THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (4 page)

Was Gateway a breeding ground for terrorists?

The Taskforce had reason to suspect so. Twice, money had been wired from the reintegration program to Islamic insurgency groups overseas, in
Algeria
and in
South Africa
. While the donations themselves were too modest to propagate the overthrow of democratic governments, they raised a legitimate concern: Were the leaders of Gateway, both vetted chaplains of the National Islamic Prison Foundation, brainwashing parolees to believe in the preeminence of Islamic law over Democracy?   

Jackson
, the FBI’s contribution to the Taskforce, had been at Gateway for less than a week of the four-week program. In that short time, he had seen nothing but good work being done. The parolees were challenged on a daily basis to see themselves and others as Allah saw them, precious and irreplaceable. Projects like the building of the shed built team cohesion and cooperation. During the second half of the program, each man would be trained in truck driver safety and issued a commercial driver’s license, giving him a means to earn an honest living.

Choose Allah, and the road will rise up to meet you.

That was Gateway’s motto and, by every outward sign, the program seemed to live up to it. If the leadership wanted to back insurgents overseas, that was their prerogative. But if they were also secretly advocating the overthrow of the government to whom they pledged their allegiance, then the Taskforce needed to know about it
.

On the other hand, civil libertarians and the Maryland Probation and Parole Association would throw a hissy fit if they caught wind of the investigation. The Taskforce had tried limiting their investigation to just wiretaps but, aside from their televised Friday service, the clergy didn’t appear to communicate with anybody in the outside world.

The only way to tell what was going on inside the program was to send in an undercover agent to act as a parolee. Jackson, the only dark-skinned agent in the Taskforce was the obvious choice for replacing a black man named Abdul Ibn Wasi. Only, now his cover had been threatened by one hot-as-hell journalist who’d just run off with his photo
.

Not to worry
, he assured himself, as he rejoined the others on the job site. Former Navy SEAL Ike Calhoun would do whatever lay within his powers to prevent
Jackson
’s picture from appearing in the press. Problem solved.

“Get me a hammer, Abdul,”
Jackson
’s roommate, Corey requested, pointing him toward two buckets, one full of hammers, the other full of nails.

As he scooped up two hammers and some nails,
Jackson
slipped back into the role of a man convicted of animal cruelty for fighting pit bulls
.
 

Intent on banishing all thoughts of the bombshell, he channeled his energy into securing the framing of the new shed. The memory of the woman’s sherry-colored eyes and her stunning breasts danced before his eyes. He swung the hammer, missed the head of the nail by a mile, and clobbered his thumb.

**

Lena
cut the engine and stared in dismay at her new rental home. Hidden in the shade of towering pine trees, the clapboard cottage looked diminutive and neglected. In the online advertisement, it had resembled a doll house, complete with a rocking chair on the front porch and ornamental lattice work. She had jumped at the offer of a month-by-month lease and made arrangements over the phone, signing paperwork via fax.

What she ought to have done was to drive out to the country to see the place for herself. The porch was covered in cobwebs; weeds ran rampant in the flowerbed; and there were shingles missing on the dormered roof.

Maybe it’s a sign, she considered, worrying her lower lip. Coming on the heels of her encounter with Mocha Man, no one would blame her if she started up the Jeep, pulled a U-turn in the nonexistent driveway, and headed straight for home
.

But with characteristic tenacity,
Lena
plucked the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car. Moving to the rear hatch, she dragged out her suitcase and rolled it over the carpet of pine needles to the covered porch
.

The landlord had said he would leave the key under a flower vase. She found it under a pot of withered marigolds, inserted the key into the single lock, and pushed the door open
.

A gloomy interior, a deep hush, and the smell of furniture polish greeted her. A flick of the light switch revealed a diminutive living area, table for two, and a kitchen built into a nook at the rear. To her right, a door led to the only bedroom and attached bath.

Bumping her suitcase across the braided rug,
Lena
paused at the bedroom door to take in the four-poster bed covered by a patchwork quilt. There was an armoire in lieu of a closet and a vanity with a faded mirror. “Home sweet home,” she murmured, propping her suitcase against the wall.

A sense of isolation had her reaching for her disposable cell phone. She’d developed a habit of using phones that couldn’t be traced while working undercover. Before she realized what she was doing, she had dialed her boss and long-time friend, Peter. “Hi,” she said, immediately cursing her impulse
.
 

“Is that you, babe? I didn’t recognize the number.”

She’d forgotten Peter’s recent habit of calling her babe. Having enjoyed a professional friendship for years; imagining him as anything more repelled her
.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she said, with less warmth.

“So, you made it. How’s it going?”

“Good. I found Gateway; took some pictures already.” She considered telling him about her run-in with Mocha Man then changed her mind. “As a matter of fact, I even got a cover job that’ll put me in direct contact with the parolees,” she informed him.

“Get out! Where?”

“At the convenience store across the street.”

“They let the parolees shop there?”

“They’ve already served their time, Peter. I’m sure they have a curfew, but they have some freedom, too.”

“So, you’re going to go through with your book story?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, babe. I know you’ve interviewed a lot of sick people over the years, but this time you’re emotionally involved.”

His words tossed salt on an open wound, but he was just looking out for her. “I’ll be okay,” she assured him
.
“So, why are you taking time off work?”
 
 

“Heading to Rehoboth to visit my cousins, remember?”

“That’s right.” He’d invited her to join him at his family’s beach house in
Delaware
, only
Lena
hadn’t wanted to cross that line from friendship into to something more.

“It’s not too late to join me.”

“That’s okay. But thanks for loaning me your Jeep. The tinted windows came in handy.”
Not as much as she’d hoped, though.
“I hope you’re not planning to drive my Jaguar out on the beach.” She winced at the idea
.
 

“Of course not. I’ll take good care of it.”

“You’d better.”

“Listen, I gotta run, babe. Call me if anything comes up.”

Not if he was going to keep calling her babe. “I will. Bye, Peter.” With isolation creeping over her again,
Lena
thumbed the call to a close.

Dragging her suitcase closer, she pulled out the framed photo of her sister that she habitually kept beside her bed. As she propped it on the bedside table, she thought of Rupert Davis and how dauntingly powerful he had looked today. Goose bumps sprouted on her arms and prickled down her back. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered to her sister. “We’ll get him this time.”

**

Jackson
repositioned his dinner of
halal
chicken and rice on the white, ceramic plate. The possibility of his cover being exposed by a journalist had stripped him of an appetite. Until the bombshell was apprehended, her photos deleted, he’d be walking on eggshells, expecting the worst
.

Part of being a Marine was learning to expect the worst so you weren’t taken off guard. Having served twelve years in the Corps before leaving to work for the FBI and subsequently the Taskforce, it was second nature to
Jackson
to expect a shit-storm.

As he toyed with his food in the mosque’s dining hall, he recalled the secretive look on the woman’s face, not to mention his powerful, visceral attraction when he saw her up close.

I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.
Her sexy voice could not disguise the lie. What bullshit. She’d known exactly what she was up to. If he hadn’t been so distracted by his response to her sex appeal, he’d have gotten her to surrender her camera before the store owner interrupted their tête-à-tête.

Instead, he’d been so wrapped up in how unbelievably silky her skin felt within his grasp and wishing he could kiss her wide, succulent-looking lips
.

As he lifted his fork to his mouth,
Jackson
’s thumb, with blood caught under the nail, gave a painful throb.
That’s what happens when you lose your focus,
he reminded himself.

But his mind was obviously acting of its own accord because it still swam with thoughts of her, which was unusual in itself. Since his wife’s death three years ago, he hadn’t given much thought to sex, with one slight exception, but that woman had already been claimed by Ike. The fact that he could envision himself taking slow possession of this black-haired beauty without really knowing her was therefore extraordinary. And he could picture it perfectly—her head thrown back, breasts bobbing just below his lips like ripe cherry-topped delights, her hips undulating, as he drove himself between her thighs. He wallowed in the fantasy, until a booming voice jarred him back to reality.

“Abdul Ibn Wasi!”

Imam Ibrahim, one of Gateway’s two leaders, stood in the doorway. With a slight smile, the mahogany-skinned leader with the salt-and-pepper beard gestured for Abdul to follow.
Jackson
jumped up. With a heaviness still in his groin, he carried his tray to the rubber container by the exit and followed the man’s flowing robes down the hallway to join him in his office
.

Twice a week, the ex-cons touched base with their parole officers. Under the tolerant eye of Ibrahim,
Jackson
dialed the number that would put him in touch with another of his colleagues, Tobias Burke.

“This is Abdul Ibn Wasi,” he announced, careful to speak in the appropriate dialect when Toby answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ibrahim open his file and rifle through it.

One of
Jackson
’s priorities was to search both imams’ offices for information casting light on Gateway’s affiliation with Islamic militants. But in the short time he’d been here, he had yet to find an opportunity. By day, the hallways bustled with activity. At night, the mosque was secured by an alarm system that required consultation with experts before the Taskforce could confidently override it. It was only during this brief time in Ibrahim’s office that
Jackson
had the chance to look around.

This evening, while supplying rote answers to Toby’s usual questions, he scrutinized the titles in Ibrahim’s bookcase, hunting for the book that had caught his eye the last time. His gaze finally snagged on it and he tipped his head slightly, straining his eyes to read the title on the spine.