Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Mohammad would have to keep a close eye on this man.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Annie adjusted her position on the motorcycle’s padded seat, arching her back to work some of the tension out of her stiff muscles. The bike was her passion, but there were times when it wasn’t operationally sound. Of course, Thompson and Richards had told her this repeatedly, and she always ignored them. But on days like today, she almost wished she’d decided to bring the Audi instead.

  She’d stopped in the parking lot of a diner two miles from the Decklin Bros warehouse, where they imported olive oil and shipped it out to restaurants all up and down the East Coast. From the clues she’d overheard in Wagner’s conversation with the mysterious woman, it hadn’t been that hard to work out where to go. This was the only olive oil importer of any size within a hundred miles of Baltimore. Hell, it was the only one in the entire state.

  Her helmet hanging from the handlebars, she watched the live video feeds on her smart-glasses. An Outfit drone, orbiting a few thousand feet above the warehouse, had multiple ultra-high-definition cameras capturing everything from security guards to delivery drivers to someone just walking in to work—the owner, she guessed, since they’d driven a Ferrari to the place.

  And older-model one, maybe a 308 GTS. A nice choice. Annie had always been a Magnum, PI fan, mostly due to the red Ferrari Selleck had tooled around in.

  “There, stop. Zoom in there,” Annie said. “Camera Two.”

  “Got it,” the technician on the other end of the line said. Tom—she’d forgotten his last name—was one of the better drone pilots the Outfit had. He was able to multitask, and he put up with her antics more than the others did. She knew it was only because he wanted to get in her pants—and maybe she’d even allow that to happen one day—but she didn’t care for his reasons, as long as he did his job.

  The image in her glasses enlarged, showing Wagner walking across the back lot with what looked like a supervisor. The supervisor was pointing to a row of semi trailers parked along the back fence line.

  “Do you have audio?” Annie asked.

  “Yeah, one sec.”

  Annie could hear Tom’s keyboard clicking in the background as he worked. She’d been extremely annoyed at every clack when she first began working with him, but now the sound was almost comforting. There was a level of competence behind those clacks.

  “There.”

  Sound from the drone’s directional long-range microphone came through Annie’s earpiece. It was slightly distorted, due both to the distance and the background noise the microphone couldn’t scrub out.

  “… they’re all ready to roll,” the supervisor was saying. He spoke English with a slight German accent. Italian car, Italian product, German accent. That struck Annie as odd. “All we need to do is load them up and we’ll be good to go. We’re waiting on Sam to get here with the other packages. You’re sure the pick-up locations are clear?”

  Wagner answered him in broken English. “I assume, yes. But I don’t know for sure. I’m only knowing this part, so…”

  The supervisor nodded. “I understand.”

  “Your drivers, they are reliable, yes?”

  “As reliable as our own people, if not more so,” the supervisor said, putting his hands on his hips. One hand held a clipboard. The camera wasn’t quite able to read the attached papers, but it was close. “They will get the loads to their destinations just fine.”

  “Good.”

  “As far as payment…”

  Wagner waved a dismissive hand through the air. “I don’t handle payments, that’s Ericka. I am only doing the logistics.”

  “So level with me,” the supervisor said, leaning close to Wagner and speaking in a hushed tone. “Why does he need twenty? Are you really going to need that many loads? That doesn’t seem a little excessive to you?”

  “It’s not our place to make these assumptions. Müller does what he thinks is best. That’s good enough for me. Now, which are leaving today?”

  The supervisor checked his clipboard and ran a finger down a list. “Three, eight and ten.” He pointed to each trailer in turn. “They aren’t loaded up yet, but they will be within the hour. We just have to finish prepping the pallets.”

  “And each truck gets three pallets of the stuff?” Wagner asked.

  “That’s right. One partial, two full.”

  “Good. As long we are on schedule now and can stay on schedule, we’ll have no problem.”

  “I don’t see any reason why we’d have any hiccups.”

  “Stay on top of it.” Wagner pointed a finger at the supervisor. “I don’t want to have to come back here and correct the issue.”

  “There won’t be any problems. I run a tight ship here. I don’t know the last time Mr. Zucker even came down to the floor.”

  “Well, keep it that way.”

  “It’s a wonder you have any friends at all,” Annie said aloud. But at least he was an equal opportunity asshole. There was something to be said for that. After all, that mirrored Annie’s own outlook on life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Connor pulled the soft, knitted fabric of his kufi, the traditional Muslim head cap, down lower onto the back of his head. He wore a simple navy-blue thobe—a gown-like garment—over khaki pants. Instead of sandals, however, he wore simple brown shoes. Sandals weren’t conducive to running. If for some reason he needed to move quickly, he didn’t want to worry about losing a shoe.

  He craned his neck to look out at the passing skyscrapers. He’d been to the city several times before, and each time he visited he was surprised by how fast the city grew. New skyscrapers and office towers appeared almost monthly, adding to the already complex landscape.

  The car lurched forward, and Connor had to put a hand up against the partition to stop himself from slamming into it. He gritted his teeth, wondering why it was so difficult for people all over the world to just drive without slamming on their brakes and screaming at each other.

  The driver held down the horn and let out a string of curses in Hindi. He looked like he was in his early twenties, but his medallion proclaimed he’d been driving in the city for almost ten years. That was the one thing Connor refused to do here—drive in the city. The man’s picture showed him with a turban, which would almost certainly mean he was a Sikh, yet he was now clean-shaven and with neatly cropped hair. A shame. Connor had noticed that the observance of some religious practices—like Sikhs not cutting their hair—had become less common for immigrants, especially after 9/11, when Sikh men were mistaken for Muslims.

  Connor adjusted his kufi again, then silently admonished himself. Fidgeting with it too much could reveal that he hadn’t worn the traditional garb since he was a boy, and even then it hadn’t been a regular thing.

  His parents had escaped the fall of the Shah, fleeing to America while his mother was pregnant with him. His Muslim father had instructed him in the tenets of Islam, but his mother had been Jewish, and she’d exposed him to Judaism as well. As a result, he’d had a religious upbringing uncommon to any child in either faith.

  Historically speaking, Jews and Muslims were cousins of sorts—always having shared territory and history. But nowadays, there were factions that certainly didn’t see eye to eye—and that was an understatement. But because Connor had grown up with comingled religions, he had a deep-seated respect for all religions, no matter how different. His parents had raised him to be aware of not only their own faiths, but others as well, and then allowed him to decide on his own path. To this day, he still wasn’t quite sure what his path was, but because of his parents’ early teachings, he thought he had a pretty good understanding of and personal connection to the Almighty.

  Now, however, he forced himself to set aside that broad understanding of faith so he could focus solely on Islam and play the part of a Middle Easterner. The men at this mosque weren’t interested in learning about other faiths or seeing that most faiths taught similar paths to the same enlight
enment.

  “You’re not from here, eh?” the driver asked, eyeing Connor in the rearview mirror. His brown eyes were curious.

  “It has been many years,” Connor said, using a near-perfect Persian accent instead of his American one. “I’ve just returned from a haj, a pilgrimage to my Holy land, and have come to this place to serve as best I can.”

  The driver nodded. “Ah, yes, Mecca. I have heard it’s a beautiful city. One of these days I will visit and see for myself.”

  “Are you Muslim, my friend?”

  “Me?” The driver laughed. “No, no. I would just like to see the world, you know? I’ve lived in the city so long, it’s the only thing I know. My grandparents immigrated from India, opened a sandwich shop in the Bronx. It’s called New Deli, get it? If you’re hungry, I can take you?”

  “Thank you, no,” Connor said. Apparently the cab driver didn’t understand that he’d never be allowed to visit the Muslim holy city of Mecca. It was literally illegal for a non-Muslim to enter the city. “I must get to the mosque. My friend is waiting for me to arrive.”

  “No worries at all, my friend. I like that, get down to business, that’s what this city is all about. I get so tired of all the people whining about how unfair their lives are, you know? Three or four times a day I get passengers that just complain through the entire trip about how other people are doing better than them. That’s just the way the world works. You work hard, you gain benefits. You are lazy, you don’t do so well. Am I right?

  “That’s always the way I’ve seen things.” Connor nodded, amused at how people like this cab driver were chatterboxes. He could only hope some of the folks in the mosque would be as talkative, it would make things a lot easier.

  “I mean, life isn’t fair, and you’re not entitled to anything. How hard is that to understand? My daughter understands that, and she’s five.”

  “She sounds like a smart girl.”

  “That she is. Ah, here we are.” The cab pulled to the side of the road, cutting off a delivery van and receiving a blaring horn, a middle finger, and several choice words from the van’s driver. “Forty-seven fifty.”

  Connor pushed sixty dollars through the slot in the partition. “Thanks, and best of luck to you and your family.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  As Connor climbed out of the cab, shrugging the backpack over his shoulder, he gazed up at the mosque. Its light tan brick walls contrasted with the steel and glass of the rest of the city, giving the building an old-fashioned, traditional look. An arched entryway covered the heavy double wooden doors, which came to a point at the top.

  The right-hand door opened, and a young man dressed in a purple thobe stepped out. He smiled and extended a hand. “As-salāmu ʿalaykum, my brother.”

  “Wa ʿalaykumu s-salām,” Connor said, bowing his head slightly. “My apologies for my tardiness. I’m Bashir Siddiqui. I’ve come to serve. I sent word to—”

  Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes. “Yes, of course! And no apologies necessary.” He waved his hand dismissively through the air. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. My name is Hamid bin Azim. We conversed briefly over email, yes?”

  Connor smiled. “Good to meet you, brother.”

  “And how did you enjoy your pilgrimage, Bashir?” Hamid motioned for Connor to follow, then led him into an open-air courtyard.

  The space was filled with shrubbery and potted trees, along with several benches for meditating. Several people were conversing in small groups, but none seemed particularly interested in Connor’s arrival, which suited him just fine. The mosque rose up six stories around the courtyard, and the ground level extended a bit underneath the levels above, creating a covered walking area in front of several closed doors.

  “My haj was… invigorating,” Connor said, choosing his words carefully. He didn’t want to come right out and say he was interested in joining their jihad. It was entirely possible that this man didn’t have anything to do with the extremists connected to this place. For all Connor new, he was just another Brother of Islam, practicing the faith.

  The entrance to the mosque proper was on the far side of the courtyard—a high, arched double door that stood open when prayer wasn’t in session.

  “So good to hear, my friend. We have many returning from their travels with a fervor to serve Islam. We are grateful that so many choose our mosque as their home.”

  Connor nodded. “I am definitely looking for a place to worship and serve. A place where our brothers can practice without concern, and maybe have the opportunity to show others the beauty of what Islam provides.”

  Hamid turned, a sardonic smile on his face. “You have much fire in you. I can see that.”

  Connor feigned embarrassment. “I am sorry, my friend. After my visit to our holy land, my commitment to the Prophet has become almost overwhelming. I desire nothing else.”

  “As I said, no apologies necessary. A fiery spirit is welcome here, that is for sure. The people of this country are not easily swayed. In fact, most still refuse to see the truth even after presented with the undeniable facts. It’s quite disheartening, to say the least. But we must still persevere, must we not?”

  Connor nodded, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes, we do. But remember what the Koran says in chapter two, verse one hundred and thirty-six: ‘We have believed in Allah and what has been revealed to us and what has been revealed to Abraham and Ishmael and Isaac and Jacob and the Descendants and what was given to Moses and Jesus and what was given to the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and we are Muslims in submission to Him.’ This is the message we should give to others, from the words of the Prophet. It just seems that we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Indeed. Imam Shareef teaches the peaceful spreading of Allah’s love and guidance to the masses. He understands that shouting and posturing are not actions that encourage conversation, much less conversion. Our task is to bring people to Islam, not to turn them against it.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Connor said. And the truth was, he did. But he was more than a little surprised that this man was saying as much. If this mosque’s imam was preaching peace, why did Hakimi have connections here?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thompson and Richards had set up a complete history for Connor’s new cover identity, complete with stamped passport, employment history, even dental records.

  “Bashir Siddiqui” was from the Punjab province of Pakistan. They’d picked the location because of its high level of economic development and dense population—which reduced the chances that Connor would run into any would-be relatives. The story was that he’d emigrated to the United States three years ago, working as a translator for the Pakistani embassy in Washington, DC—an easy cover, since the Outfit had a man in the embassy who could vouch for Connor’s bona fides—then decided to make the journey to the Holy Land after obtaining a permanent visa. He had now returned to the US to help spread the word of Islam.

  But Hamid bin Azim didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned with Connor’s fake history. The man accepted everything at face value and welcomed him into the mosque with open arms.

  Islam is a religion of love and peace, Connor thought. No matter what extremists around the world had turned it into. ISIS and the Taliban and the like had twisted the words of the Koran, perverting them for their own use. Cherry-picking the verses that reinforced their ideology and ignoring the verses that didn’t.

  Hamid led Connor through the open double doors, then turned and spoke quietly. “Do you have a prayer rug?”

  Connor unslung his pack and patted the top. “Yes, thank you.”

  Connor joined in with prayers, and afterward, the assembled members picked up their rugs and began to talk among themselves. As Connor stood and picked up his own rug, his attention was drawn to a tall man in a white thobe and black kufi. The man was addressing a small group, speaking in hushed tones, but his words seemed har
sh and demanding, and he smacked his fist into his palm several times as he spoke. The men listening nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying.

  Hamid rolled up his prayer rug and rejoined Connor with a smile.

  “Who is that?” Connor asked, motioning to the tall man.

  Hamid followed Connor’s finger. “That is Abdullah Khan. He is one of the senior members here, and one of the most outspoken. He is a little more… verbose than our imam, but he keeps to a more fundamentalist view when it comes to the tenets of Islam. He holds classes here on Saturday mornings.”

  “I’m curious about his teachings. I’m always open to learning from someone others see as a great man,” Connor said.

  Hamid held up a finger. “Ah, but men are not great. Only Allah is great. We are merely his servants.”

  Connor bowed his head. “Of course, you’re right.”

  “Your message said that you required an apartment, yes?”

  “I was hoping there was something close by, but I have not looked myself. I’m not as familiar with the city as I should be.”

  Hamid shook his head. “It is nothing to worry about, my friend. We have several locations within walking distance that will be happy to accommodate you. It just depends on your personal taste.”

  “I have a taste for serving Allah,” Connor said. “That is all. Everything else is secondary. Meaningless.”

  “Yes, but I can assure you, when presented the choice between roaches or not, the decision is not meaningless.”

  Connor laughed. “Okay, you may have a point there.”

  “I will get you the address of Jared, the manager of the Winston Place. He is a friend of the mosque, and his prices aren’t too bad, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering this is New York City and everything is overpriced.”