THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (38 page)

“So, he is communicating with you,” she deduced with some relief
.

Toby lit up the phone gripped in his left hand to display a bit of text. The greenish light cast by his viewing pane, made his expression look unusually harsh.

“What are you not telling me?” she demanded, sensing there was more
.

He doused the light, took a deep breath, and scratched a spot on his chin. “The imam has weapons,” he said softly. “Seven semi-automatic pistols.”

The contents of
Lena
’s stomach pitched. “Oh, my God, this reminds me of the
Waco
disaster,” she breathed, gripping her good-luck bracelets
.

Toby whipped his head around to face her. “Don’t even say that.”  

“Sorry. No, it can’t end like that.” The showdown between the ATF, the FBI, and a religious cult in
Waco
,
Texas
, had led to a fifty-day siege and ended in an inferno that left seventy-six people dead, including women and children
.

“Look,” Toby said, on a more assured note, “
Jackson
already talked those first parolees into escaping while on a bathroom break. He’s working on the others. He thinks he can get them to defy the imam’s orders.”

And that was supposed to be comforting? He was going to bring the leader’s wrath down on him if he kept that up.

Toby sighed. “You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe.”

“Well, I’m not leaving,”
Lena
informed him.

He gave a humorless laugh. “Why is that not surprising?”

“It’s settled then,” she told him firmly. “I’m staying right here with you until
Jackson
’s free again.”

**

Ibrahim was delivering a powerful sermon. The solid red light on the iPhone he had squirreled away for emergencies bathed him in bloody light. Sweat trickled from beneath his
taqiyah
, but he refused to take it off.

Below him, kneeling on the floor of the dark prayer hall, nine remaining sets of eyes shone up at him, inspiring eloquence on his part. Two cowardly parolees had deserted them earlier, slipping from the prayer hall under the guise of using the restroom in the hall. In the next instant, the alarm had signaled their desertion. From that point on, Ibrahim insisted all the men use his private toilet, just behind the
minbar
. The next man to try to desert him would be shot.

As for the pistols, he would distribute them if the need arose, and only to his most trusted pupils.

“This situation—” he flourished a hand to encompass the standoff at Gateway, “is an allegory, is it not?” He glanced down at the parolees then back into the eye of the camera filming him. “It symbolizes the enslavement of our people by the Devil, who has held us captive for centuries. But do not despair. Instead, be encouraged, my people. For the time is at hand for your delivery.” He paused for effect, knowing that his next words would shake the very foundations of the nation.

“My faithful followers, your
Mahdi
is here. Indeed, he has been with you all this time, for I am he.” Ibrahim pressed a hand to his heart and smiled sanctimoniously. “And I have come to change you into a new and perfect People. Where the Earth is filled with wickedness, I will fill it with justice, freedom, and equality. I will make the poor-lost found and turn you into rulers of the New World Order. All this I will do for you, but first you must prove your worthiness by freeing me from the Devil’s snare.

“Captains and Lieutenants of the Fruit of Islam, your loyalty is being put to the test, just as I foretold it would be. For the New World Order to succeed, you must rally now to my defense. Gather your soldiers and strike hard. This will be the first of many bloody battles heralding the Righteous Struggle. But in the end, the Fruit of Islam will prevail, and the Devil will be crushed like a serpent beneath our heels.”

Satisfied that his speech would bring his followers thronging to the area to free him, Ibrahim pressed the button that would upload his message via 3G wireless to his website.

When an error message appeared, he cursed and tried again.

Were the walls of the mosque too thick? Why was his video not uploading?

It dawned on him, with a temporary sense of impotence, that the vipers who’d shut off the electricity had also dismantled his website, preventing him from communicating with his followers that way. No doubt the music site listing Zakariya’s top ten picks had also been taken down. But he was not so easily thwarted. Every one of his followers had an iPhone just like his.

Ibrahim accessed his contact list, selected every name on the list, and typed a brief text message.
Watch my video.
He then attached the video to the text and hit send. Within minutes, seventy seven captains and lieutenants in the Fruit of Islam would receive his summons and forward his message to their underlings.

Savoring visions of efforts to which they would go to liberate him, Ibrahim relaxed on the uppermost step of the
minbar
to watch the news in his iPhone. Tonight, the nation would spin on its axis.

Turning down the volume so the parolees were not privy to opposing views, he viewed the debates taking place on every major news station. The country stood divided over whether or not Gateway’s leaders were terrorists, as the government alleged, or whether Ibrahim and Zakariya had been profiled due to race and religion, their civil rights violated.

“Oh, come on,” scoffed a white-haired senator, being interviewed on CNN. “These allegations are ludicrous. Have you looked at the upstanding individuals who’ve graduated from Gateway’s reintegration program? Mr. Ali Rakeem is now the principal of an esteemed Muslim boy’s school in
Columbia Heights
. Taimur Amir is the owner of a successful recording studio in
Georgetown
. Qasif al Bakir is a lawyer working for the Baltimore District Attorney’s office. These men are reputable because Gateway taught them that self-worth and hard work pay off. You are not going to tell me these men are members of a radical Muslim group that’s plotting to overthrow the government. That’s hogwash.”

The senator’s portrayal of Gateway was flattering but it betrayed the man’s absolute ignorance. Amused, Ibrahim immersed himself in the discussion, even as the man’s next words shocked the smirk off his face
.

“But, Senator, what about the allegations that former parolees have been stockpiling propane in first floor apartments and are intending to use them as bombs?”

Ibrahim frowned. When charging him, the Attorney General had mentioned something about stockpiling bombs. But how could the authorities and the press know of his plans to bring down apartment buildings throughout the city unless the unthinkable had happened. Had one of his followers turned traitor?

“Ridiculous. My sources tell me that distributing propane is one of Gateway’s charitable endeavors. That propane was for heating older homes in the city. You know, I hate to allege that our government would plant evidence against American citizens, but I can assure you that the investigative agency making these claims had every opportunity to just that.”

“Can you tell us how and when, Senator?”

“How do you think? They put one of their own agents through the program.”

Ibrahim blinked. Wait, what? One of his parolees was a government agent?

“When was this, Senator? Is the undercover agent still in the program and could you identify him?”

Ibrahim’s heart pounded as he waited for the senator’s reply
.
 

“Of course I could, and yes he is. But I’m not going to jeopardize a man’s well-being just because I have a different opinion on how American Muslims ought to be treated. I will say this, though. This situation at Gateway defines the reason why we need a new President in the Oval Office.”

Fury exploded in Ibrahim’s chest. Had he actually been duped by one of his current parolees? Which one? 

Turning off his phone, he plunged the prayer hall into darkness. Only the feeblest of moonlight coming through the windows under the domed ceiling illuminated his followers.

Was one of them the traitor? Or had that man been one of the cowards who’d escaped at start of the siege? Picturing Mansoor and Omar, he could not envision either one as a spy. They were both too old and not in good physical condition.

On knees that trembled, Ibrahim slowly rose to consider the men who remained. Was Muhammed the traitor? Not likely; he was as dumb as a rock. Jamal? Ditto there. Hasan? That man could barely speak English. Corey? Too soft. Shahid? Too mean. Abdul?
Ah, yes, Abdul.

A shiver of certainty wracked his spine.

In retrospect, it seemed so obvious. Abdul had memorized the recitations in one week flat. Ibrahim had assumed his many questions were an indication of his quick mind, but he’d been scrutinizing Gateway and its leaders from the start, hadn’t he?

And earlier this week, it was Abdul who’d remained inside the mosque when everyone else went to witness the fire marshal’s inspection. No doubt he had seized the opportunity to continue his search that had been cut short the night the alarm had been breached and the mosque broken into.

Ibrahim slipped a hand into his pocket. With a tremor in his fingers, he withdrew the pistol there and released the safety.

There was only one good thing that could come of his discovery. The parolees were less apt to rebel against him when they had a scapegoat to blame for their misery
.

Chapter Nineteen

Lena
stuck as close to Toby as the wicked-looking pistol holstered to his hip. He introduced her first to Ike Calhoun, the Taskforce lead, and then to the Attorney General. When Wilkes called the Taskforce into his plush RV for a conference, he gave her an appreciative once-over and invited her to join them, as well—much to Ike Calhoun’s obvious annoyance
.

The AG’s aid made her a steaming cup of coffee. Thanking him, she told herself just to watch and listen and not stick her nose into matters she didn’t understand. But when Ike Calhoun and Wilkes started wrangling over whether or not to storm the mosque, she found she wanted to strangle the latter with her bare hands. Didn’t he care about
Jackson
’s safety?

“Time is on our side,” the AG insisted, looking relaxed in a cushy captain’s chair. “The men in the mosque will soon be out of food, and they have no power. They’re going to have to capitulate eventually. All we have to do is to wait them out.”

“You’re wrong.” The Taskforce lead’s burning eyes could have blistered leather but that didn’t seem to faze the AG. “The longer we wait, the worse this situation is going to get. We can see that the imam’s got an iPhone and that he’s been using it, but we can’t trace the number. How long do you think it’s going to take the Fruit of Islam Army to mobilize and ride to his defense?”

Wilkes shrugged. “What are you worried about? The National Guard has barricaded every road in and out of the area.”

Calhoun’s voice got softer, which made him all the more intimidating in
Lena
’s opinion. “The National Guard isn’t equipped to take on twelve thousand men. The more we monkey around, the more time the enemy has to plan their strategy.”

Lena
gulped her coffee. Fear coagulated like cold grease in her belly.

“What strategy? These men aren’t real soldiers, are they? Have they ever been at war?” The AG clearly wasn’t worried
.

“Trust me, with twelve thousand members, you can bet hundreds of them have had military training. Plus they’ve planned for contingencies like this. Why do you think the glass in the mosque’s windows is bulletproof and the windows are welded shut? This building is their fortress. And as long as Ibrahim can communicate with his followers, he can draw them all to the area in droves. Let’s at least knock out the cell tower and suspend his communications.”