The Regime: Evil Advances (30 page)

“Americans are funny that way, aren’t they?” Abdullah said. “Rayford Steele tells me things he does not tell his wife, and he has since the day I met him.”

“She told me her life story, about growing up as the daughter of missionaries to South America, then moving back to the States when she was a teenager, meeting her husband at Bible college, and the two of them feeling called by God to be missionaries to this part of the world.”

“‘Called by God’?”

“That’s what she said. I had finally calmed myself and found my voice. I said, ‘And what has God called you to

do here?’ She said, ‘To tell people the truth about Him. That He loves them and cares about them and wants to know them and have them know Him.’”

“That’s a different God than I know,” Abdullah said.

“That is exactly what I thought,” she said. “Elle looked at her watch and said she had to start heading back to the airport, so did I mind if she just rushed through a few things with me. I told her I’d be honored to hear more, and she talked as we walked. She said she served a God of love who did not demand rituals and obligations and did not look for reasons to punish His children. She called herself His child, Abdullah. Have you ever felt like a child of God?”

Abdullah shook his head. Where was this going? It was one thing to be a lazy Muslim. It was quite another to consider defecting to another religion.

“I never have either,” Yasmine said. “Elle asked if she could pray for me, and when I said yes, she bowed her head right there and talked to God. I was so embarrassed, and yet she talked to Him as if she knew Him, as if He was her friend, as if she simply accepted that He loved her and accepted her and cared for her. I was deeply moved.”

“You still are. I can tell.”

“She had to go then, Abdullah, but I was not willing to let her. I walked with her all the way to the airport, and she kept talking the whole way. I was hungry, thirsty for something like she had. She promised to e-mail me and to keep in touch. And she has. I go back and forth with her every day, often several times a day. She is

teaching me, showing me things from the Bible, pointing me to the one true God who loves everyone, even if they have sinned.”

“Have you sinned, Yasmine? Is that what you are telling me?”

“I am learning that we are all sinners. We are all separated from God. But He has provided a way back to Himself. He will forgive us and wash our sins away. It is the most beautiful love story I have ever heard.”

“What has you so troubled?”

“Worrying about your reaction.”

“My reaction to what? Are you converting?”

“I want to with all my heart, Abdullah. But I don’t know what it will mean for you, for us. To have your wife, a mother, turning her back on the religion of her childhood, bringing disgrace on both sides of the family, making many think I am worthy of death … this would be no small decision.”

“But what kind of a decision is it? What would be required of you? How will people know?”

Yasmine stood and moved to the window, then turned to face her husband. “There is no such thing as a secret Christian,” she said. “I could not pretend to be something I was not, the way you and I have been practicing Islam for years. Part of becoming a Christian is throwing off the old life and taking on a whole new one. I could not become a believer in Christ without telling people.”

“Muslims believe in Christ! You can be both!”

THIRTY-NINE

Everybody at
Global Weekly
had been calling Cameron Buck for weeks, so it caught him off guard when Steve Plank buzzed him and said, “Cameron, do you have a moment?”

Buck was also surprised to find Juan Ortiz in Plank’s office, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. He was chief of the international politics bureau for GW.

Ortiz began speaking first. “It isn’t that I have anything against you personally, Williams.”

“Now just hold on a minute,” Plank said. “Juan came in here with a concern, Buck, and you know my style. He was questioning my decision to promote you from staff writer to senior writer, and I thought if a person of his stature has a problem with you, he ought to face you with it.”

“But it’s not a problem with him, Steve,” Juan said. “It is, as you say, a problem with your decision.”

“But my decision is all about Buck. And now that he’s a senior writer, I want you to use him for stuff. If you’ve got a problem with him, let’s get it on the table.”

“It’s not even your age, Cameron,” Ortiz said. “I’ve worked with young people before.”

“I heard you were a young person once yourself,” Buck said.

Plank laughed.

Ortiz didn’t. “I was young and I was inexperienced, just like you. You’re a fine writer. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. But international stories are complex, and a writer ought to have a lot of experience and background before he even attempts to—”

“I have a lot of experience with people, Mr. Ortiz. Hundreds of stories, interviews, profiles, features.”

“On international subjects?”

“People are people, sir. Aren’t their stories universal?”

“Sure, but there are differences in culture, background, protocol—you name it.”

“Granted. And so where am I to get this experience?”

“Well, not here. Before coming to
Global Weekly
you should have had extensive experience in global issues, and then here you should serve some sort of apprenticeship, traveling with a seasoned writer and doing reportage for him or her.”

“Like you did.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m willing to do that.”

“You are?”

“Of course. And I’d be honored to serve under you, Mr. Ortiz. What are you working on that I can help with?”

Juan was clearly flustered. “It doesn’t bother you that I am not as impressed with you as the boss seems to be? that I think you were promoted too soon?”

“I’d probably think the same if I had been around here as long as you have. I’m only a couple of years younger than you were when you were a senior writer though, right?”

“I guess that’s true.”

“In fact, weren’t you the youngest before me?”

“I guess that’s true too.”

“Is that the problem, Juan?” Plank said.

“Absolutely not. I started right out of college as a copy boy, and I paid my dues, worked my way up.”

Steve turned his attention to Buck. “Juan here has selective memory. He doesn’t recall, as I do, that he took the same heat you’re taking when Stanton Bailey, who had my position back then, made him a fairly young senior writer.”

“Fairly young,” Juan said. “But quite experienced.”

“So, you willing to take me under your wing, Mr. Ortiz? If it’s all right with Steve?”

Juan crossed his legs and leaned back. “Would you say you’re teachable and want to learn?”

“This was my idea, wasn’t it?”

“Mine too,” Steve said, smiling. “I was about to suggest the same thing.”

“You don’t report to me,” Juan said, “but you’d be expected to take direction—and directives—from me.”

“Granted. I’d be honored.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be.”

“And stop agreeing with me on everything.”

“Sorry. I mean, I wasn’t! How’s that?”

Abdullah “Smith” Ababneh had trouble sleeping. His mind was a jumble. One thing was certain: he had caused this. He was to blame. Yasmine was about to turn her back on her religion and convert to Christianity, of all things. She could not be persuaded to simply embrace a respect for Jesus within the confines of her own faith. To her the Islamic understanding of Jesus was inadequate. They did not put Him on the same plane even as Muhammad, and they certainly did not think Him equal with Allah.

To Yasmine, Jesus was the Son of God, was God, divine, transcendent, and the Savior of mankind. Abdullah could have lived with that—especially given the laxness of his own religious practice—except that there was no easy way for her to do this. In her mind, he understood, true conversion meant something public. She could not be both Muslim and Christian, and being a Christian meant that the fabric of her faith included telling others.

Abdullah found himself pacing night after night.

Strangely, part of him envied Yasmine. For one thing, she had a friend, a confidante, someone who truly cared for her and for her soul. Elle Lindquist corresponded with her every day, often several times a day, and it was not beyond her to call Yasmine occasionally too.

“Do you not feel pressured?” Abdullah had said.

“Not in the least,” Yasmine said. “I feel loved. I am learning so much, and it resonates with me, Abdullah. It feels right and true, as if I found what I had been looking for all my life without even realizing it.”

After several days of agonizing over it, Abdullah prayed to Allah about it. He had never prayed about something specific before, other than when he was in danger. Otherwise his prayers had always consisted only of praising Allah and Muhammad. He had gone through the rote five-times-a-day prayers for years before he had begun to slack off. Suddenly he found himself becoming devout. If anything could get him into deep trouble with a god he still wasn’t sure existed, it was losing his own wife to the other side.

And Allah, he now firmly believed, answered him. Deep within his heart and soul Abdullah became convinced that he had the answer for Yasmine. The trouble was, he waited too long to tell her. He ruminated about it for a few days, trying to shape his words in the most persuasive manner. The late evening when he had mustered the fortitude to raise the subject, she beat him to the point.

“I have news,” Yasmine said as she lay beside him in their bed. “I finally made my decision. I prayed a prayer

that Mrs. Lindquist walked me through, told God that I knew I was separated from Him by sin and that I needed forgiveness. I needed a Savior. I received His Son, Jesus Christ. Mrs. Lindquist says I am now born again.”

Abdullah closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands. “You did this without telling me?”

“I told you, Abdullah. We have been talking about it a long time, and now it has happened, and I told you.”

“But you didn’t consult with me, didn’t seek my permission.”

“Your permission}” she said. “Do you consider me a child? a possession?”

“In a way you are my possession, yes. And I must tell you: I will not allow this.”

Yasmine spoke just above a whisper. “I do not wish to defy you, Abdullah, but this was no small decision. This is my life. And this is the way I want to raise our children.”

Abdullah had long heard the expression about one’s blood running cold. Now he knew what that meant. A shudder ran through him, and a resolve began deep in his core. Guilt washed over him for being so bad, so inconsistent a Muslim that he was about to lose his wife. But his children also? He could not allow that. He simply could not. He would not be able to live with himself.

“My children are Muslims, Yasmine,” he said. “They will be raised in Islam.”

Yasmine rose and pulled on her robe, leaving the bedroom. He followed her, and they sat across from each other in the living room.

“My deepest prayer is that we not fight over this, Abdullah. You are no more Muslim than Elle Lindquist and her husband. It has become a religion of convenience for you. You do not believe in Allah. You do not believe in Muhammad. If you did, you would fulfill your duties and obligations to them, and not only when others are watching.”

“I lapsed,” he said, “and for that I am sorry. I have been a bad example to you, a poor husband. But this has awakened me. I am returning full strength to my religion. I believe there is no god other than Allah and that Muhammad is his prophet. Jesus is compatible with that. He is found in our holy writings.”

“Jesus precedes your holy writings,” Yasmine said. “And He said Himself that He was the way, the truth, and the life and that no one can come to God except through Him. If you don’t believe that, don’t say that He is compatible with Islam.”

Smart and technically astute as he was, Abdullah had never believed he matched his wife’s intelligence. He could not argue with her, could not persuade her. “I was going to talk with you about this very evening,” he said. “I was going to ask that you forgive me for the example I have been and give me time to get back on track. Hold off on your decision and return to the disciplines of our religion. There you will find the truth and happiness and contentment.”

Yasmine looked down and shook her head.

“What?” he said.

“We have both been through our periods of devotion,”

she said. “There have been times in both of our lives when no one could have questioned our faith. Did it ever bring you contentment? happiness?” She did not wait for an answer. “Me either. Abdullah, I have found what I needed. I have truly come to God. I do not have to earn His favor. I cannot, and it is a good thing.”

“You are to do nothing if you are a Christian? You are not expected to pray and worship and perform acts of goodwill?”

“Of course. But not to earn God’s favor. Rather as a response to the gifts that have been bestowed.”

“The gifts?”

“Forgiveness. Eternal life.”

“You do not fear the anger of Allah?”

Yasmine sighed. “If I feared Allah, I would have remained a slave to the demands of Islam. So would you. Why do you now fear him?”

That was the question of the ages. Abdullah did fear Allah. He feared his god existed and cared and would now see Abdullah as a reprobate, an infidel, a failure.

Worse—if there could be anything worse—Abdullah took as a threat to his very manhood the fact that his wife was no longer reasonable. She had never before been impudent, obstinate, stubborn, resolute against him. And now she countered everything he said.

Abdullah wanted to be reasonable, to listen, to really hear, to discuss these deep things. But could he tolerate such rebellion from his own wife? Did he have no say, no sway over her? Could he compete with this divine suitor? And how was it that she had plunged ahead with what

she admitted was no small decision without so much as consulting him or warning him?