trembling in the heat of that cursed summer evening.

“It’s better this way,” Mikey said.  “They’ve all gone – everyone.  There’s not many left now, and my family is gone, too.”

Cody, with tears welling up in his eyes, nodded and smiled.

“I’m okay with this, Cody.  I’ve struggled, but I’ve never once given in to Satan, even though he’s called my name every day.  Nor have I or will I curse my enemies.”

The two men stepped out from the clock tower, walked carefully to the edge of the roof, and looked out over the people assembled below them.

The Muslim soldiers, when they saw Mikey and Cody, shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

“I have . . . I have my Bible,” Mikey said.  He looked back towards the clock tower where the two guards, petrified to be so high up on the roof, held tightly to a service rail that ran around the tower.  Mikey knelt down and lifted his pants leg.  His Bible, a small, green one, was tucked in his sock.  He pulled it out and opened it up.

Cody smiled.

“You know, I always wanted to be a preacher,” Mikey said.  “I can’t think of a pulpit taller than this or a crowd as large, right?  But I’m sure they’ll shoot me the moment I---”

“Read it, Mikey.”

Mikey opened his little Bible and, with a voice nobody had ever heard him use before, a voice loud and clear, read from Psalm 22.  “I will declare your name to my brothers, in the congregation I will praise you.  You who fear the Lord, praise him!”

A cry, wild and high-pitched, rose from the ground.  The president of the mosque covered his ears and yelled for Bashar to stop the infidel.  Bashar’s men, from one end of the line to other, shook their fists and screamed, some in Arabic, others in English.

The infidels cheered.

Mikey smiled, and tears ran down his face.  And then he yelled, “For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one, and he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help!”

Bashar appeared on the roof near the clock tower; and he ordered his two guards towards the edge of the roof, yelling for them to stop Mikey from speaking.

Mikey raised his hands to heaven, and with a smile on his face, said, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life!”

One bodyguard refused to climb out onto the sloping roof, even though Bashar beat him mercilessly.  The other, with terror in his eyes, crawled towards Cody and Mikey.  He lost his footing and began to slide towards them, losing his weapon, screaming, and waving his hands wildly.

“Catch him, Cody!” Mikey yelled, dropping his Bible.  He steadied his foot on the gutter and, as Bashar’s bodyguard neared, Cody slowed him down, and Mikey grabbed his hand, digging his nails deep into the Muslim’s flesh.

Cody grabbed onto Mikey’s thick leather belt and pulled him back, just as the soldier went over the side.  Mikey, perhaps in a last, adrenaline-fueled effort to affirm life, held onto the soldier’s arm as the soldier, screaming and crying, swung under the eaves of the courthouse. 

“I’ve got you!” Mikey yelled.

The crowd below, no longer yelling, no longer waving their rifles, held their breaths.

“Give me your other hand!”

The soldier, his eyes wide and his jaws clenched, swung his left arm up.  But Mikey missed it.

“Drop this guy,” Cody said.

“And let my sermon go to waste?”  Mikey said, straining to get the words out.  “Once the seed is planted, God has to water it, right?  And remember, Cody.  God always holds out his hand.  Satan has only a fist.”

The soldier swung his hand up a second time, and Mikey caught it.  With Cody’s help, Mikey pulled the man to safety, though he was much larger than Mikey’s one hundred twenty pounds.

“Push him over!” Bashar yelled to Cody.  “Do it now or I’ll kill more of your men.”

Cody ignored him.

The guard Mikey had just saved, an older man by the name of Mamook, steadied himself on the gutter.  He looked at Mikey with thankfulness in his eyes.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens---”

A single gunshot rang out, and a bullet pierced Mikey’s skull, making a clean, small hole.  He fell backwards through the air, his soul set free: his body dead before he hit the ground.

Cody didn’t bother to look, but instead turned and looked at Bashar.

Bashar was holding a smoking gun.

Cody helped the guard back up to the clock tower and, after he felt reasonably sure the man would not fall a second time, he stood up.  It crossed his mind to take the gun from Bashar and shoot his boss, but the idea of pulling him out of the small opening and throwing him onto the slick roof sounded better.  But Cody had a better idea, a much better idea – and he saw the path he must take open up clearly before him.

“Get back inside, now,” Bashar said to Cody.

“You know, Bashar,” Cody said, sensing Bashar had just personally executed his first man.  “It’s easy to take a life.  But it sure takes a hell of a lot more work to save one.”  He lifted his shirt, showed him his old bullet wound, and nodded his head.

{
14
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Cody and Jose sat quietly in the truck, Jose sticking his finger into one of several bullet holes in the front windshield, Cody tapping out a song on the steering wheel.  Greenland Drive came up on the right – nobody from the old days would’ve recognized it – and Cody slowed down.  The garbage looked thicker this morning, mostly empty food cans, wrappers from out-of-date candy bars, and plastic bottles.  People in Tennessee would run out of soft drinks and food eventually, if they hadn’t already.  What they’d eat next, given that Muslim’s grazed the countryside like locusts, was anybody’s guess.  Cody laughed.  The survivalists had been telling people for years that the twenty-two caliber bullet would be the ticket to survival; but what those nuts didn’t realize was that small game, even in the days of Davy Crockett, got scarce with even one man hunting it.

Cody’s work crew, now short two men, were already on the job.  For the rest of the weekend, they’d be touching up odds and ends prior to a final inspection of the mosque early Monday morning. 

There was a blue Cadillac parked in front of the work trailer. The car looked clean and waxed.  Cody had had visitors before, usually guys sent by the president of the mosque.  But a blue Caddy?

When the truck stopped, Jose jumped out and headed up the small, wooden steps of the construction trailer.

“I’ll handle this, if it’s all the same you,” Cody said, coming up the steps behind Jose.  He maneuvered around Jose and opened the door.  A short man, dressed impeccably in a black suit with a red tie, stood in the doorway and greeted him.  He saw Tracy getting up from the office chair.

“It’s a pleasure for me to meet you, Mr. Marshall,” the man said, holding out his hand.  “I am glad that Bashar didn’t shoot you after last night.”

“Sometimes I’m luckier than I want to be,” Cody said boldly, reaching out to shake the dark-skinned man’s hand, though he had his eyes on Tracy.  “This is Jose – what his last name is I’ve seem to have forgotten.”

“How do you don’t?” Jose said.  “My friends call me Jose, but you can call me Mr. Lozano.”

“Cody,” Tracy said, squeezing through the doorway, “I’d like you to meet Zafar Katila, one of Bashar’s top logistics men.”

“I seem to have guessed it already,” Cody said.

“You spoke of luck, Mr. Marshall,” Zafar said.  “But maybe luck has nothing to do with the present circumstances.”

“Enough of the small talk, what can I do for you?” Cody asked.

“Well, all business, aren’t we?” Zafar said.  “And the sooner we get that out of the way, the better.  You, up until today, are short on the short list.  This morning, Bashar had a meeting with the president of the mosque.  For all we know, Bashar’s men could be coming to kill you right now.  And I can’t have you dying until you tell me---”

Cody looked at Tracy.  He held her gaze for a second, and then he watched her turn away.

“Bashar’s the least of my worries,” Cody said.  “And the explosives are none of yours.”

Zafar turned and looked at Tracy.  “Aren’t the explosives something I should be worrying about?”

“I’m sorry, Cody,” Tracy said, nodding.

“So, Mr. Marshall, is there anything you might want to tell us?” Zafar asked.  “Because all I have to do is tell Bashar that a certain friend of his is hiding something.  And though you may think you know Bashar el Sayed, let me tell you that you most certainly don’t.”

“Cody, ISA troops are moving out of Knoxville and Bowling Green,” Tracy said.  “We have fifty undercover Yazidi operating with those units.  With those explosives, we can slow ISA down before it moves on Chattanooga.”

“Yes,” Zafar added.  “We can take out ammo dumps, equipment, and most of the Yazidi have volunteered for suicide missions.”

“And even now, getting those explosives out of Murfreesboro becomes more difficult with every passing hour,” Tracy said. 

“And if you will simply tell us where you have hidden the explosives, I will see to it that you get out of Murfreesboro safely,” Zafar said.

Cody reached into his pocket and removed the silver crescent shield Bashar had given him.  He held it up and said, “Seems like a lot of people, including myself, want me out of town lately.  If I haven’t left yet, what makes you think I want to leave?  And I’ve seen your precious Yazidi before.  You’ll be lucky if two of them complete their missions.  I saw them in action at Nashville.  They have plenty to live for, but nothing to die for.”

“Don’t think you are more important than you are, Mr. Marshall,” Zafar suggested.  “Yes, you are important – unfortunately – but I will not hesitate to go to Bashar.”

“And lucky for Cody that only he knows how to get power to this mosque,” Jose said, watching Cody.  “He won’t even tell me what he’s done to the generators.”

“And lucky for me I always keep my personal recorder turned on,” Cody said.  And from his pocket he removed a small, black recorder, a recorder he had been using during the inspections.  He hit the off switch and handed it to Jose. 

Tracy took a deep breath and shook her head.  Zafar remained artificially calm, rubbing the back of his neck, and then touching his cleanly-shaven chin.

“Now, if you’re finished with your little shakedown, I’ve got work to do,” Cody said.  “I think your two are finished here.”

That evening, just as the common meal was being set out in the hardware store, Cody hurried along the south end of the square, passing several closed businesses, and crossed the street in front of the Old Ben’s Smoke Shoppe on the Church Street side.  A couple of oil laps burned on either side of the carved Indian chief behind the glass window.  The lamps meant that Jadhari’s personal office was still open for business.

Cody stepped through the door, and the small, antique bell attached to the door’s header announced his presence.  An older Muslim man, hobbling along on a cane, answered the summons.

“Jadhari isn’t seeing anyone at this time,” the old man said.  “It would be best to return in the morning.”

“In the morning?  Why in the morning?” Cody asked.  “Tell him I want to see him now.”

The old man, knowing the relationship between Cody and Jadhari, didn’t argue.  He disappeared through a door behind the old, glass display case, his cane thumping as he went.

The smoke shop still smelled of tobacco, a sweet, rich fragrance Cody loved to breathe as a child.  The glass jars on the wall, sitting empty for almost two years now, still smelled like the contents they once held.  Cody walked over to the wall and picked up a jar, a jar he had picked up many times over the years.  He removed the lid, placed his face into the jar, and inhaled.  Apple, he thought, and he breathed deeply once more.  Only here in the smoke shop could one escape the reek of Islamic civilization on a hot summer day when the humid air floated in thick and nasty from the garbage dumps.

“Cody, my old friend,” Jadhari called out from behind the counter.  “Of course, I will beat the old man for disobeying me – he should have told you I was not here.”

“We’ve got business to discuss,” Cody demanded.  “And if you don’t mind, we can discuss it right here, business-like.”

“Whatever it is, I am sure you can hammer it out with Bashar,” Jadhari said, looking at his watch.  “Why don’t you share a cigar with me?”

“You know I don’t smoke.”

“Unless you catch fire,” Jadhari said, laughing.  “That’s what you always used to say!”

The old man came hobbling into the room.  Jadhari told him he could leave for the night.

“How appropriate,” Cody snapped.  “How many people have you smoked in the last two years?”

“And you’re a hypocrite, Cody Marshall,” Jadhari said, with his eyes fixed on Cody’s, “because you stopped caring for these people about two years ago – or am I wrong?  And wasn’t it you who pushed Mikey Ferguson off the roof yesterday after Mikey tried to push one of the guards to his death?  I saw it with my own eyes, as did all the men.”

Cody pursed his lips.  He knew Jadhari actually believed what he’d just said, even though he’d seen his own father shoot Mikey between the eyes.  No amount of evidence, not even a replay of a video, had one existed, would make a difference.  Same as the Black Lies Matter soldiers back before the war.

Darken the lightness.

“I want the boy,” Cody said loudly.

Jadhari moved his head, ever so slightly.  He was about to deny knowing anything about the boy.  Cody knew it: that was Jadhari’s way.  The jerk of the head, the knowing look in the eyes, the pause after the accusation – Jadhari knew Cody knew that he’d taken Marcus Maddox, but he’d deny it to the very end.  And he’d probably believe his own lies.

“I have nothing to do with Marcus,” Jadhari insisted.

“I’ve got a proposition for you, Jadhari,” Cody countered.  “I’ve got a ten-dollar gold piece – that’s enough gold to buy what’s left of this crummy town.”

“I’ll see that he is returned safely for a twenty-dollar gold piece.  That is, if he hasn’t already been bought – he’s at the camp, with the women.”

Cody had already spoken with his contacts in town.  No boys were in the camp; and there hadn’t been for some time.  Most of them were bartered under the table – probably even sampled there – bought and sold before they had a chance to get to the auction block.  Islamic caviar is what the infidels called young boys unlucky enough to be captured.

“How long will you be here?” Cody asked.

“I will be here until midnight, at least.  I’m going over some details for the last day of Ramadan.”

Cody heard a knock on the window, turned, and looked out.  He saw Jose waving, and then he watched him open the door. 

Cody looked at Jadhari and said, “If you’re not here when I get back, the deal’s off, you hear me?”

“I’ll be here,” Jadhari said.

Jose came in, greeted Jadhari, and said, “You’re gonna miss dinner tonight, Cody.”

Cody smiled once at Jadhari, put his hand on Jose’s back, and both of them walked out of the store.

“Are we gonna have time to do this?” Jose asked.  “What if we get caught?”

“We’ll worry about that when the time doesn’t come.”