“Oh, they know about her,” Dash growled. “They dragged me out of her place last night. Tasered me. Probably her, too.” He considered the odds. “Maybe I should avoid her. She’s alive and unhurt. That’s the most important thing.”
Fasil hurried down the steps and walked into the office. “Facial recognition is easy to defeat, but hard to block without really standing out. Wearing a disruption mask or painting a pattern on your face will hide you from their algorithm, but everyone in LA will take notice of you. Might as well send up flares to help the police find you.” He opened a locker. “Some prosthetics and makeup can probably help conceal you, though. A wig and sunglasses should do the rest.” He held up a box. “Won’t be comfortable, though.”
Dash frowned. “Well, I can’t do anything hiding out in this warehouse.”
“We need to make the most of your time,” Fasil said. “The laptop’s battery is at sixty percent and I don’t have a charger for it. You have to pick your next move carefully.”
Dash took the box from his father. Inside, he saw a theater makeup kit and rubber accouterments. “I need to get closer to the Olympus Initiative. Iris told me about an imam who left his masjid to join up. Faris Murad. I’ll start with him.”
Fasil crossed his arms. “You’ll need protection.”
“I need to warn Yifei. Can you pick her up?” Dash pursed his lips. “She’s a friend and I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“If she’s a friend, she’s leverage over you. Better if she gets out of town, though that may not mean much considering what we just saw.”
“I’ll take her with me. Two people will draw less attention than one,” Dash pointed out.
Fasil didn’t look convinced. “Doesn’t matter how much you disguise yourself if they track her instead. Working alone will be safer.”
“Only for me. Not for her.” Dash dropped his gaze. “I know you’ve done a lot for me already, but if you would bring her, I would be grateful.”
Fasil opened his mouth to speak, then paused. “Uh, she’s...you two aren’t...um...”
Dash shook his head, trying not to smile. “She’s not my girlfriend, no. She has a boyfriend, actually.”
Fasil’s sigh of relief deflated him. “All right.”
The Islamic Center of Peace wasn’t the grand sort of place people pictured when talking about masjids. It didn’t have a dome or minarets, it wasn’t plated in gold trim, and it didn’t gleam white.
It looked rather shabby. A little square, two-story building sandwiched between two apartments, only the Islamic sign set it apart. The entire block, a few blocks from Inglewood, looked worn down or neglected. Graffiti tagged the sides of buildings, though the streets looked free of garbage.
Dressed in a dark maroon shirt, blue jeans, and a white kufi, Dash glowered as he watched a pair of women walk around the corner in order to enter through the women’s entrance. Rasul always spoke of how Islam did so much to elevate the status of women, but cultural influences undercut a lot of that. On television, Dash always saw men and women in mosques going through the same doors, praying without walls, and enjoying equality.
He’d never seen that kind of Islam practiced in the real world.
Why should this place be any different? His foster father would love it.
Dash followed the signs to the offices. Though the masjid’s exterior looked worse for wear, the clean interior looked like it was recently remodeled. Quality green carpet covered the floor and the walls gleamed white from paint not even a year old.
As he rounded the corner, he saw a young black woman in hijab, round-faced with big, purple glasses, seated behind the desk.
“As-salaamu alaykum!” A smile split her face.
“Wa-alaykum-assalaam,” Dash replied. He’d hoped to avoid encountering a woman. Muslim men were supposed to avoid being alone with women they weren’t related to, which might complicate Dash’s information gathering mission. Now, he’d have to be cautious.
“I like your kufi,” the receptionist said.
Dash blushed and ran his fingers along the edge of the fabric on his temple. “Oh, um, thank you.”
“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ameena.”
“Dash.”
Ameena did not offer to shake hands.
“What brings you here this morning, Dash?”
Dash took out a small notebook and pen. “I’m looking for Faris Murad. I understand he used to work here.”
Ameena’s cheerfulness vanished as her head bobbed. “Brother Murad took excellent care of us for many years.”
“But he left?”
Ameena’s eyes watered. “Brother Murad died in a plane crash a couple of months ago.”
“What?” Dash didn’t need to feign shock.
“It’s true, I’m afraid. He explained that he wanted to more to help others outside of our city. He joined a group, the something initiative.” Ameena’s eyes narrowed as she searched for the name.
“The Olympus Initiative?”
Ameena’s finger shot out. “Yes!”
Dash nodded. “Do you know where he went?”
“He went to Utah for several months, then to Tanzania. The initiative was doing some sort of solar power project there, or that’s what they were supposed to do.”
“That’s where his plane crashed?”
“Sadly, yes. In the Congo.”
Dash struggled to keep the excitement from his face. Rasul must have known what the information meant, what made it important. He’d bet his life the crash in Brazil was also full of Olympus Initiative personnel or supposed to be anyway.
“May I ask what you needed Brother Murad for? Maybe Brother Usman, our new imam, can help.”
Honesty wouldn’t serve him well in this case. “I hoped he could help my brother,” he explained. “He’s called in with a bad crowd. It’s just the two of us and he won’t listen to me.”
“Oh, say no more.” Ameena rolled her eyes. “They never pay attention to the words come outta our mouth, but the imam says it and suddenly everything makes sense.” She cracked her knuckles and made a fist. “I hear you. Let me get you Brother Usman’s number.”
Brother Usman would be of little help to him, but Dash gave her a grateful smile. “Shukran, sister.”
An hour later, Dash’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he lurked in the back corner of a coffee shop. The coffee tasted terrible, but the place didn’t have Wi-Fi, so he worried less about another OSI team tracking him. He glanced at the phone and saw Fasil’s number, so he took the call.
“Dash?” Yifei asked.
A weight evaporated from his shoulders. “You’re all right!”
“Still shaken up from last night, but I’m okay. Your uncle picked me up. Have you seen the news about these rockets?” Yifei gushed. “It’s crazy!”
“Haven’t really had time to catch up,” Dash admitted. “Hey, can you dig up some information on a Faris Murad? Check out his records and see if anything stands out.”
“Umm.” Yifei hesitated. “Your uncle is shaking his head. I don’t know why. Let me put you on speaker.”
“Faris Murad was a convict. Did ten years for a gang-related shooting. Got out eight years ago and became an imam.” His father didn’t sound pleased.
“Well, I figured some of that from the article I scanned. Do you have anything new or relevant?”
Fasil growled, “Just the part about him being in a gang killing.”
“What I want to know is why the initiative hired him. If he was doing outreach, that’s great, but my guess is that’s not what the Olympus Initiative cared about. And, sorry, but I doubt they hired him to spread Islam.”
“Seems unlikely.” Fasil conceded.
Dash considered the matter. A Muslim man his age would almost certainly be married, probably have kids. He’d gotten out of prison early enough for that. “What about any family?”
“Divorced, never remarried. No kids, at least on record.” Fasil sneezed. “Alhamdulillah.
The only thing I can tell is he’s been a renter since he became an imam. His address is a flat not far from the masjid.”
“Text it to me. I’ll go over there and check it out.” Dash dropped some cash on the table to cover the tab and hurried out, removing his kufi. Shaking his hair in front of his face might help conceal him from the remote eyes all around.
Fifteen minutes later, Dash stood outside of Murad’s apartment. A three-story structure, with nine units, it looked small, but solid. Newer construction than the masjid. Murad’s home was on the ground floor, which made snooping easier. The blinds blocked most of the interior, but Dash saw plastic tarps over furniture and boxes along one wall.
“Someone doing an estate sale for you, Faris?” Dash craned his neck to try and see a bit better but saw nothing more interesting. He circled the apartment and tried the windows in back.
“Screw it.”
Dash folded his kufi and wrapped the fabric around his fist, then broke the rear bedroom window and unlocked it. He climbed inside, careful not to cut himself. He didn’t want to leave a blood trail for the police.
Simple furnishings filled the room. A twin bed on a cheap metal frame, a simple nightstand, and a desk lamp were the only things in the room. The closet lay empty. Dash moved further into the apartment. The second bedroom had a somewhat nicer queen-sized bed, but it was clear Murad didn’t pamper himself. Bookshelves lined the walls in the room, filled with a wide variety of tomes. Islamic texts dominated, which didn’t surprise him, but he also had an entire case of mysteries. More books on psychology and counseling, which improved Dash’s opinion of him. Like most clergy, imams served many functions for their community, but not all of them prepared for the non-religious roles. Murad took it seriously, though.
In the living room, Dash poked through boxes, some of which bore dates. He opened the latest one and found hard-worn outfits, stained rust-red, jeans with dirty knees, t-shirts similarly ruined, and a pair of hiking boots with flecks of dark maroon grit. The clothes smelled clean, though, so Murad had washed them before packing them up.
Why save them at all, though?
He found a small photo album at the bottom, wrapped inside a long-sleeve T-shirt with the Olympus Initiative logo. Opening it, he saw Murad, frozen in snapshots. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a neat goatee, and close-cropped hair. Paunchy, but still strong, several images showed him carrying beams of metal with others. He posed with several men atop some sort of cliff in a desert, sweating and grinning. Other group shots showed upwards of thirty men and women, but Murad always stood among the men.
“You take your faith seriously, Faris.” Dash nodded his respect.
The images shifted to some sort of tropical setting. Palm trees and lush foliage surrounded some sort of farm. Murad and many of the faces from his desert photos worked the land. A picture of Murad, laughing while splayed out in deep mud. Another image of him in an apron, grilling meat over a pit of coals. A shot of him praying just after sunrise.
In all the pictures, however, he saw the Olympus Initiative logo. The pictures reminded him of team-building activities he’d done in college.
Murad’s apartment didn’t have any of the usual bills, which was unfortunate. Online bill pay and such made snooping much more difficult. He rifled through more boxes but couldn’t find anything helpful.
Dash called his father back.
“Turn on the OSI laptop,” he said without greeting.
A moment later, his father said, “Ready.”
“I’m texting you a picture. See if this magic surveillance program can find Faris Murad.”
“The dead Faris Murad?” Fasil sounded dubious.
“Just check him.”
Dash waited in silence, his fingers counting the change in his pocket again and again.
“H-he’s alive!” Fasil couldn’t hide his shock. “I’m not getting an address for his location, just a long string of coordinate data.”
“Yes!” Dash hissed as he pumped his fist. “How are you seeing him? Is it a cellular phone? Security footage?”
“Signal source is a Samsung phone with a five-one-two area code.”
Dash scribbled the number down on the closest box and beamed. “Okay. I’m going to call it.” He hung up and dialed.
The phone rang three times, then a young man answered with a cautious, “Hello?”
Dash took a deep breath, then launched into his probe. “This is Colonel Castillo, Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I’m investigating a breach of security.”
The young man muttered, “Oh, shit!”
“What’s your name?”
“Airman First Class Chatham, sir!”
That surprised Dash, but might prove useful, too. “You’re with a man, Faris Murad?”
Chatham said, “Uh, Faris? Yeah. He’s right here.”
“Give him your phone and walk away for ten minutes, Airman Chatham. Murad will give you your phone back when I’m done with him. Understood?”
“Understood, sir!” Chatham sounded so earnest Dash was certain he was standing at attention.
“Hello?” If Chatham had been cautious, Murad was downright suspicious. “Who is this?”
“Is this Brother Murad?”
“That’s right. As-salaamu alaykum.”
“Wa-alaykum-assalaam.” Relief and giddiness swirled through him. “Brother Murad, where are you?”
Murad wasn’t a fool. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m allowed—don’t you know?”
Dash ignored the question. “The Olympus Initiative hired you. Why?”
“They needed an imam and selected me after a long interview process. Who are you?” Murad’s tone darkened.
Dash pushed on. “Brother Murad, please tell me where you are. Where is the Initiative sending you?”
“We-I don’t know yet. They haven’t told us. We’re at the staging area.”
Dash cocked his head. “What staging area?”
“At Travis Air Force Base. We’ve been here for over a week, sleeping in tents.”
Dash’s pulse surged. That was the connection. The OSI was an Air Force agency, so it made sense that the Olympus Initiative would have other ties to the military. He didn’t know where Travis was, though, or what operations typically ran there.
“Brother Murad, please listen to me. Whatever the Olympus Initiative is up to, it’s dangerous. My brother, Rasul, was investigating them and the Air Force had him killed. I saw him gunned down.”
“That’s awful, brother. I’m so sorry.” Murad’s voice turned gentle.
“Thank you, but my question is this—what are you going to do? Why are you at an Air Force base?”
Dash heard Murad gulp before he said, “We’re working on a sustainable agriculture project in Jordan, I think. That’s the rumor. All I really know is they sent me home from the training mission and told me to pack a duffel bag with anything I couldn’t live without. Sentimental items, things like that.”
“What training mission? In Africa?”
“No, no. Utah. I’ve never been to Africa.”
Dash nodded as pieces dropped into place. “Who is Chatham? What’s he doing with you?”
“He dropped off our lunch. We had class all morning.” Murad asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
“One more question—has anyone mentioned anything about a ship to you?”
“I don’t know,” Murad admitted. “I don’t think so. They told me to pretend like I’d never come home again and to take anything I couldn’t buy, make, or replace.”
His mind spun as Dash considered the possibilities. “What did you bring?”
“My Qur’an, of course, my favorite prayer rug, a few books I couldn’t get ebook versions of, and things like that. A few clothes I couldn’t live without.”
“Was there anything you couldn’t bring?”
“Of course. No firearms of any kind, no cell phones, and drugs were obviously prohibited.”
Dash said, “So Chath
am can have a phone, but you can’t.”
Murad sighed. “The Olympus Initiative is doing great work, and I’m proud to be a part of it, but if what you said is true, I don’t know if I should stay.”
“Can you tell me how—”
“Someone’s coming!” Murad hissed before he killed the call.
Dash stared at the phone for a moment, then texted his father:
Travis AFB - What’s there? Where is it?
It took less than a minute for him to reply.
CARGO PLANES N. CALI NR SACRAMENTO
Dash glanced around the empty apartment one last time. Murad may have packed as if he wasn’t coming back, but the plastic over his furniture and the care taken to protect his belongings said he thought he would. If the Olympus Initiative lied to him about that, what other secrets were they protecting?
Sending you the OI address in Pasadena. Bring Yifei
and a couple outfits for us.
Whatever else the initiative was, their ties to the Air Force meant Dash was up against something big. Sneaking into their office was risky, but nothing Murad had said explained the OSI’s willingness to kill to conceal their operations. Worse, nothing pointed to Project ORION or Rasul’s work on Enterprise. If he wanted the truth, he’d have to dig it out of them.
Not a problem. Dash could do that.
Fifteen
CASTILLO’S EYES FLEW OPEN as her phone rang. She relaxed when she saw it was Boscardin rather than the admiral.
Her thumb tapped the screen and she held it to her ear. “Report.”
“Someone was here, ma’am. This warehouse is set up for everything except commerce.”
“It’s empty?” She asked.
“On the contrary, it’s full of stuff. There’s a great workbench on the second floor, lots of electronics. A small office with a computer I can’t unlock or crack because they literally removed the hard disk.”
“Paranoid,” Castillo observed.
“Well, not compare to the oil drum wired to a block of plastique.” Boscardin snorted. “This place is full of illegal shit. Quentin found an arms locker with pistols and submachine guns, all high-grade stuff. I found a closet full of surveillance gear—oh, and a prayer rug and a copy of the Qur’an.”
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