The Apostate (8 page)

But now a great threat presented itself with her men folk. Would they accept him? While increasingly guilty about using Abra as a springboard to ingratiate himself in the local Muslim community, he had to take advantage of the extraordinary opportunity she presented. It didn't make it any easier that he truly liked her. Perkins, of course, just urged him to maximize– Ray hated that word, especially in this context–the opening he was getting.

He knew enough about Arab culture to bring a little gift. Wine seemed inappropriate, so he brought a small, nicely wrapped box of candy.

“Don't worry so much,” Abra said, as they pulled into the driveway of a large ranch-style house with an expansive but well-tended lawn. “They won't eat you.”

But they might be less receptive to his charms than Abra. So far he had been doing well enough, but he was hardly a consummate actor. This role he was playing might blow up in his face. He felt a stab of guilt if Abra would be hurt. Submerging his feelings for her might become a problem, and he decided not to bring up this aspect to Perkins, though he was sure the PAS operative would ask.

The imam, Radwan Malouse, was a tall thin man with a grey-streaked black beard who looked to be in his early to mid fifties. Close-cut, white hair covered much of his scalp. Thick-lensed glasses partially concealed alert black eyes. Abra's other uncle, Tariq Esaaba, had a darker beard and appeared to be a few years younger. The imam's wife, Sanah, also greeted them in the foyer of their house. She was a portly woman with an angular face marked by tired looking eyes. Still black hair, parted in the middle, didn't reach her shoulders.

After introductions they sat in a spacious living room. Abra decorously sat several feet away from Ray on one couch while the imam and his wife sat on a parallel couch. Tariq sat on a separate armchair.

The scene was so formal, Ray thought. It was like he was there to ask their permission to marry Abra. It was just a dinner, but obviously she felt it incumbent to present him as if he were some sort of suitor. Probably, cognizant of who she was dating, they had put pressure on her to bring him home for a look-see. Hopefully, that's all their scrutiny entailed.

Conversation was polite and inconsequential until Abra, without any warning, said, “Ray wrote a letter to the
Los Angeles Times
, which they're going to publish.” She gave Ray a proud glance at his accomplishment. “Can I show it to them?” she asked Ray.

“It's just a simple letter,” Ray said, looking embarrassed without difficulty. He was pleased that Abra had brought the subject up. He knew she would.

“No, it's not,” Abra said, crossing to the vestibule to get her purse. She came back to the living room with the copy of his letter he had given her, and gave it first to the imam. The imam read the letter carefully, and then passed it to Tariq. “Very impressive.”

Ray dipped his head in apparent humility. After reading the letter, Tariq asked, “When will it run?”

“In a few days, but I didn't get a specific date.”

The imam's wife read the letter and rewarded Ray with a smile. Then she glanced at Abra to show approval.

“It's very encouraging to find a young man like you with such pro-Muslim sentiments,” the imam said.

“That's how I feel,” Ray said, with a modest shrug.

“Ray studied Arabic and Islamic Studies at UCLA,” Abra said, showering Ray with another appreciative glance.

“Also impressive,” the imam said.

“I'm not fluent,” Ray quickly said. “I speak very little. And not with the best accent either.”

The imam and his wife smiled, but Tariq still regarded him with a noncommittal stare. The treasurer generated a dark presence, despite his light colored western clothes. Even the imam was dressed in everyday California casual clothing, though Sanah looked more formal in a high-necked dress.

“What led you to these studies?” Tariq asked. Tariq was clearly less impressed. He had cold, dark eyes that were unsettling and Ray tried not to show his aversion to his manner.

“I needed to take a language, and Arabic seemed to be a key language of the future. Islamic Studies just fit in.”

“And Ray is trying to get the company he works for to publish Islamic fairy tales,” Abra reported with pride again at Ray's accomplishment.

“I suggested it,” Ray said. “No decision has been made. And it's just North Africa minus Egypt.”

“I recommended a couple of Muslim writers who can write an introduction or other commentary,” Abra said.

“This is all most remarkable,” the imam said, more to Abra than to Ray. Tariq nodded, still studying Ray carefully. The imam's wife, whether by culture or inclination, was silent. But her eyes, directed at Abra, showed continuing approval of her non-Islamic boyfriend.

He had been too apprehensive about Abra's family. They were more tolerant of him than he anticipated. His next step was proceeding well, Ray thought, as they sat down to a dinner of tender lamb and anise flavored rice.

“This is delicious,” Ray said.
Jeyd
. (Good.)
Jeyd jid-dan
. (Very good.) Then he added as if he had lost his cue though he had carefully rehearsed this line. “
Shukran li ashaa
.” (Thank you for dinner.)

“
Aafwan” (You're welcome)
, replied the imam with a broad smile.

Fortunately, there weren't any obvious expectations for more use of his limited Arabic as the evening went on with pleasantries. Questions were posed about his family, which Ray was able to answer without difficulty.

At the door he trotted out, “
Ma-saah al kheyr
. (Good evening.) I hope that means good evening.”

Everyone grinned, and the imam took his right hand and placed it like a loaf between his hands and squeezed. “Be well, my son.”

The evening went well, Ray thought. He was making progress. Perkins should be pleased, but he was never sure with his dour handler.

“So you're in with the family?” Perkins said like a question that didn't need confirmation as Ray sat with him at a cafeteria on Wilshire Boulevard near downtown. Perkins had ordered coffee and a slice of apple pie, while Ray settled for just coffee. From their booth from inside the cafeteria—Perkins had deliberately chosen a table that wasn't next to a window—they could still see a constant succession of cars going in both directions. Many pedestrians were also on the street, entering and leaving the numerous office buildings. Perkins carried a briefcase, and he had put a folder containing what looked like a manuscript on the table as if they were discussing the material. Just two literary types having a meeting, Ray thought. But Perkins was his handler, a word Ray disliked. It sounded vaguely homosexual. Who wants to be handled by another man? But he had no reason to think Perkins played for the other side.

“Since you're getting cozy with our Muslim friends, we won't be meeting like this too often,” Perkins said, finishing his pie and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “You'll be contacted when and where each time. Pay attention to anyone who looks like they're following you.”

“You think that's happening now?”

It was fascinating, Ray thought, how such unusual information could be delivered in such a banal way and setting.

“The closer you get to the family, the more they'll check you out.”

Ray absorbed this comment. No doubt it was true. Abra's family seemed to accept him, and the imam had squeezed his hand paternally. But what did that all really mean?

He didn't have any experience in detecting anyone following him, but then it didn't take a nuclear scientist to note the same person near him at different locations.

Was he being followed in his dates with Abra? Going to work? Being tailed wasn't a very appetizing aspect of his mission, but it obviously came with the territory.

“You're doing good work, Ray,” Perkins said encouragingly. He took another sip of his coffee and wiped his lips again with a paper napkin.

“The letter to
The Times
probably helped,” Ray said.

Perkins nodded. “Nice touch. The bit about Muslim fairy tales is a good idea, too.” He paused a moment. “So this imam seemed to accept you as a boyfriend to his niece, but her other uncle was on the suspicious side. Was that your take?”

“Pretty much. I'd say I passed muster with the imam's wife, too.”

“Couldn't hurt,” Perkins said. “So romancing this Abra chick has been effective so far?”

Ray winced at the word,
effective
. He felt guilty about deceiving Abra. He truly liked her. She was decent, honest, and damned good looking. Moreover, she clearly liked him.

Perkins gave Ray a hard stare. “Are you hooked on this girl?”

“I like her. I'm not sure what you mean by hooked?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” Perkins spat back. “Will the romance, such as it is or may become, stop you from doing your job, which is infiltrating that community?”

“It seems to me I've done a pretty good job,” Ray said, fighting back. He deeply resented Perkin's charge, though he knew it was justified.

“That you have,” Perkins conceded. “But how far are you willing to go? Would you marry this girl?”

Marry!

Though the thought had occurred to him as well, Ray was still stunned by the question. But it was a logical query, and Perkins had a right to ask it. After all, he had volunteered for this assignment. No one coerced him, though the threat of being carted off to jail had a pernicious influence.

“I like her,” Ray said again, afraid to use any other words or otherwise commit himself.

Perkins shook his head. “Look, you're doing a good job at getting in their good graces, but look ahead. Think ahead.”

“I will,” Ray promised, hoping to get free of the basic question for the moment.

Perkins hesitated a moment. “In light of your romantic situation, it makes sense if you do marry this girl. It would draw you in even closer. If you don't it would probably end your chances of fitting in.”

“Now I have to marry a Muslim girl as well as become a Muslim?”

Ray gave Perkins a look to show how disturbed he was, but he knew it was a logical conclusion. He had hooked himself.

“The two probably go together,” Perkins observed with a laconic shrug.

Ray scowled, feeling forced to accept the growing entanglements descending upon his once simple life. One thing led to another. It was foolish of him to think otherwise.

“But are you willing to take this step?” Perkins asked, showing uncharacteristic solicitude. “I know it's a big one.”

“I don't want to deceive Abra.”

“You don't have to,” Perkins argued. “Be a loving husband. She's an attractive girl, right?”

“Very.”

“Great. So that's on the plus side. Just let us know what you learn.”

Ray scowled again.
Plus side!
Perkins made it sound so easy and banal. “A couple of small things come in play. I have to propose and she has to accept me.”

Perkins shrugged. “If she invited you to meet her folks, I think you're okay. Look, Ray, I'm sure there'll be bumps on the road, but you'll be able to handle them. Won't you?

On the spot again, Ray saw. “I certainly hope so”

“Remember, and I'm not offering up a pun, you're a sleeper agent. Being married, if it comes to that, would be a great long term investment.”

Investment
! Ray recoiled inwardly. What an odd word to use in describing a possible marriage.

But Perkins continued on the same level. “The possibility of getting hitched might mean doing more things to prove yourself to them. One way or another, you're going to be tested. Just being chummy with this girl, Abra, won't be enough.”

I know. I'll be ready.”

Ray wondered if the PAS agency would then worry that he might be so swayed by Abra, and her family and associates, that he would became a double agent and give inside information to the Muslims. If Perkins had any concerns on this score he concealed them well. His imagination conjured up various scenarios these days, and this was just more fodder for a book that swirled from time to time in his mind. He was a troubled hero in all his mental editions.

Perkins gave him another hard stare as if trying to plumb his thoughts or reservations.

“Okay, what's next?” Ray asked.

“You tell me,” Perkins said.

Ray nodded, not at all surprised that Perkins would put pressure on him. “I think my best bet to gain their confidence is to keep seeing Abra, of course, and pursue the literary aspect. Kindred hasn't made up its mind about my fairy tale book proposal, but I can move ahead on my own, like contacting the Muslim authors Abra suggested, putting together a tentative table of contents, etcetera.”

“Sounds good,” Perkins said. “Why can't you write the book yourself?”

“For one thing, Kindred wouldn't like it very much if I contacted another publisher and they see me as an editor and not a writer. And for good reason, I've never been published. Moreover, these fairy tales are already written. What's needed is someone to do an interpretation of them, perhaps write annotations. And that someone has to be a Muslim writer, not me. I don't have the credentials.”

Perkins mused a moment. Disregarding the editorial values, he asked, “Remember, becoming a Muslim is part of our arrangement, and not to be crass about it, your old age nest egg doubles. So I hope there aren't any qualms about converting. It's the logical next step. If marriage is on the horizon, your bride would probably want you to convert. She isn't going to convert to become a Christian, is she?”

“She's very modern, very western, and very intelligent,” Ray touted Abra.

“But she won't convert, will she?”

“Doubtful,” Ray admitted. He couldn't see himself ever asking her.