The Apostate (5 page)

“I'll go over his manuscript again,” Benson said in a weary tone. “Meanwhile, he doesn't want to work with you any more. He also asked for an apology.”

“An apology!” Ray's face reddened. The nerve of the half-ass writer! He'd like to punch his face in. “He ought to apologize to me!”

“Take it easy!” Benson ordered. He considered for a moment. “Well, I wasn't in the room, so I don't know who's exaggerating or what. I'll try and get him to glide over this. These things blow over. His manuscript, which we've paid for, is the important thing. But Ray, we can't have any more problems like this. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yes,” Ray said, feeling abashed.

Benson was really giving him an ultimatum. He felt fed up with his job, the company, and dealing with egotistical writers who looked down on him. But he needed the income, so he couldn't quit. Things were getting progressively worse at work and his social life. He was sabotaging himself in both areas with hasty and foolish words. Lurking over all these upsets was the risk of being labeled a felon. Even if he didn't have to contend with grimy homosexual paws in prison, this prospect wasn't very appetizing either.

Perkins' offer seemed brighter now. It would certainly make a dramatic change in his life. But was he ready to take such a quantum jump into such a tricky and risky situation?

Just how adventurous was he really, Ray thought, as he entered a totally different office than before. Now Perkins was seeing him in a downtown office building. There were a row of three offices after a receptionist waved him in the suite. Perkins was in the third office, and as far as he could tell, he, the receptionist, and Perkins were the only people in the place giving it an eerie emptiness. This odd set up generated a growing feeling that the PAS – a name which wasn't announced on the outer door—just might be a private organization with a contract from the government. Regardless, he was here, fed up as never before with the way his life was going, both business and pleasure. Maybe he was in a state of miasma, feeding a latent notion of adventure, and it would all vanish in a burst of clarity. But he doubted it. His personal life was in bad shape, and he didn't care much for the world's situation either. He was the microcosm of a screwed up planet. Ironically, it might be too late for the planet, given irreversible climate change and all the short-sighted politicians, but he might be shaken up. Hell, he was indeed single and footloose.

“I'm glad you came back,” Perkins said, indicating he should sit in the black upholstered chair before his desk, which had no in or out box or anything else reflecting normal business use. The office, Ray surmised, was obviously a cover, but how could he check it out? Who could he possibly contact? The police hadn't summoned him again. This was presumably proof Perkins and the PAS were legitimate if covert.

“You're doing the right thing,” Perkins stressed.

Ray wasn't so sure, but he was enjoying being on an unusual avenue. While he wasn't supposed to mention his prior interview, and this one too to anyone, he was sure he'd find a way to get girls to appreciate the mystery of his life. Maybe they'd find him intriguing and with an attractive personality, a person of interest in a positive way. He didn't even have to agree to anything. He could just intimate what he and the PAS agent had discussed. But then, if he did agree to work for the PAS, he'd probably have to sign some confidentiality paper or something of the sort. Getting a book out of the deal might be tricky as well. There was no free lunch here either.

“Ray, you understand what we're trying to do here, right?”

“I think so. Create an American mole in the local Islamic community who reports back to you.”

“Exactly. We don't want you to have any illusions about the nature of this operation. We do our best to protect those with us, but this assignment does have elements of potential danger. Is that clearly understood?”

“I understand,” Ray said. “But just how dangerous? Would my life be in danger?”

“Not at all. You won't have to go abroad, learn how to make bombs, or anything like that. You will have to study Islam more closely, fine-tune your Arabic, and show your…sincerity. That's how you'll become a respected member of the local Muslim community.”

The emphasis Perkins put on
sincerity
was troublesome, but Ray nodded. He wasn't an actor.

“You'll be challenged,” Perkins said as if he read Ray's mind. As an American, you'll be doubted. Not to be negative, you're not black, brown, or getting out of jail. Far from disadvantaged, you're just an average white man who likes what he sees in Islam. Your record backs this up, but you'll still need to prove yourself.”

“How?”

Perkins' face grew even more somber. “Hard to say. There isn't any great body of evidence we can trot out on this issue. But don't worry, you won't have to kill someone to show good faith.”

Perkins' face was grim. He wasn't joking. Ray could feel his body shudder. What was he getting himself into?

“And if I'm asked to do something that I can't or won't do, what then?”

Perkins shrugged. “Like I said, we can extract you if necessary. But I wouldn't worry on that score. You don't have to do anything that's dangerous to yourself or others.” He paused a beat. “But you have to realize that you're in it all the way, Ray, or not at all. If you want to back out now, no problem. We understand. Like I said at our first meeting, don't breathe a word of this to anyone, not even your best friend.”

“I don't have a best friend right now,” Ray said.

“I know,” Perkins said, giving Ray a meaningful glance.

What else did the PAS know about his personal life, Ray wondered? Who else had they spoken to about him? How far back did they go in their investigation?

“I'm not going to preach to you about patriotism and serving your country,” Perkins went on. “This is your life. But you can accomplish a lot of good things. And like I told you, this doesn't involve wearing a wire or anything of the sort. It's deep cover.”

“I got it,” Ray said. If he survived, he thought, he'd have a hell of a book to write, though he'd probably have to let the agency censor the book to get its approval. And he'd have to submit to all sorts of redactions and other censorship.

“Good,” Perkins said. “There are some papers that have to be signed, and then we'll activate your account. Money will go into this account monthly on an escrow basis and you'll get, through me, regular statements. But you can't access your money. Neither can I. You have to be careful not to flash money around. Your sources of income will be investigated. We'll arrange for you to receive an inheritance from a fictional uncle. If you do need some money, contact me and we'll get you a reasonable amount that won't attract attention.”

“What about my job?”

“Stay with it as long as you want or can. What you'll be doing is showing your disillusionment with the U.S., with The West, with democracies. You'll complain of our faults, our hypocrisies. Maybe you can write an op-ed piece, or we'll ghostwrite one for you. You can talk at political meetings, make a name for yourself as an outspoken critic. Don't be surprised if the IRS has a look at your returns. You'll feel victimized. In time, a short time, you'll show a great interest in converting to Islam. You'll take classes at a mosque. You'll become a Muslim. You might even change your name.”

“A new me,” Ray thought out loud.

“Pretty much,” Perkins agreed. “But just on the outside.

“How will we stay in touch?”

“Good question,” Perkins said. “You'll come here twice more, but from then on we won't meet here. If we have to meet in person, it will be at some innocuous place for an innocuous reason. We do have safe houses in Los Angeles if needed. But we'll talk for the most part on cell phones. Each time you talk to me I'll ditch that cell phone.

You'll be on your own. We can't babysit you. Clear?”

“Somewhat,” Ray said, managing a weak smile.

“Being conversant in Arabic will help you.”

“What about Pakistan if they want to send me there? I don't speak Urdu. I don't speak much Dari or Pashtu either if Afghanistan is involved.”

“But you know about these languages and not many do,” Perkins said, shaking his head. “Look, like I said, you don't have to go abroad. That's not part of this operation. If going overseas comes up, then we'll discuss how to turn it down without it being a problem. But I don't think that'll be a factor. You can certainly discourage it while still showing your newfound fervor.”

Fervor!
Just how would he manufacture fervor? Perkins seemed to take so much for granted. How could he convince anyone of this sincerity or fervor when he was being a Muslim snitch!

“How many others like me are doing this?” Ray asked.

Perkins shook his head again. “That's over your pay scale, Ray.”

He wasn't going to get an answer, but he might as well ask, Ray thought. “Are you a private organization on contract to the government?”

“Ray,” Perkins said firmly, “Pay scale.”

“I see.”

“Ray, I have to caution you,” Perkins said with a warning glance. “Don't look upon this as some great adventure. It's painstaking work to set you up, to maintain you so you can reach a position of trust, and thus advise us of plans for terrorist activities, here in the U.S. or elsewhere. This is an international war, asymmetric as the academics like to put it. You'll be a soldier, just a different kind of soldier.”

“I understand,” Ray said. He felt distinctly unmilitary. Saluting, taking orders, and being subject to military discipline was as alien to him as walking on the moon.

“Good. I'll set up the paperwork. You'll get statements every other month on your account. I'll give you a phone number so you can check your balance if you want, but after you feel comfortable that your money's there, don't call. Phone calls can be traced. As I said, withdrawals will be blocked. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Be back here tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. after your job, and we'll get going.”

Checking the schedule of events at the Los Angeles Islamic Complex on its web site Ray saw an upcoming talk by Dr. Yusuf Laad, a professor of Islamic studies from Yale on “The Future of the Muslim Community” in the U.S. This would be a good start to his campaign of identifying himself as a possible recruit to the Muslim faith. The talk was free. Traffic wasn't bad and he found the site easily. Ample parking, also free, was available. He had already placed himself on the complex's mailing list.

The size and scope of the complex was surprising. He expected a minaret to summon the faithful and a mosque, of course. But there was also an athletic area including a basketball court and swimming pool. Basketball wasn't that much of an Islamic game, and the court was obviously in deference to being in the U.S. Similarly, the indoor area featured bowling, ping pong, and billiards. There was an auditorium/theater where the talk would take place. A fountain gushed water in the large courtyard near an indoor/outdoor coffee shop. Greenery flourished throughout the courtyard like an urban oasis.

The talk, at the auditorium, was intermittently interesting but not particularly illuminating. Dr. Laad referred to his notes too often, though he did look at the audience often. His voice was brittle though, perhaps because of the microphone, and his manner was too erudite in tone and delivery. Muslims in the U.S. were being faithful to Islam while successfully integrating, unlike many of their brothers and sisters in Europe. Still, American Muslims faced obstacles including an instinctive fear by many in the public that they all favored
jihadism
or were a secret terrorist themselves. But the professor offered little but platitudes on what an American Muslim should do in countering such silent discrimination.

Ray made it a point to be seen listening attentively, though he had no idea of anyone taking notice of him. At least he didn't mutter anything under his breath and then have the indignity of being escorted out of the meeting hall, his overall mission aborted before he really got going. He didn't look at either of the two men sitting next to him, and presumably, they ignored him just as well. When others clapped in appreciation at various points in the talk he clapped along with them.

After the speech there was a social gathering that spread into the courtyard. This should give him an opportunity to meet people. Ray stationed himself near a long table with a huge bowl of punch and small hors d'oeuvres and quickly moved over when he saw a lissome girl with long black hair and a slender figure come to the table.

“You first,” Ray said, as they both looked at the large ladle resting in the punch bowl.

“Such gallantry,” the girl said with an appreciative smile. She had sparkling black eyes and an oval face marked by delicate lips painted a light red. There was something immediately appealing in her open and inquisitive glance. She wore a well-tailored black dress with an olive scarf tucked around her neck. Lustrous black hair fell to just above her shoulders.

“I hope it's worth an introduction,” Ray said with a grin.

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “I'm Abra Malouse.”

She must be a Muslim, Ray thought. A good beginning. He had learned some courtesies from his trainer, a middle-aged Egyptian born woman who also gave him a brief survey of Islamic history and culture. Lydia, if that was her real name, was professional, but he knew much of what she told him. Now he was on his own.

Ray introduced himself. “If I'm not being too forward, would you like to sit while we enjoy some punch?”

“Okay,” Abra said, with another bright smile.

She was remarkably amenable, Ray thought. No doubt she thought he was attempting a pick-up, but she was still willing to spend some time with him. He had to play his cards just right, not that he was averse to any potential romp. There was nothing in his arrangement with PAS that precluded sex. After filling their paper cups with punch, they found a free table and sat.