The Apostate

 

The Apostate

 

JACK ADLER

The Apostate

Copyright © 2013, by Jack Adler

Cover Copyright © 2013 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover designed by Lawrence von Knorr.

NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

August 2013

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-272-2

Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-273-9
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-274-6

Published by:

Sunbury Press

Mechanicsburg, PA

www.sunburypress.com

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA

A spider had more freedom than he did, Ray Dancer thought, as he glanced around his so-called safe house and watched the tiny black insect climb a naked wall with steady fearlessness and disappear into a tiny crack. The furniture, such as it was of a fold-away bed and a small beige couch with faded colors, probably hadn't been changed since it was first brought into this studio apartment. There was no elevator, just a walk up to the third floor to the apartment. A musty odor permeated the place and he felt oddly confined, though one window with dusty blinds allowed a view of the row of leafy trees below. A narrow bed, already open, looked unappealing and he was too nervous to lie down. There was a stove, and some aged beer cans and an opened bag of potato chips in an otherwise empty refrigerator.

Such great comforts! He was in a safe house, but he didn't feel very safe at all.

More importantly, had Perkins succeeded in stopping the bomb threat at the Los Angeles Islamic Complex, and how soon would someone come to move him to a place of real safety? By this time his betrayal of his oath as a convert to the Islamic faith was well known to everyone at the complex, including his wife, Abra. Lying to her had become the most difficult part of his mission. He had come to the safe house at the command from Perkins, his handler from PAS, the top-secret federal security agency that had originally recruited him to become a sleeper agent at the complex. Damn it! He had served the agency well and put his life at risk. He had also betrayed Abra, whom he had come to love deeply. But she would never forgive him.

Moreover, he had just killed a man. It was self-defense, though proving it would be difficult. Clearly, the dead redneck was part of the bomb plot, but would the police believe him if he was ever charged? Doubtful, given his record as someone who regularly flouted authority, including his alleged attack on a policeman that led to this sorry morass.

Everything had happened so fast he was still sorting out the meaning of
American Muslims United
, the political unit Tariq—the arch plotter—was forming. As soon as he could, he'd alert Perkins to this ominous sounding group. By this time he was probably missed. Abra would be worried. If only he knew what had happened or was happening. Tariq, the real traitor, would stamp him as an apostate. He would poison the minds of Abra and the imam, too. But it was stopping the bomb that was most important.

Meanwhile, his arm kept throbbing. He had washed his wound, which wasn't deep at all, but it was painful. Hopefully, the antibiotic cream would prevent an infection. There was nothing in the bathroom other than an electric razor. Maybe he should shave his head? Probably he should have stopped at a drug store first, but he was anxious to get to the safe house as quickly as possible.

All he had time to get on his quick ride home were the antibiotic cream, some toilet items, and the all important locker key to where he had stored his voluminous notes. Everything was jammed into a small overnight bag. He stuck his passport in his jacket and emptied his desk drawer of forty-five dollars. He was short of cash, too.

His shoe prints would be enough to place him at the farmhouse where the fatal fight broke out. If he had time he should have brought another pair of shoes and disposed of the ones he was wearing. He didn't have any change of clothing either. Meanwhile, Abra was still at work. He had debated leaving her a note, but there was no way to get everything said in a note. If Perkins, or someone came soon, maybe he could still contact her.

Nervously, Ray glanced down at the street again. But there was no movement, neither of cars or pedestrians. His car was parked too far down the street for him to see from the window. Where was Perkins now, or someone else from the agency? How long did he have to stay here in this limbo?

Ray rubbed his face where his beard had grown. It was ironic that he hadn't grown a beard since converting to be a Muslim, preferring to be clean shaven. And now he was hirsute. He was also now a candidate for death as an apostate, and subject even to a
fatwa
. Would the agency spring for a plastic surgeon? He really needed to change his appearance to avoid being assassinated. Any Muslim, under a
fatwa
, would be free to decapitate or strangle him and seventy virgins wouldn't be awaiting him. If it wasn't under the agency aegis, how could he find a plastic surgeon he could trust? Would he go under some variation of the witness protection program, though he was just a witness to his own apostasy? How soon could he gain access to his secret account in the Cayman Islands to withdraw all the money he had earned during his mission? He had some money, but it wouldn't last forever.

How long did he have to stay here? When he tried to phone Perkins on his cell phone, the number he had been given didn't work. That was a bad sign, a really bad sign. Following instructions he had destroyed the paper on which he wrote the safe house address and the new cell phone number after memorizing both. What was wrong? He was sure he had the number Perkins gave him. He tried a second time with the same result. But what could he do now? How did he get in such an impossible situation?

Suddenly, Ray heard a scraping at the door as if someone was trying to wedge an entrance.

“How stupid can the man be?” Ray muttered to himself as he sat listening to the boring, platitude-loaded talk by Senator Duncan Masters in the spacious auditorium. It had to be the dignity of the office that drew people to hear this drivel, Ray thought. Else they had a need to find something to do with their time, or they flattered themselves that they were public-minded citizens. He was here strictly out of curiosity, having never attended a political talk before. Voting from what he read in the papers and heard on television was sufficient, though what you read and saw couldn't always be trusted either. But here he was, citizen Dancer, finally doing his civic duty. Of course, there was always the possibility of meeting some like-minded young woman.

He also thought he might find something of worth that could be converted to a possible children's book about politics as he worked as an editor for a children's book publisher. But the more he listened to Masters, a two term Republican senator no less who was running for an undeserved third term, the more he felt a need to vomit.

It's time for the people to stand up for their rights and freedoms. Demand that big government stop growing and raising taxes for more spending
.

“I'm going to throw up,” Ray whispered to himself as if an answer might come relieving his problem. He was only twenty-six. How many more speeches filled with clichés and banalities, in any medium, would he have to endure in the future? But then he reflected he was much too young to give up on the political scene. Better candidates would surface. They had to or the republic was going to decline as many already opined.

Now he felt the men on either side of him giving him suspicious stares. Probably, they had overheard his comments under his breath to himself. Arch Republicans, no doubt. So what, he thought. It was a free country, and he was an independent voter. He considered himself an independent, but another word connoting disgust with both the Republican and Democratic parties would be more accurate.
The disenchanted
might do

America, America
, he let the words of the national song sound so silently that he thought only he could hear it. But one of the men next to him suddenly got up and walked to the back of the auditorium. Ray kept his attention on Masters, a white-haired man in his sixties, droning on how he supported measures to jumpstart the economy and promote democracy in the world while still nurturing American security interests.

Working together the American people can overcome all our difficulties at home and abroad. We have the spirit, we have the means, and we will succeed.

Do it all while doing nothing
, Ray said to himself, shaking his head.
A pompous promulgator of platitudes.
Not bad, Ray complimented himself wondering if anyone else had come up with this political alliteration?

Suddenly, a policeman walked down the aisle along with the man who had vacated his seat next to him. He was being pointed at, Ray saw, with puzzlement. Now the policeman was motioning for him to get up and come into the aisle. Ray was sure he was the one he meant but he pretended otherwise, looking around in all directions as if he weren't the one being summoned.

The policeman, a stocky man who looked to be in his thirties, showed impatience in his swarthy face. His hand slipped down to his weapon in a holster.

What! Was he going to be shot if he didn't obey? Frowning, Ray stood and slipped out of the row, brushing by the feet of a half dozen spectators. His back was to them, but he could see people in the rows before him turning to stare at him. How embarrassing! The policeman stood waiting, while his accuser disappeared down the aisle. But just what was he being accused of?

***

“I'm going with you,” Ray cried as the policeman gripped his arm as they walked through a narrow passageway toward an office in the rear of the auditorium. “Keep your grubby hands off of me.”

He didn't know where he was being led, and no one was looking, but it still amounted to some sort of perp walk as far as Ray was concerned. Instead, the burly cop, who looked and acted like a thug with authority, just intensified his grip. Furious at being manhandled this way, especially as he had no reason why, Ray wrested free. He was sure there would be a bruise on his arm where the cop had held him in enforced custody.