The Apostate (26 page)

“I realize that. I'm being very careful not to tread on any toes, religious or otherwise. But if I'm not candid the book will be...too weak.”

“Which we don't want, of course. You do have a challenging line to follow.”

Baker paused a moment. “There have been other books published about Islam in America and American Muslims. But we felt, given your fame and following, that you could turn out a significantly different and stronger book.”

“I expect to,” Ray said, meeting her eyes evenly.

Baker nodded. “Going over a breakdown of American Muslims and their viewpoints on many subjects, as your outline indicated, is fine. And your seven suggestions work well enough. But we want you really to hit upon your controversial proposals like a Muslim Peace Corps and a Media Truth Squad. This is hot stuff, and will help the book take off.”

“I'll focus on these subjects,” Ray promised. This concentration of subjects was what he most wanted to focus on as well.

“However, we're also concerned, perhaps unnecessarily, about some of your interviews, already made and to be made. Specifically, the interviews with released black prisoners on parole or whatever.”

Ray shrugged. “They're American. They weren't Muslim, and now they are. How can I ignore them?”

“Your point is well taken, but some of these men—they are primarily men, I believe—are not, shall we say, exactly model representatives of the public.”

Ray nodded. “I'm covering that.”

“Discreetly, I hope.” Baker didn't smile at all, which bothered Ray. But she had a job to do. The publisher was shelling out a decent enough advance, with the first part of it already spent for much needed household items. Being subjected to these questions came with the territory.

“Very,” Ray affirmed.

Baker seemed satisfied, Ray thought. Then she asked, “Have you gotten any hate mail?”

“Sure. Not a heavy amount and no discernible increase over any mention of the book. Most of my email is quite positive. The blogs are another story, but I spend less time on the Internet now.”

“Good,” Baker said. “So there's nothing worrisome. After all, liked you indicated, you've already been shot.”

“No, nothing at all to cause alarm. Nothing that keeps me from living normally.”

“Normalcy is nice,” Baker said, with a smile that now showed in her eyes. She wasn't a machine after all. But she wouldn't be smiling if she knew just how abnormal his life really was. His contract might be torn up; on the other hand, there might be interest in another kind of book—an expose.

Making it seem like he accidently ran into Tariq, Ray engaged him in a quick conversation in a hallway at the center.

“Oh, by the way, I interviewed someone you know, Eldryn Hosker.”

“Hosker? Yes. I've dealt with him. This was for your book?”

“Yes. I'm trying to reach every segment of American Muslims, remember?”

“And rightfully so. Was he helpful?”

“Very much so,” Ray said. “Uh, he mentioned someone—what was the name again–oh, yeah, Habib Al-Januzi. Is he a donor?”

“Exactly,” Tariq said, not displaying any concern over mention of this name. In a dark grey-lined business suit Tariq looked like the very model of a successful executive.

Ray decided he had to pry harder. “Does he contribute to Hosker, too? Is he a Friend?”

Tariq broke out into a grin that quickly faded. “Yes and no.” He paused to give Ray an appraising look. “Ray, there's no need to be naïve about things. Al-Januzi is an important donor. We want to please him. He's a man, we could say, of many appetites. He stays at a big hotel and he's reluctant to…indulge himself there. He's afraid of being compromised. So we sought, on a personal basis, to come up with a more discreet alternative. Hosker has been very helpful. I've no idea how Al-Januzi has rewarded him, but I'm sure he has.”

“I see,” Ray said. “I thought that might be the case, naïve as I am. I hope he isn't compromised by Hosker, which would bring us into the picture.”

“There's little danger of that,” Tariq said, again without any apparent concern. “As I said, this was a personal effort on my part, and there's no link to the center to be concerned about. All I did was introduce Hosker to Al-Januzi, who showed interest in meeting Muslims who had converted in American prisons. Just, I might add, as you have.”

Tariq was remarkably smooth, Ray thought. He had all his ducks in order. But Perkins might still find this Friends-Tariq-Al-Januzi association of interest.

And then Tariq had the last word. “Ray, Al-Januzi is scheduled to be in Los Angeles soon. Would you like to meet him?”

“Yes. By all means.”

“I'll try to set it up.” Then Tariq added with a salacious grin. “Just don't go to his hotel suite.”

“Anything else besides this Saudi-Friends link with your pal, Tariq? Perkins asked, glancing down at his shock of double-spaced pages like he was willing to make substantial changes in some imaginary manuscript. They had sat at still another cafeteria. Perkins was certainly spreading government largesse around the Los Angeles restaurant scene.

“That's it,” Ray said. It was like Perkins to diminish what he brought him.

“Well, we know that Al-Januzi is a donor,” Perkins said. “And if he fucks everyone in Hosker's stable, that still isn't a problem, unless they're under age. We can check that out. But Tariq is treasurer of the center. As far as we know, all the money this Januzi contributes is used for expansion and renovation. The same goes for other donors.”

“Is it possible he has a slush fund?” Ray asked. A young couple sat at a nearby table and immediately became immersed in their own conversation.

“It is,” Perkins said, lowering his voice a bit. “But we haven't been able to find it. If he has double books, we don't have access to them. Could your wife be of help?”

“No, she couldn't,” Ray said sharply. “I don't want her involved.”

“Understood,” Perkins said. “We want to preserve your cover, too. But see if you can nose around the office. You have access to his office, don't you?”

“I'll be spotted,” Ray said. “Everyone there knows Tariq and I don't always see eye to eye.”

“Do what you can. Be careful. Meanwhile, we'll see what else we can get on Hosker and this Saudi pervert. Maybe you'll pick up some leads if you do get to meet him.”

“Tariq said he'd try.”

“Chances are he'll succeed then. Be careful. Entrapment works both ways.”

“I know,” Ray said, conjuring up unsavory possibilities where he'd be the accused. “But I couldn't pass up the opportunity once it was offered.”

“You did the right thing,” Perkins said. “Just be cool. Al-Januzi has no reason to suspect anything. And you're probably too old for him.”

“Very funny,” Ray said, as Perkins grinned.

“Hey, a little humor. Doesn't hurt.” Perkins waited a beat. “You'll be fine.”

Delores Madsen, at fifty-four, wasn't at all what Ray expected. He didn't have a photo of her in advance. All he knew was her age as she had no concerns about revealing this signal number as well as her general background. She was originally from Atlanta, twice married and twice divorced, with one adult son living in Chicago from her first marriage. The lady lived by herself in a simple one-story house on a pleasant-looking street in Burbank, which was amply shaded by a succession of leafy trees.

Madsen welcomed him warmly, and he immediately detected the soft drawn out cadences of a southern accent. She must have been a southern belle at one point, he thought, and she was still quite attractive with a trim and well-proportioned figure. Her tawny hair was cut short and fell far from her tasteful dark red dress. Blue eyes sat over a pert nose, and she had a quick and sincere smile. Lines and creases showed on her tan face, but she projected an image of graceful aging.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” she asked. “And please sit.”

Her voice was also melodic with a soft languorous effect. She wore no earrings, but she had a silver pendant around her neck and a light red bracelet on her left wrist. Her living room featured modern-looking teak furniture centered around a rectangular glass table.

“No thanks,” Ray said, making himself comfortable on a chair by placing a pillow squarely behind his back. “And thanks for seeing me.”

“Oh, I'm glad to. I've read about you a lot.”

“Good stuff, I hope,” Ray said, grinning.

“Definitely,” Madsen said, smiling. Her teeth were white and well formed. Ray wondered what went wrong with her pair of husbands. “Are you sure I can't get you something?”

Ray shook his head. “Thanks, but no. I'm going to put the tape recorder on, if that's okay.”

“Yes. No problem.”

Ray put the recorder on, and sat forward a bit. “Okay. First question. What was your religion before Islam?”

“I'll tell you my life story, though it isn't very interesting. I was born in Atlanta, but you know that already. A real southern gal. Married young, too young. And then divorced young, too, becoming a single mom. My son, Steven, lives in Chicago and he doesn't approve of me—that is, being a Muslim.”

“Do you see each other?”

“Haven't for a while. He's married now, two kids. Maybe I'll be invited to Thanksgiving someday.”

Madsen sounded so wistful that Ray felt a surge of sympathy for her. She was soft-spoken, but he could see the bitterness welled up in her.

“I hope so,” Ray said. She hadn't answered his first question, but he'd make sure to get an answer before ending the interview. He had a prepared list of questions in his notebook to refer to if needed, but he pretty much knew the sequence by heart now.

“Sorry to sound bitter,” Madsen went on. “Actually, it was the divorce from my second husband that led to my conversion.”

“How so?”

“I was broken up. Two failures. The first one, we were just too young. Marty didn't have much of a sense of responsibility. The second time around, good old Herbie just came out of the closet. So I was single, and in my forties, and with an estranged son. I just needed a new direction.”

“What religion were you before?”

“I was brought up as a Baptist. I don't know how much you know about the Baptist policy about women, but we're really supposed to be at the beck and call of men.”

“But many Muslim men, quite candidly, don't treat women too differently, at least abroad.”

“True, but they're catching up and becoming more like us, thanks to people like you.”

Ray felt deeply flattered. Maybe she was stroking him, but it still sounded good. His mission from the PAS might have mutated and he wanted, he realized, to somehow balance the books, assuage his guilt, and justify his deception by being genuinely useful. “We are a model for other Islamic nations and cultures, but they're not exactly following us as yet.”

“They will,” Madsen said, beaming a generous smile at him. And you're a big reason.”

“Thank you. I have a very small role.”

“Oh, don't be so modest.” She was alluring in a way, and Ray wondered why some man hadn't gobbled her up. Of course, he didn't know her current circumstances.

She might have a lover, or was even living with someone, though he saw no signs of a male presence. Or was she off men, or marriage? These were questions that weren't relevant. Stay on focus, he told himself.

“Anyway,” Madsen went on, “I looked into other religions. I am a person of faith. I was brought up to believe in God, and I most surely do. Now Roman Catholicism had some appeal. If you're honest, you really are committed. But I was turned off by all the confessions and saints and priests telling you how to lesson your guilt. Guilt is guilt. I've certainly done my share of stupid things.”

“Imams also offer advice,” Ray said, feeling he was acting as a devil's advocate, but by being honest he was drawing out candid comments. Still, he had the feeling that Madsen, who seemed to be the voluble sort, would have poured forth her feelings without much encouragement.

Madsen shook her head. “It's not the same thing. Islam gave the piece of mind I needed. It's a wonderful religion once you get past some of the violence associated with it.”

How odd, Ray thought with irony, this statement by Madsen closely resembled his own belief. He was getting the same reaction from several sources. But separating this well entrenched association of violence with Islam with the essential purity of the religion was an ongoing task of enormous difficulty.

“I wish I had converted earlier,” Madsen said.

She looked genuinely regretful, prompting Ray to comment, “But now your path is clear.”

“I suppose,” Madsen said, still with a wistful air.

“It's sad that this led to estrangement with your son.”

Madsen shrugged. “Spilt milk now. Steven thinks I'm a little demented,” she said with a sad smile.

“And in spite of it all, you're happy with your new faith?”

Madsen's face lit up again. “Very much so. I think Islam is the religion of the future. We're in the vanguard. I feel it.”

Madsen's face shone with conviction. She was a true believer, truer than him. Such belief was great if peacefully channeled. Whether that outcome was truly possible remained the crucial question. In his limited way, he was trying.

“My virtue is intact,” Ray said as soon as he and Abra started talking in his little workroom. She had brought a tray of tea for both of them and it was obvious she wanted to chat. He wanted to get Madsen's comments onto the computer as soon as possible while the memory of the interview was still fresh in his mind, but he didn't want to be rude. What was on the tape recorder had to be listened to, shut off while he jotted down useful statements, and then put on again. It was a tedious process. But first he had to assure Abra that all had gone well.