THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (25 page)

As they’d practiced at
Quantico
prior to the investigation, they crept up the steps together keeping five yards between them. Arriving at an unlocked fire door on the main level, they emerged just outside the imams’ offices
.

Jackson
surveyed the empty hallway through the neon green and gray lenses of his NVGs. It made sense to start their search in Ibrahim’s office, where the evidence was most likely to be found. As far as
Jackson
could tell, Zakariya seemed to have no affiliation whatsoever with the Five Percent Nation
.

Toby made swift work of unlocking Ibrahim’s door. As they swept inside, Toby headed straight for the computer to install a keylogger, a gadget that would forward every stroke Ibrahim typed on his keyboard to the
National
Center
for Counterterrorism. That would allow Taskforce analysts to record Ibrahim’s passwords, giving them access to all his files
.

Jackson
, meanwhile, flipped up his NVGs and riffled through the metal filing cabinet with a penlight
.

Cupping the light to keep its beams from escaping out the window, he scanned the alphabetized names looking for the file belonging to Mr. Rakeem. “There’s paperwork here from the first year of the program,” he observed, finding the file and pulling it.

“Seven years’ worth of information,” Toby muttered. “We oughta find something.”

Seven years.
The phrase echoed in
Jackson
’s head. Seven was a mystical number in Supreme Numerology. It was also the number of years Ibrahim had said the
Mahdi
would dwell with his people prior to Judgment Day.
Coincidence?

Working his way backward through the alphabet,
Jackson
looked for references to the Five Percent Nation or any common thread that tied the graduates together.

With two hours in which to accomplish their search, he took his time to be thorough, making sure he overlooked nothing of significance
.
He had just finished searching F through N when the distinct thud of a door closing made him freeze. Toby snatched his head out from under the desk. “What was that?” he whispered.

“Someone’s coming.” 

As the sound of spry footsteps grew louder, both men scrambled up and moved to either side of the closed door.
Jackson
handed Mr. Rakeem’s file to Toby, who shoved it in the large pocket on his thigh. Catching
Jackson
’s questioning gaze, Toby shook his head, signifying that he’d never witnessed this kind of behavior while logging the imams’ nighttime rituals
.

“And he tells me not to forget to set the alarm,” a tenor voice muttered
.

Zakariya,
Jackson
realized, breathing a small sigh of relief. Keys jingled as the imam unlocked the next door over. A weak strip of light appeared at the bottom of the door where the agents remained poised. On just the other side of the wall, the imam scraped back his chair. A faint hum told
Jackson
he had started up his computer.

They had to get the hell out before Zakariya realized he had company. Only the imam had kept his door wide open, and it was directly across from the stairs, which meant they were better off leaving a different way.

Jackson
pointed to the window and, with a nod, Toby crossed the room
.

The sound of hip hop music, so unexpected in the sanctity of the mosque, pulsed suddenly through the wall.
Jackson
hesitated, cocking his ears to listen. With surprise, he recognized the distinct sound of the band, Wu Tang. Why would Zakariya be listening to Wu Tang at this ungodly hour?

In the next instant, Toby was standing beside him again, conveying with gestures that the windows didn’t open.

Jackson
looked over at the glass panels in disbelief. What was this place,
Fort
Knox
?

Toby pointed toward the stairs as the closest, most viable exit.
Let’s go,
he signed.

But
Jackson
had just recalled that many hip hop artists professed to being Five Percenters. Nodding absently, he tried to identify the music. Toby, meanwhile, cracked the door. The loud music muffled his footfalls as he darted across the hall and slipped behind the fire door, keeping it cracked for
Jackson
.

Jackson
was just about to follow, when Wu Tang arrived at the end of their rant and the mosque fell eerily quiet. Freezing, he hardly dared to breathe as he waited for the music to resume. Thankfully, it did, this time with a rap being belted out by Public Enemy
.

Several of the words reached his ears. The lyrics were unmistakably a call to violence. What reason did peace-loving Zakariya have for listening to this stuff? 

With his heart thudding in counterpoint to the beat, he signaled to Toby through the cracked door to wait. He wanted to be able to pick out this song later.

Toby gestured impatiently.
Jackson
held up a finger.
Just a second
.

War at thirty three and a third, not really live! I’d rather do it at forty five! Went west in the quest for my intelligence.

He had it. With the refrain memorized,
Jackson
started furtively across the hall. Suddenly the music stopped again, and in the utter silence, the stealthy tread of
Jackson
’s sole sounded as loud as thunder. Zakariya whipped his attention toward the door.

“Who’s there?” he yelped
.

Go!
Jackson
waved Toby ahead of him and flew toward the closing fire door to catch it. He slowed only long enough to shut it quietly behind him before throwing himself down the dark stairwell, moving so fast his feet scarcely touched the steps.

In a matter of seconds he had overtaken his partner, who waited at the door below him. “Nice going,” Toby whispered. Light chased them as the fire door above them yawned open.

“Stop! Thief!” Zakariya’s voice echoed off the cinderblock walls as he and Toby burst out of the basement exit. They tumbled up the back steps without slowing
.

“Go,” Toby urged, snatching the helmet off
Jackson
’s head. Sprinting in the opposite direction, he was gone from view by the time
Jackson
arrived at the corner of the dormitory and glanced back. Every light in the mosque was coming on, one by one.

Hoping to beat the alarm that would be raised at any moment,
Jackson
stole into his dark room, crawled stealthily into bed, and lay there with his heart thrumming. The fact that Corey wasn’t snoring kept him from feeling any real relief
.

Chapter Thirteen

Through the open windows of her cottage,
Lena
heard the crackle of pine needles being crushed by the tires of a car. She glanced at the clock on her laptop and smiled grimly: 10:30 A.M. By now, the parolees were long gone from Gateway. Just as she’d hoped, Peter had arrived too late to photograph
Jackson
.

Getting up from the vanity she used as a desk, she went to the door to greet him. The happy grin he sent her as he stepped out of her Jaguar made her confidence waver, especially when he held up his camera and said, “I got what I came for.”

Her stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”  

“I got to Gateway right when he was walking out with his parole officer. Followed him nine miles down this road to a house on the river.”

Now she was more confused than ever. “What?”

He joined her on the front stoop. “The parolees must go home on weekends. I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” he stated with a glint in his gray eyes. “Except Jackson Maddox doesn’t go all the way to
Baltimore
. He’s renting a riverfront house just down the road.”

As he nodded in the direction of the river,
Lena
considered his news and found that she wasn’t too surprised. “Did he see you taking pictures?” she asked Peter
.

“Please.” He shot her a patronizing look. “I’m not an amateur.” 

Implying that she was, of course, since
Jackson
had seen her taking pictures
.

“Did you get another laptop yet?” he inquired with excitement.

“Yeah.” She’d bought herself a Mac just yesterday.

“Come on. I’ll show you the pictures.”

Lena
balked. She’d spent hours trying to find out who Abdul Ibn Wasi really was. Knowing he was a federal agent was enough for her. She didn’t care what his purpose was at Gateway. She wanted nothing to do with exposing Uncle Sam for meddling in the private lives of
U.S.
citizens. She wished Peter would just go home and leave
Jackson
alone.

On the other hand, the prospect of seeing where Jackson spent his weekends was awfully tempting, especially since he’d intentionally kept his distance these past couple of days, punishing her silently for rejecting his offer and giving her plenty of time alone in which to relive the pleasure of his company, both mental and physical. It seemed like an eternity since their interlude in the store room. “It’s in my bedroom on the vanity,” she heard herself admit, and Peter marched into her house like he owned the place.

In her bedroom, he took his top-of-the-line Nikon from its case, attached it to her laptop, and with a couple of key strokes, uploaded his recent photos, enlarging them on her monitor so they could both see
.

Peter sat on the stool. Leaning over him, Lena feasted her eyes on pictures of
Jackson
crossing Gateway’s parking lot with his parole officer, getting into a familiar looking Crown
Victoria
. To her astute gaze, he struck her as tired and listless this morning
.

“I’m sure the other guy’s an agent, too, since they’re staying at the same house,” Peter commented.

A couple more shots showed the Crown Vic pulling out on the highway. “This is where I followed him,” he noted.

The next photos were of a large A-frame structure with cedar siding and expansive windows. The glimmering swathe of blue behind it suggested it stood on a bluff overlooking the
Patuxent
River
.

“So that’s where he stays,”
Lena
guessed with a stab of envy.

“Yep. It’s a rental owned by a real estate tycoon. I determined that much on my way home.” Peter forwarded to pictures of two vehicles parked out front—the agents’ car and a white Volvo. He had zoomed in to photograph the
Maryland
state tags. “I’m going to call my buddy at the DMV and find out who owns these cars,” he determined, taking out his cell phone.

As he rattled off the license plate numbers to a guy named Rich,
Lena
paced the length of her room. “Is that all you took?” she asked when Peter hung up.