Harley was impressed. “That is very generous of you, Jefferson.”
“This community is important to me. The town and its people.” He leaned back in his chair. “But here is the problem. I do not think that Fatima would accept a gift from us. She would think that there were strings attached.” He broke into a sly smile and said, “I have a reputation around here.”
Yes, you do, thought Harley. “So how can I be of help?”
“My daughter likes you and trusts you,” said Jefferson, “and I trust her judgment. I am guessing that you have developed at least the beginning of a relationship with Fatima. In addition, I am guessing that you have some kind of a pastor’s discretionary fund here at the church.”
“Yes, I do.” Last time Harley checked, it had about two hundred dollars in it.
“What I would like to do is this: Write your church a check for ten thousand. Have your treasurer deposit it, and then write Fatima a check for the full amount. You can tell her that it came from an anonymous supporter. Do you see any problem with that?”
Harley thought for a moment about how the church treasurer would respond. She was a CPA in her early fifties and very much by the book. This would be an extraordinary transaction, for sure, but not out of line with the intent of the discretionary fund. When Harley first arrived, the treasurer had told him that members made special donations to the fund to help neighbors in need, and that the pastor had complete control over how the funds were spent, as long as they were used to help the needy. “In other words,” she had said with uncharacteristic levity, “you cannot use them to buy yourself a boat.”
After reflection, Harley responded to Jefferson. “No, that should work just fine.”
The businessman reached into the pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a checkbook and a fountain pen. So old-school, Harley thought. As he wrote the check, Jefferson said, “I want to be clear that this fund is being established by Abdul as well as myself. He may not seem to be a sensitive man, and to be sure he has great value in exuding toughness in our business ventures. But he feels the difficulties of the Bayatis very keenly, and his own early experience with the justice system taught him the importance of quality representation. He shares my commitment to this endeavor.”
As Jefferson signed the check, he said, “Ten thousand dollars might not go very far in the world of murder defense, but perhaps it will be a catalyst for other giving.”
“This will be a tremendous help,” Harley said, holding the check. “What role does Abdul’s faith play in this?”
“I hesitate to speak for him,” said Jefferson, “but I am sure he is motivated by his Muslim faith. His early years were terribly chaotic, and the Christian church that he grew up in was not a help to him or to the men in his life. That knowledge pains me, because this church, Emanuel Baptist, was always very good for me.” He rubbed his fingers along the edge of the old oak desk that was at the center of the office. “This desk was my uncle’s. Did you know that?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“They didn’t move it when the congregation went to its new, modern venue,” Jefferson said with a hint of sarcasm. Continuing to caress the desk, he said, “The current pastor of Emanuel has a modern glass and steel desk, which fits the new location, I suppose. But this will always be the pastor’s desk to me.”
“I like it,” Harley said. “Makes me think of Jesus, the carpenter’s son.”
“Good point,” said Jefferson. “My uncle worked as a carpenter’s helper when he was a young man. He used to say that he found the work so challenging that he knew why Jesus left his father’s shop and entered the ministry.” He smiled. “Anyway, back to Abdul. He had already converted to Islam when I met him. It is kind of surprising that we met at all, since I was visiting the jail as part of a ministry group from Emanuel. I was teaching a personal finance class, and he quickly emerged as my star student. We stayed in touch, and I hired him as soon as he was released.”
“What was he in for?” asked Harley.
“I’d rather not say,” Jefferson replied. “That is information that only he should share. But I want you to know that he is one of the most righteous men I know. His faith is important to him, and he walks the walk.”
“That’s good enough for me,” said Harley. “Please tell him that I will honor his intentions for the gift.”
Jefferson stood up and said, “Thank you for your time and for your help.” The two men shook hands and Harley showed him to the door. As Jefferson walked across the parking lot to his Mercedes, he turned, looked back, and said, “Take care of this old church building, Pastor.”
That afternoon, Harley called the church treasurer and told her about the check. She promised to pick it up after work, deposit it, and then write a check for the same amount to Fatima Bayati. She predicted that it would take a few days for Jefferson’s check to clear, but she should be able to have Fatima’s check by the end of the week. Harley said that a few days should be no problem, especially since it would come as a surprise.
Not wanting to take the time to shop for groceries, Harley ordered a pizza to be delivered to his house for dinner. Walking home at six o’clock, he met the delivery man at the door, tipped him, and then entered. For a moment he wondered if Omar would even be there. Feeling a wave of panic, he imagined the kid getting second thoughts about the safe house and running off to live with the Woodbridge guys. If that happened, Harley would have no way to find him, and no way to slow their plot. What if Omar bought a new camera, rented a boat, and resumed his cooperation with the terrorists? If he left the house, Harley would lose control of him completely, and would have no real evidence to show the authorities. Pictures of the Fort Belvoir shoreline, disconnected from Omar Bayati, would be evidence of nothing.
“Omar?” he called out after closing the front door. He heard some footsteps, and a wave of relief came over him. The young man plodded down the stairs, looking more bored than anything. “I got us a pizza for dinner.”
“Cool,” said Omar as they sat down at the kitchen table, behind drawn shades.
Harley put two plates on the table and pulled a couple of soft drinks out of the refrigerator. “I got vegetarian because I don’t know what kind of meat you eat.”
“I don’t eat pork, but beef is okay. In my family, we are not strict about the beef being halal.”
As they ate, Harley told Omar about the Underground Railroad running through Occoquan, with a station being right underneath them. He talked about the bravery of the conductors who helped slaves to escape, and described the situations in which he thought it was right to commit acts of civil disobedience. Omar gnawed on his pizza and sipped his drink, paying attention but looking fairly unimpressed. Then Harley told him that a defense fund was being established for his father, based on a gift from two anonymous donors. Omar stopped eating when he heard that news. He became animated, and it appeared to Harley that there was hope in his eyes. Omar asked about how the money would get to his family, and how it might be used. For the first time in weeks, he had reason to believe that his father might actually get out of jail.
On the strength of that gift, Harley and Omar lived peacefully in the safe house for the next eleven days. And then Harley received a visit at church from the one man Omar truly despised.
CHAPTER 20
“I’ve never been very close to my father,” said Matt Carter as he sat with Harley in his office at Riverside Methodist Church. The August Saturday was a steam bath, and the window air conditioner was roaring. Matt wore a dark-blue FBI T-shirt and black shorts. Harley was not quite as casual, since he was on duty that day—a golf shirt and long khaki pants. They sat facing each other in a pair of armchairs, their knees almost touching.
“He and my mom divorced when I was three, so I saw him mainly on weekends as I was growing up. They had a bitter breakup, caused largely by one of my dad’s affairs. My earliest memories are of the two of them bickering with each other as they would hand me off on Saturda
y mornings and Sunday afternoons. In fact, some of the transitions happened right here, at this church. It was designated a safe and neutral space. I remember a white-haired African-American man sitting in the social hall, reading a book and giving people a stern look if they started getting worked up.”
Harley had only seen the stoic side of this square-jawed FBI agent. “Glad this place was a sanctuary for you, during such a rocky time.”
“Anyway, my dad did his best—coaching my Little League team, taking me fishing, and showing me how to use tools and fix a flat on my bike. But my mother complained about him constantly, so I always had a very negative view. Never really trusted him, based on what my mother told me. But once I was in my twenties and the FBI sent me to Quantico, we started meeting in Lake Ridge for dinners once a week. We got to know each other as adults, and I heard his stories about Vietnam and his difficulties in the Marines, especially near the end of his career. You might know that the pipeline for advancement gets more and more narrow as an officer gets older, and I think he was told to retire before he was ready. That left a bitter taste in his mouth. His stories made me feel a compassion for him that I had never felt before.”
Still waters run deep. That’s what Dirk had said when he introduced Matt, and now the minister understood what he was talking about. “Getting to know our parents as adults can help us to forgive them,” said Harley, who wished that his own father had lived long enough for him to reach that point.
Matt nodded. “Since things between us had improved over the last few years, I felt I could talk with him about a tough work situation. I couldn’t discuss it with anyone at the Bureau, and I figured he might give me some guidance. We met at his house in early June. I told him about a woman I was attracted to, someone I saw every day. I didn’t give her name, but I described her—long black hair, olive skin, really beautiful. Said that we had gotten together once, in the evening, but I immediately regretted it. Told my dad that it would be a disaster, professionally, if I got involved with her.”
“How did your father respond?” Harley tried to picture the woman and found himself imagining the gorgeous Norah Bayati.
“He was actually pretty good,” said Matt, smiling. “Since he cheated on my mom a few times, I guess he is an expert in inappropriate relationships. He advised me to get a transfer to another case, and I said I had thought of that, but didn’t really want to. I told him that I was on the Bayati investigation, which was an unusual assignment—the Bureau usually keeps agents away from communities where they have friends and relatives. Told him we had been given some solid information on the Bayati boy and a terrorist cell, and the case was one that would be good for my career. He asked me if I could arrange my work in such a way that I didn’t have to see the woman, and I said no, not really. He admitted that such attractions can be powerful, and he had succumbed to a few himself. But looking back he wished that he had done more to keep from crossing certain lines.”
Harley asked how Matt felt about his father’s counsel, and he acknowledged that his dad was right to say what he did. He said that he didn’t really expect his father to have a quick fix for him, but he was glad that they could talk about it. Matt told Harley that his father had gone on to divulge some of the mistakes he had made, and some of the lines he had crossed, including the affair that had dealt a death blow to his marriage. The conversation opened a door for Matt, helping him to see Dirk as a flesh-and-blood human being for the very first time, not a stereotype of a military man or divorced dad. Dirk had admitted that he was still ashamed of that last affair, in particular, because it had been with the wife of a fellow Marine. Sounding defeated, he confessed that his self-indulgence had cost him his marriage, the friendship of a good man, and the respect of a number of fellow Marines. Matt told Harley that he had never heard his father sound so broken and full of regret.
“Oddly enough, I left the conversation feeling better,” said Matt. “I realized that I wasn’t facing the situation alone. Once back at work, I did my best to keep boundaries in place. One week was especially tough, because we were doing surveillance here in Occoquan. Long hours very close together. At that point, I figured that the best way out was to get a transfer, even if it hurt my career. Our stakeout ended on a Sunday, and then Tuesday was the killing.”
What’s Matt saying? He sounds so matter-of-fact. Is he confessing to the killing? If so, he’s a complete psychopath, totally cold-blooded.
Matt said he went ahead with the transfer, then called his father to tell him. “I think that was the day you two met, and were having lunch at the American Legion.”
“I remember that,” said Harley, still trying to figure out the connection between Matt and Norah. “Your dad took your call and bolted.”
“His reaction really surprised me,” Matt said. “When we got together that Sunday, he seemed agitated. Asked me why I would leave a case that was so good for my career. I reminded him that he had suggested that I pursue a transfer, but he didn’t want to hear it. He just kept shaking his head and saying that I was sabotaging my career. I was looking for his approval, but he left me feeling that I had made a huge mistake. We ended up yelling at each other and not talking for almost a week. The next time I saw him is when we took you out on his boat.”
“Yes, I sensed that you two were at odds,” Harley said.
“We stayed away from the subject for quite a while,” Matt continued. “Then, the day before yesterday, things got really weird. I called him after dinner, just to check in on him. Told him that the new assignment was going well, and I had been down at FBI Headquarters that day for a meeting. Said that I ran into the woman that I had been so attracted to on the Bayati case. He didn’t respond, and it sounded to me like he was trying to catch his breath. Gasping, almost. Then he barked the words, ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, ‘You know, the black-haired beauty. The one I was obsessed with.’ He said, ‘That can’t be.’ And I said, ‘Of course it can. She was my partner on the Bayati case, the one I went out with one time, even though I knew it wasn’t right. I couldn’t stop thinking about her and wanting to be with her.’ Next thing I know, he hangs up on me. I try to call him back, but he doesn’t answer. It’s been two days now, and I haven’t heard a thing from him.”
After a few moments of silence Harley asked, “Why do you think your dad reacted the way he did?”
Matt shrugged. “I have no idea. Once again, I thought he’d be proud of me. I had drawn a line and stuck to it. I wanted to let him know that I was okay with seeing her at headquarters, that my feelings were not nearly as intense as they had been. But I never got that far—he hung up before I could tell him.”
Harley was as mystified as Matt but didn’t want to waste time speculating. Trying to be practical, he asked, “What is it that I can do for you?”
“Well, if you see my dad, tell him that I want to talk. And, of course, if he wants to talk with you, that’s fine with me.”
“Can I share anything that we have discussed today?”
“Sure,” said Matt. “Just about everything I’ve told you has come out of conversations with him. So go ahead, say what you want. I just hope he’s okay.”
“Thanks, Matt. I appreciate it.”
“No, thank you,” said Matt, reaching out his hand for a shake. “This has been good. I feel better having gotten this off my chest.”
After Matt headed out the door, Harley picked up his phone and placed a call to Dirk. He got no answer, so he left a message asking for a call. Then he sat at his desk and continued to work on his Sunday sermon. He was preaching on a passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” He leaned back in his chair and looked out his office window, gazing over the parking lot and toward the river, hoping that the flowing water would take all the crap away. The line “O sinners, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down” popped into his mind, a line from the song he had mentioned to Sofi
a and Youssef—“Down in the River to Pray.” Harley thought about how hard it was for people to do what they wanted, and how often they ended up doing the things they hated. Dirk wanted to support his son by giving him good advice, but then reacted in ways that drove Matt away. Harley ached for Leah to be a close friend and confidante, but lashed out at her with anger and frustration. Terrorists said they wanted to do the will of God but broke the most foundational laws of their faith with the hope of a heavenly reward.
Harley returned his eyes to the Bible, which said, “But in fact it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me.” What an odd phrase. According to Paul, sin was like an alien force that took control of people’s wills and directed their actions, a power that corrupted even their best efforts and intentions. He read it again: “Sin that dwells within me.” What a tough concept for the twenty-first century, thought Harley. So old-fashioned. Who talks about sin anymore? And yet, people today knew very well what it felt like to be addicted to alcohol or drugs or social media or pornography. And they knew the deep and lasting scars that were left by childhood neglect or sexual abuse. Whatever dwelled within them—whatever tempted them or tormented them—it was a force that must be acknowledged and addressed and eventually overcome. “I can will what is right, but I cannot do it,” wrote Paul in a line that seemed to Harley to be both perceptive and terribly pessimistic. “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”
So, how can this alien force be overcome? How can such deep brokenness be healed?
Harley had to think of something if he was going to preach a decent sermon. He got up and walked around his office, running his fingers along the spines of the books on his shelves. These were the toughest of questions. The problem with sin was that it lived not only inside of people, but also all around them. Dirk struggled with Matt because of his experiences in Vietnam, his failed marriage, and the unsatisfying end to his military career. Harley was frustrated with Leah because of his unresolved issues with Karen, his grief over her death, his anger at the terrorists that killed her, and his own unrealistic expectations of the people around him. Terrorists killed innocent people because they were manipulated by bad preachers, or because they grew up in awful circumstances and blamed foreign powers for their desperate situations. There was no easy solution to sin, no quick fix for the deep brokenness in humanity and in the world. Or is there?
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