The Apostate (23 page)

Once back at home, Ray found a ton of snail mail and email messages. More than any wedding vows, blustery speeches, or outrageous statements in interviews, his wound both electrified and consolidated his status as an Islamic activist. The instigator was loose again. Perkins must be pleased to some extent—an asset was back at work—and he even phoned with a terse message: “Get well.” No flowers, though.

The police still had no clues on who the shooter was, but it was assumed that it was some anti-Islamic radical. He was certainly in the headlines enough to draw attention from all the crackpots in the country. But what also puzzled Ray, and probably the detectives, was whether the shooter was a run-of-the-mill weirdo who was slightly off the mark or a professional assassin, a sharpshooter, who hit him where he wanted. In that case, the shot might well have been a warning. But from whom? Still a mystery. Just as worrisome was the impression in some emails that he by himself or in concert with others had orchestrated his own non-fatal wound to cement his position as an Islamic leader.

So many dark possibilities, with no light from any quarter. How soon, Ray wondered, did a case morph into coldness?

Regardless, he was a wounded hero to those he wanted to impress, though a less painful method would be preferable. The center helped pay his medical expenses, though he still had lingering health benefits that hadn't expired from his employment with Kindred. Not a well-wishing word had come from his former employer as if they were still fearful of being linked with an arch Islamic activist. Abra took a semi leave of absence to take care of him at home, though she kept in close contact with the complex, driving in virtually everyday to keep things humming. Like everything else she did, she was a marvelously attentive and proficient nurse, quite able to change his dressing and to make sure he didn't over exert himself. Not one pill among his prescriptions was left in its bottle.

Fortunately, he was able to still do some work done on the book. The publisher asked if he wanted an extension on delivering his manuscript, but Ray decided he could still handle the date. Convincing Abra to let him work was another matter. He would go crazy at first lying in bed and then sitting at his desk if he didn't make progress on the book.

“You're very lucky to be alive,” Abra upbraided him more than once. She was adamant on his taking a long nap each day.

“I know,” he said.

“You have to be very careful. You're a target now. They may go after you again. You need a bodyguard.”

The subject of a bodyguard had come up with the imam and Tariq, but Ray had said it wasn't necessary. “I don't need a bodyguard,” Ray insisted. “I'm at home now

By the time I'm out and about the whole thing will blow over.”

Abra shook her head in disagreement. “This is bravado. You're being foolish.”

“I'll be okay,” Ray tried to reassure Abra. The more he pondered the situation he felt that his would-be assassin wasn't hired by someone else. He or she was just an incensed non-Muslim who took offence at his jabberings at the public conscience. The same person wasn't likely to take a second shot, but there were always copycats.

Meanwhile, more speaking engagements had come in. All dates were turned down with the request to be invited again. Time would tell if his popularity had lasting power.

“You must come to our home,” urged Hassan Merkaba, a husky young Yemeni student. “We are so eager to show you our hospitality, and discuss something with you.”

Hassan's expression was always excited and his dark eyes shone with passion,

Ray had met him at the center after his wound had healed, and accepted an invitation to talk to the Islamic club at Hassan's community college where he was studying engineering with hopes of transferring to UCLA for his junior year. He lived with two other Muslim students, one also a Yemeni and the other, a Saudi. And now Hassan wanted him to attend a private meeting.

“What do you want to discuss?” Ray asked. Evidently, he reasoned, the subject wasn't academic. It was paranoid of him, but he always suspected Tariq was somehow behind who he met at the complex, unless Abra made the introduction.

“Come and you'll see,” Hassan promised, his face flushed with expectation that Ray would agree.

“Okay,” Ray said, feeling obliged to accept the invitation to avoid offending the students. He had a bad feeling, but he knew Hassan and his roommates would be deeply insulted if he declined their overture. In a way he was representing the complex and its outreach program, a project Abra was very much involved with among her many activities. Perhaps he could be useful.

***

At their small studio apartment, which had three Japanese-style futons in the less than tidy room with discarded clothing and stray books lying on top of each other on the barely visible hardwood floor. Ray settled in a rickety chair with chipped arm rests. A small kitchen had a round table cluttered with cereal boxes and a plate of fruit. The students living in crowded circumstances, he saw, recalling some of his college days.

Ray took a swig of beer after emptying the can into a glass. Hassan's roommates, Marwan the Yemeni, and Omar from Saudi Arabia, all greeted him with enthusiasm. All three were in their early twenties, and without a bare chin between them.

Hassan took charge. “Thank you for coming, Ray, We're much impressed by your work, and we wanted to discuss ways we can be of help.”

“What did you have in mind?” Ray asked with a sinking feeling. This opening salvo was all too reminiscent of Paul Lassi.

Now Marwan spoke. His voice was deeper than Hassan's, but his black eyes shone with a familiar ardor. “All that you have done, and are doing, is good. But there are certain publications, which consistently denigrate Muslims. They speak of us as backwards, medieval and cruel, an inferior people.”

“Their attacks must be stopped,” Omar agreed. He was taller and thinner than his friends, but his face was burnished with the same fervor.

“How?” Ray asked. “As you know, we're trying very hard to improve the image of American Muslims.”

“And that is well,” Marwan said. “But what do you think of delivering a message that goes beyond words?”

“But for the same purpose,” Omar amended.

Ray waited for more of an explanation, keeping his expression non-judgmental, though he had already decided against whatever they had in mind.

“This is a plan we've thought of for some time, but we would welcome your opinion.”

“Well, tell me more,” Ray said. He had to be careful to keep their trust. It sounded like something that Perkins would want to know about, and possibly a way to help restore him in the good graces of the PAS now that they wanted him to tone his comments down.

Marwan hesitated a moment, sharing a glance with his roommates. “We want to send envelopes with sugar in them to three California newspapers, in San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco, with a warning that if they don't start writing positive editorials and articles about Muslims, our brothers everywhere in the world and not just in America, the next letter might contain something more dangerous.”

“You see,” Omar explained, “this isn't a bomb or anything like that.”

“Just a warning, and we wouldn't actually do anything bad afterward,” Hassan added. “What do you think?”

Ray thought quickly. Was this a set-up to entrap him? Was this trio to be trusted? He didn't know much about them, and their plot was risky from many angles. If they were caught, which was likely, and he was involved through implicit approval, it might derail his overall mission. They might just be voicing an idea they didn't really intend to carry out, but he had no choice, he had to report this meeting to Perkins, unless he could talk them out of the dangerous idea. Even then, he quickly second-guessed himself; he still had to alert Perkins.

“Your plan is well-intentioned, but it might be detrimental to our cause,” Ray said. “Consider that the offenses of these and other publications are general in nature. It isn't as if they have published offensive cartoons or such. And the threat can play into the hands of our detractors, accusing us of violence. We must be seen as peaceful and not prone to violence of any kind.”

“But these are not bombs,” Marwan interrupted. “No violence will happen.”

“Or need happen,” Omar said.

“Still, the threat warns of violent action,” Ray said. “And that's sufficient. The perception can be almost as mighty as the deed.”

The students didn't understand that his campaign was to help the American Muslim community overcome any dark image. Their plan just played into the hands of those who suspected every American Muslim of being a potential if not already a secret terrorist bent on destroying the maximum number of Americans with some well placed bomb or bombs. But trying too hard to discourage them might impair his own image. He had to find a way to support their desire but dampen this particular plot. Suddenly, he recalled an Arabic proverb he had stored away in his mind.

“Consider, my friends, this ancient Arabic proverb: A known mistake is better than an unknown truth.”

Ray waited for the proverb's meaning to sink in, but was initially discouraged by the blank looks he was receiving. “I'd say it in my wretched Arabic, but I don't want to test your hospitality.”

Grins that he hoped to see didn't materialize, and seeing the students waiting for more of his reaction, Ray said, “Understand that your motive is exemplary, but think through the consequences.”

“Then what would you have us do?” Hassan said. “We can't just sit here with our books and courses and do nothing about our brothers overseas suffering from western neo-colonialism.”

“And the lies told about us in American media, which you have so bravely identified,” Marwan said.

“Yes, advise us,” pleaded Omar.

The trio, dismissing his warnings, still seemed gung ho. Things were circular, Ray thought with irony. His accusations about Islamophobia were giving birth to a dangerous brew of plots. Perkins, he had to admit, had a point about blowback. He needed to give this eager trio an alternative that would channel their energy in a positive way. This was supposed to be his goal, but he was obviously falling short right now.

“Instead of letters with suspect powders, write letters to the editors of these and other publications asking them to be more balanced in their reporting and their editorials,” Ray said. “Sign all your names and any other students, too. Invite speakers who aren't Muslims to your college club. Contact the Republican and Democratic Parties here in California with your input and create Young Republican and Democratic political clubs. Make your statements positive. All will redound to the greater interest of Islam everywhere and the American ummah here in the United States.”

The trio glanced uncertainly at each other, and then each nodded.

“This is excellent advice,” Hassan said at last.

“And guidance we can follow,” Omar added.

Marwan seemed less convinced but then said, “Let's try this approach.”

“Does anyone else know of this?” Ray asked, gratified that he had finally gotten through to the eager students. Like Tariq, he thought.

“No one,” Hassan insisted. Omar and Marwan nodded.

“Keep it that way,” Ray ordered. “Don't draw suspicion upon yourselves. There's already too much doubt about us. We must be careful and vigilant to protect the image of Muslims. Never forget this.”

Us!
Even after close to a year as a Muslim, it still sounded strange to Ray to include himself in an “us” statement. But these words seemed effective.

“We'll be careful,” Hassan said.

“We're not stupid,” Marwan barked.

“Good,” Ray said, still worried that they might be just placating him at the moment while planning to still go on to endanger themselves and other American Muslims. Had he really turned them, he wondered? He wanted to save the students from themselves, but his next step, he thought with regret, still had to be to contact Perkins.

Despite his uncertainty if the three students' discussion of a threatening letter was a set-up or not, Perkins said he had to arrange surveillance of the student trio.

“That's the way it has to be, Ray,” Perkins said over his cell phone that would be thrown away after their conversation. “Given their original intentions, we can't take a chance with these guys. They're obviously terrorists in their mind-sets if not more.”

“They consulted me first,” Ray argued, stressing as well that he had tried to discourage the students. It pained him that they were already classified as terrorists. “And they said they wouldn't go ahead.”

“One, we can't be sure of that. Two, sure, you turned them down, but they might not ask you a second time. And the next time it might be the real thing, anthrax or some other toxic material like sarin. Or they'll go back to a bomb. A letter bomb.”

Ray was silent. He knew Perkins had a point. But if surveillance of the students were detected, suspicion would immediately fall upon him. Lassi redux. Did his pacifying efforts count so little with Perkins and the PAS?

“Look, Ray, you're doing a good job. The fact that these guys came to you is just what we wanted.”

“Unless it was a set-up.”

“You said these students were in or were going to organize some club at their school? Well, we monitor these clubs, so surveillance is in order despite your misplaced sympathy for them. And, like I said, we have to see if they're capable of mailing real dangerous stuff. How would they get such ingredients? You said you didn't see anything at their apartment?”

“Nothing suspicious.”

“Well, we have to tail them. That's that.”

No more arguments, Ray saw. Perkins was adamant, and probably he was just following a strict security protocol.