Escape

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Before Magee was able to say much about who the descendants of the families were—if he knew—both he and the book perished in a fire that started in his apartment. Who had sent him the book remained a mystery. But Lucy felt sure it contained a secret that was so important that the Sons of Man had been willing to commit murder to keep it hidden.

  It was small consolation that Magee did not die in vain. His translation of the tape helped Lucy—aided by her boyfriend, Ned, as well as Jojola and Tran—to foil a plot by the Sons of Man to assassinate U.S. Senator Tom McCullum. A critic of the Patriot Act, which he believed overreached the intent of the original bill as a weapon in the War on Terrorism to become a tool for domestic spying, McCullum was also calling for congressional investigations into a series of attacks by Islamic terrorists acting in collusion with certain interests in the Russian government and mob—and, Jaxon now believed, the Sons of Man.

  Magee's murder, as well as the sinister aims of the Sons of Man, had moved Lucy to volunteer, over her father's objections, to join Jaxon's team. Her first assignment was to serve as interpreter for Prince Esra bin Afraan Al-Saud, who preferred to speak French, though some of the members of his entourage spoke only Arabic. She would go by the name of Marie Smith for this job.

  Marie Smith had been a real woman of about the same age who'd died some years before in a traffic accident in Ohio. Whoever did such macabre research had done a good job of finding someone believable. Marie had been a foreign languages student at Ohio State who was fluent in four languages. Lucy could handle seventeen times that many. She had spoken French like a native by the time she was six and Arabic by the time she was twelve.

  Jaxon had told her that he didn't expect that her language talents would be necessary at the mosque immediately. The prince was in Washington, D.C., where he would be attending a state dinner at the White House and addressing Congress before arriving in New York. While in the capital, the prince's security would be the responsibility of the U.S. Secret Service; he'd requested that Jaxon take over once he got to Manhattan.

  However, the prince had sent an advance team who might be at the mosque and need an Arabic interpreter. "And you never know when you might overhear an unguarded conversation of interest," Jaxon noted.

  Jaxon had also told Lucy that he was counting on her adding to his knowledge of Muslim culture. As a student of languages, Lucy had always made it a point to learn what she could about the people who spoke them, as it gave her context to add meaning to the language. For instance, she told him, Esra bin Afraan Al-Saud meant Esra, son of Afraan of the Saud family. "The part at the end identifies which tribe they belong to, which is very important in Saudi Arabia," she noted.

  Many of the two dozen or so men in the courtyard were dressed in traditional robes. Others wore everyday clothing indistinguishable from anyone on the other side of the white walls. They all had on the small, round kufie prayer caps, but there was nothing of particular note about that; even non-Muslim blacks in America had adopted the look as a fashion statement.

  The few women present were dressed as they would have been in any conservative Muslim country. All of them wore traditional loose-fitting robes, and their heads were covered by the hajib scarf; several of them also wore the niqab, or face veil, as well.

  The veil was often associated with Salafism, the puritanical version of Islam known for its extremist views. Its proponents claimed this was the "pure" Islam and made it their goal to remain undiluted by contact with other cultures and religions—especially modem and Western influences. Sometimes called Wahabism, especially in Saudi Arabia, it was the brand of Islam that promoted what other branches of the faith sometimes considered twisted interpretations of the Qur'an from which terrorist organizations like Al Qaeda had sprung.

  The Wahabi sect was known for labeling anyone who did not adhere to their narrow views, including other Muslims, as takfir, or apostate, which meant that Salafists were within their rights, even obligated, to kill them. They sometimes issued fatwas to excuse such behaviors as killing other Muslims, seeking the violent overthrow of Muslim governments, making war on women and children, and suicide, though they avoided the word "suicide" in favor of "martyrdom."

  The women's dress did not necessarily mean the members of the mosque were Salafists, however; the robes and head scarves could have merely reflected the conservative nature of the mosque's community. Lucy knew that oftentimes, new converts—whether they were Protestants in Catholic Mexico or Muslims in Baptist Harlem—were more conservative than their native counterparts, as if out to prove that they belonged.

  Nor was wearing the hajib or even the niqab necessarily a symbol of oppression of women by Islam. Lucy had several female Muslim friends in New York who, although modem in most other ways, wore the hajib as a sign of their faith and out of respect for their culture. They even defended their attire as a sort of equalizer between men and women in the workplace.

  "At least in my robes, they're not checking out my body," Fatima had explained to her. "And with my hair and part of my face covered, men don't look at me as if they're judging my looks. They have to judge me by my abilities, and what I have to say."

  Out of respect, Lucy had herself worn a hajib that morning. As she crossed the courtyard with Jaxon, some of the men and women glanced at her head covering and nodded with approval.

  The pair reached the door of the mosque where an immense black man stood barring their way. He hardly gave her a glance before addressing Jaxon.

  "Identification," the guard demanded, holding out a hand the size of a baseball mitt.

  Jaxon handed over his PrimeTech Security Corporation identification card. It did not have the same effect he'd received when he'd flashed his Federal Bureau of Investigation credentials, but it seemed to work well enough.

  "The woman, too," said the guard.

  Any arguments her friend had made about gender equality in Muslim society vaporized for Lucy. In this world, a woman was the responsibility and property of the man she was with. But she wasn't there to argue feminism, so she reached into her purse to hand over her Marie Smith identification card.

  The guard hardly looked at the card before handing it back to Jaxon. "Follow me," he said, pushing open the door leading into the mosque.

  They found themselves in the spacious interior sanctuary, where the ceiling rose to the shell of the dome. The beautiful marbled floors remained clear of any benches in favor of the prayer rugs of worshipers. Shadowed and cool, a respite from the gathering heat outside, Lucy felt at once its purpose as a place to worship the Divine. Unlike a Christian church, the mosque had no statues, paintings, stained-glass murals, or other decorations that might distract the faithful from devoting all of their attention to Allah.

  Only after passing through the sanctuary and reaching a hallway did they reenter the modem world. Lucy paused to read the postings on a bulletin board. Most were similar to those she'd expect to see in any church: times for various classes to study the Qur'an, a schedule for the next seminar in "What It Means to Be Muslim in America," a sign-up sheet to work at the mosque's soup kitchen, and a newsletter listing the accomplishments of various members of the congregation. But then there were also newspaper clippings decrying the actions of "Israeli Terrorists" and "Zionist Murderers" who'd stormed the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem during a "peaceful demonstration in support of Palestinian freedom fighters." The article was accompanied by a notice that Dr. Amin Hussein, a member of the government of Palestine, would be speaking at the mosque in October to raise money for refugee camps. "Suggested donation $10," the notice said.

  Jaxon knew that in Muslim countries, a mosque was used only for worship. However, in Western countries, mosques included schools and meeting rooms and often became centers for political and community activism. In the United States, most served to help assimilate immigrants into mainstream society. In England, some mosques went even further, becoming recruiting stations for radical Islamic clerics who openly encouraged disaffecte
d Muslim youth to join jihad. The London bus bombing and various other plots that had been broken up by British MI-5 anti-terrorism squads had all been traced back to these rogue mosques.

  Jaxon worried that the same sort of "homegrown" terrorists were being recruited in the decaying urban centers of the United States among poor, undereducated blacks as well as among immigrants from Muslim countries. By demonizing whites, Jews, and the government as the cause of their poverty, an imam like Jabbar could offer young black men something to belong to that was more powerful than even the lure of gangs.

  Jaxon realized by now that he need look no further than Rondell James to find proof that his worries were on target. The Department of Homeland Security was still keeping his name under wraps, despite the howls of the press and their legal motions. But even the department didn't seem to know about his other name, Muhammad Jamal Khalifa, much less his connection to the Al-Aqsa mosque. For the time being, Jaxon was playing dumb, too, and had asked for the audience with Jabbar merely to discuss security for the prince's visit.

  Karp's crumpled food-stamp certificate had proved to be a godsend. It had been issued to a Jamal Khalifa, who'd given his address as 173 E. 117th Street, Apartment D.

  A week ago, while Jojola and Tran stood watch, Jaxon had picked the lock to the apartment to go inside with his men from the bureau. Ray Guma and Clay Fulton from the DAO had been with them as well. The interior of the apartment told the story of a lonely man who'd given up on the world. The few dishes he'd owned were washed and stacked neatly next to the kitchen sink, from which a few brave cockroaches reluctantly retreated at their approach. A worn toothbrush and a solitary, threadbare towel were the only evidence of habitation in the bathroom.

  In the corner room was a stained twin mattress covered with a few moth-eaten blankets. On the ground next to the mattress was a lamp with a 60-watt bulb but no lampshade, a worn English translation of the Qur'an, and a small framed photograph of a young black woman in a hajib, a shy smile playing across her lips as she held a happy young boy. Jaxon picked it up and placed it in an evidence bag; his employer had secretly obtained a special search warrant for him so that someday, if they needed to use what they found in court, it would be legal.

  If Jaxon didn't know what Khalifa had done, the meager furnishings and the photograph might have led him to feel sorry for the young man. The living room, however, while just as Spartan in furnishings, was chilling. In a corner away from the window and any prying eyes from neighboring buildings, a folding chair stood next to an old desk on which lay a needle, scissors and thread, bits and pieces of material, some electrical wires, a package for a Hewlett-Packard Series 2100 pager, and packaging that had once held plastic explosives, marked USMC. A box on the ground bearing the logo and address of the "Mechanic's Choice Ball bearing Co." still contained a half dozen or so of the bright, marble-sized, stainless-steel balls. A half-dozen ... why not use all of them? Jaxon wondered.

  Even the evidence of the killer's bomb-making wasn't as striking as the green symbols that had been written on the otherwise dingy white wall, however. He couldn't read the writing, but he'd seen similar calligraphy written on banners hung behind suicide bombers in the Middle East as they videotaped their last will and testament before going out to slaughter innocent people in the name of Islam.

  As one of his agents took photographs of the writing, Jaxon, Guma, and Fulton inspected the last two objects in the room. Pointed at the inscription was an old video camera on a tripod. Jaxon walked over to a small television set with a built-in VCR player and pressed the "Eject" button. A tape popped out, which he pocketed, and with a nod to the other men, they slipped out of the apartment.

  Jaxon had hoped that the tape would reveal Khalifa's motives behind his attack on the synagogue and perhaps say whether it was part of some greater conspiracy. He was therefore somewhat disappointed to find out it was a family tape, mostly of the young boy and the woman in the photograph. In the segments that included Khalifa, the family looked happy, and Jaxon wondered how the man in those scenes could be the same man who created the horrific scene at the Third Avenue synagogue.

  "I'm betting he videotaped his little martyrdom speech," Jaxon said as they drove away. "I wonder where it is?"

  "It will probably show up on Al Jazeera in a few days," Guma replied. "A real public relations coup for Al Qaeda, a black American Islamic 'martyr.' I don't know why we don't plant a cruise missile up Al Jazeera's ass just like we took out Saddam's Ministry of Misinformation for supplying aid and comfort to the enemy."

  Jaxon figured that Guma was probably right about the destination of the tape. The "unknown martyr" who'd attacked the Zionists in New York City had been hailed as a hero in the Middle East. The United States had been put on red alert, fearing that his actions would spur others to commit similar atrocities. It would be as easy as downloading "The Belt of Martyrdom," a twenty-five-minute instructional DVD for making personal suicide bombs, which noted that would-be perpetrators didn't have to use C-4; commercially available dynamite would do.

  At the same time, Jaxon wondered why someone in the U.S. government had requested him specifically to head up security for the prince. Was it to get him out of the way of some bigger plan? It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that it was all innocent, either; he'd had some dealings with the Saudi intelligence and counterterrorism agencies during his career in the FBI.

  The sophistication of Khalifa's vest was enough to convince Jaxon that he'd had some sort of assistance. It did not appear that he had acted on his own, but it was still not certain that his action was part of a larger plot, either. Even if Khalifa had help, Jabbar could have been nothing more than the inspiration that set Khalifa down the road that led to the attack.

  Nor did Khalifa's attack or affiliation with the mosque mean there was any threat to Prince Esra bin Afraan in the offing. But good detectives don't believe in coincidences until everything else has been checked out, and that was why he was at the mosque this morning.

  After the synagogue attack, the New York media had interviewed various Muslim religious and community leaders in Manhattan. Most vehemently denounced the attack and expressed fears that it would engender retaliatory attacks. Only a couple noted that it was "bound to happen," as young Muslim men felt marginalized by U.S. society. But Jabbar had been unusually quiet. Asked to comment, one of Jabbar's spokesmen said only that the imam was unavailable to comment and would remain so after Ramadan.

  The guard led them from the hallway to a modem reception area outside an office. The room lacked any artwork, but two photographs were hanging on one wall. One was the picture of a man Jaxon recognized as Sayyid Qutb, the godfather of the radical Islamist movement; the other was Sheik Omar Abdul Rahman, the blind sheik imprisoned in Colorado for terrorism. A curious pair of photographs, he thought.

  Behind the receptionist's desk sat a young woman with a pretty, oval face the color of dark chocolate. As he and Lucy approached, she picked up the telephone, said something quietly into the receiver, and hung up. "You may go inside," she told the visitors.

  Their escort turned to Jaxon. "She stays here," he said, without bothering to look at Lucy. "And I need to search you before you go in."

  "Is that really necessary?" Jaxon said. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

  "The enemies of Islam are many. As are the enemies of Imam Jabbar. No one goes in without being searched."

  Lucy sat down on a chair across from the receptionist's desk as Jaxon was patted down. She saw a bulge underneath the back of the guard's tunic that she knew was a gun.

  Satisfied, he rapped on the door, eliciting a muffled reply. The man motioned to Jaxon to step past him into the room. He remained outside and closed the door.

  Lucy was trying to ignore the big man, who stood in front of the door with his arms crossed, when she caught the tune that the receptionist was humming. It was a Kenyan lullaby.

  "Jambo," she said quietly, a friendly greeting in Swahili.

/>   "Sjambo," the young woman replied.

  The guard barked. "No talking!" He scowled at the receptionist, who dipped her head. But a minute later, with a quick glance to make sure he wasn't watching, she flashed Lucy a smile.

  Inside the office, Jaxon quickly looked around as he walked over to where two men waited, one sitting behind a desk and the other in a chair to one side. Again, there was nothing on the walls, no books or magazines on shelves or tabletops. Just a large English version of the Qur'an on a pedestal off to the side of the main desk.

  Jaxon recognized the man behind the desk from photographs he'd seen in the newspapers. Imam Jabbar sat expressionless, watching Jaxon with his oddly bulging eyes, his purple lips drawn in a taut line across his face.

  The other man was something of a surprise. He was white, older—maybe in his late seventies—and wearing a business suit that probably would have cost Jaxon most of a month's salary at the bureau.

  "Agent S. P. Jaxon, I presume?" the man said, getting up from his seat to cross the room and shake hands. "Dean Newbury. I represent the imam's legal interests. I apologize that your colleague was asked to wait in the outer office. It's a matter of some cultural sensitivity."

  Newbury had a firmer grip than one might have expected for a man his age. "Her name is Marie Smith," Jaxon said. "She works for our firm as a translator—English, French, and Arabic. We were told that Prince Esra and his people needed a translator and ..."

  "We were expecting a man," Jabbar interrupted. "A woman's presence would not be appropriate."