THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (10 page)

Promising he’d rejoin her in a minute,
Jackson
ducked into his room to change. Seconds later, feeling much more himself in a mint-green Polo crewneck, khaki shorts, and loafers, he stepped into the hall, running into Toby, who’d donned a pair of ragged jean shorts and an orange T-shirt advertising Dirty Dick’s Crab Shack. A silver hoop glinted in Toby’s left ear. He had on flip-flops.

Toby gestured to
the
office where they’d dumped their technical equipment. “I think I’ll scan that pamphlet so we can send it to the bossman,” he offered. “You want to write him an email?”  

Jackson
could hear his daughter chatting excitedly with her grandmother. “Go ahead. Family first,” he reminded himself
.

“Right,” Toby agreed, backing toward the office door. “So, whatever happened to your daughter’s mother?” he inquired, off-hand.

Jackson
stopped and slowly turned back. “Car accident,” he said shortly
.

Toby sent him a searching look. “Sorry to hear that.” 

“Thanks.” The car accident was only half the story, but
Jackson
didn’t know Toby well enough to tell him the rest.

“Let’s look up the journalist,”
Jackson
suggested at 9:45 P.M.

Naomi and Silvia had withdrawn upstairs to retire for the night. He and Toby were cozied into their little office waiting for the scheduled teleconference with Ike. Jackson, who couldn’t get Lena Alexandra, aka Maggie
,
out of his head, figured they could use the ten minutes before their conference started to plan their “party” at her place tonight
.

Toby sat forward. “Sure, let me show you what I’ve found.”

Jackson
’s blood flowed faster as his colleague typed her name into their search engine.

Crime and Liberty
’s website was the first hit to come up, but with the server hacked, they could only view a cached page, several years old. The bombshell’s photo was there, nonetheless, her title listed even then as Freelance Editor, and she’d been every bit as sexy in her mid-twenties as she was now. The figure-hugging crimson sweater made
Jackson
’s mouth water.

Toby gave a low whistle. “I get hard just looking at her.”      

Jackson
stabbed a finger at a link. “Click that,” he ordered tersely.

The subsequent page was filled with a list of dozens of articles written by Lena Alexandra. Looking at her long list of accomplishments, he felt suddenly queasy
.

“She’s been busy,” Toby noted in a more subdued tone
.

Lena
. Maggie. Maggie.
Lena
.
Jackson
had a sudden thought. “I bet her real name’s
Magdalena
,” he wagered, enjoying the way it rolled off his lips and tongue.
Margaret, my ass.

“Magdalena Alexandra,” Toby said with flare. “That’s about as Greek as they get.” 

From what the old website suggested, Lena Alexandra had been contributing articles to
Crime and Liberty
since her first year out of college. There were titles relating to theft, embezzlement, kidnapping, even murder.
Jackson
scratched his neck, feeling harried. Not only was she beautiful and crafty, but her accomplishments bespoke of a highly intelligent woman. A pro. She could probably smell an imposter a mile away, which meant he would be in some deep shit if they didn’t succeed in getting rid of her.

“You really think she’ll leave if we cramp her style?”
Jackson
was starting to have his doubts
.

Toby shrugged. “Only one way to find out. If that doesn’t work, I volunteer to hold her hostage in my hotel room until the investigation’s over,” he said with a straight face and a twinkle in his eyes.

Like hell
,
Jackson
thought, hiding a scowl. “Maybe we could get her arrested.”

“Her?” Toby scoffed. “She probably knows fifteen lawyers off the top of her head.”  

Given her profession, she probably did.
Jackson
reminded himself that she would be Ike’s problem if she refused to leave
.

As if summoned by thought, their conferencing program chimed. Ike’s rugged features filled the screen, his thick head of silver hair glinting under the halogen lighting at the
National
Center
for Counterterrorism. “Evening,” he bit out, as terse as ever.

Subdued by their lead’s grim presence,
Jackson
and Toby returned the greeting. To
Jackson
’s practiced eye, Ike looked more haggard than usual, which was saying something since his default expression was that of a man predicting world calamity. The only time he ever looked relaxed was when he took off to his mountain hideaway with his lovely bride, Eryn.

Of course, Eryn could make any man feel better,
Jackson
reflected. There’d been a time about a year ago when he’d hoped she’d be a balm for his own soul. He’d even taken Eryn out on a couple of dates while Ike was in
Afghanistan
, but with her heart already pledged to Ike,
Jackson
had never really stood a chance. Especially not when Ike came home early—gravely injured—but alive enough to claim Eryn’s hand in marriage.

“Starting with the Judgment Day pamphlet,” Ike began, diving right in. “Our analysts came back with this report.” He read from a printout. “The passage is a direct quote from the
Qu’ran
. It’s the same story that’s found in the Bible and the Torah, only with its own particulars. In Islam, the prophesied redeemer is called the
Mahdi
, who is predicted to live on Earth for seven, nine, or nineteen years before Judgment Day, depending on the translation. Then on Judgment Day, he’ll rid the world of wrongdoing, injustice and tyranny.”

“So the pamphlet is harmless,”
Jackson
concluded, with relief. The report corroborated his gut impression that Gateway’s agenda was perfectly benign.

“Except that the illustrations suggest that it’s going to go down in our Nation’s capital,” Ike countered, scowling
.
 

“That’s to give modern significance to ancient scripture,”
Jackson
argued. “They have to appeal to the parolees’ mindset.”  

“Possibly,” his boss agreed. “But we can’t afford to overlook a reference to some planned attack, when Gateway donates funds to Islamist rebel groups that slaughter civilians.
Jackson
—”

“Sir.” Twelve years in the Marine Corps had conditioned the respectful term to come out of his mouth. Ike was the team lead, yes, but they’d had equal rank when they left the military.

“What have you seen and heard this week?” 

Jackson
shook his head. Because he had nothing else to offer up, he finally mentioned the book that had caught his eye. “In my visual search of Ibrahim’s office, I saw a book called
Supreme 120 Lessons: for the Nation of Gods & Earths
. It struck me as…off.” He shrugged.

Ike’s eyebrows came slowly together. He leaned toward his keyboard and started typing
.
Then he sat back with a frown. “The Nation of Gods and Earths is another name for the gang called the Five Percenters.” 

A faint alarm went off in
Jackson
’s head. “Who are they?” 

“Allegedly, they’re the number of enlightened people living on the planet who are willing to share their knowledge with less enlightened black men.” Ike continued to scan the information on his end. “NGE was founded in the 1960s by a student of Malcolm X. They broke away from the Nation of Islam over a fundamental difference in how they perceived God.”

“I’ve heard of this gang,” Toby volunteered
.

“The NGE doesn’t believe in a traditional God,” Ike continued. “For them, the black man is Allah, which stands for arm, leg, leg, arm, head, not a separate and divine entity. Being the original man, Allah is destined to rule other races.”

“Plus, most Five Percenters are prison converts,” Toby chimed in. “They tattoo a sun, moon, star, and the number seven onto their bodies to identify themselves.”

Crap.
“That was the logo on the side of the book,”
Jackson
admitted, realizing now why the image had looked familiar. He must have seen it while studying gangs for his Master’s in Criminology
.

Ike sat back. “Okay, let’s assume Ibrahim is a Five Percenter,” he proposed. “How does that change things?” 

Jackson
had trouble envisioning the beneficent leader as a gang member.

“He is from
Harlem
, remember?” Toby pointed out. “That’s where the gang originated.”

“I thought we were looking for terrorists, not gang members,”
Jackson
objected
.

“What’s the difference?” Ike sent him a hard look.

Jackson
pondered the question. Gangs and terrorist cells alike emerged out of a sense of social helplessness, its members drawn to the structure and moral order imposed on them, as well as to the sense of belonging. Actually, they had more in common than he’d realized
.

Toby broke the silence. “Don’t forget Ibrahim spent twenty years as a jail chaplain,” he reminded them. “He could’ve converted hundreds of inmates to the NGE.”

Ike continued to scan the information on his end. “A lot of hip hop artists are Five Percenters,” he announced
.

Jackson
remained dubious. “Ibrahim might be a Five Percenter, but aside from this pamphlet all he and Zakariya have ever preached is moderate, mainstream Islam.”

“Have they ever mentioned Supreme Mathematics or the Supreme Alphabet?” Ike pressed.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

The leader scraped a hand over the short bristles of his silver hair, thinking. “I want you looking for more about this Five Percent stuff when you search the place,” he decided.

“How are you coming with the alarm system?”
Jackson
asked
.

Ike grimaced. “They have a Cinch Security System, one of the trickiest to override, which is a red flag in itself. Why would they need that in a mosque? Plus it has encrypted end-to-end communications, which means that any kind of sabotage alerts the company to a break-in. That means I have to broker a deal with the company.” Ike didn’t look too thrilled about it. “I’ll let you know when it’s clear to break in. In the meantime, Toby, start monitoring the imams’ sleeping hours, taking note of their rituals. And,
Jackson
, keep alert to any mention of the Five Percent Nation.”   

“Yes, sir,”
Jackson
said.

Toby nodded.

“I don’t need to remind you both that the eleventh anniversary of 9/11 is just weeks away.” Ike’s voice turned as rough as sandpaper. “I don’t want any acts of terror happening on my watch. You copy?”