Friday, January 30
El Espejo Road
La Mirada, California
Hakeem started from the top and worked his way down. He was glad to see the short blond hair falling to the ground. From the time he had dyed it, he’d felt that the olive skin of his face looked foolish with a blond frame. Soon the electric razor moved from his head to his face, then down his arms, his chest, and the rest of his body.
The only hair that wasn’t shaved was that which grew from the back of his shoulders and funneled into a narrow strip down his spine. His host had graciously offered to assist him with that hard-to-reach area, but Hakeem had declined. This process was between himself and his maker. Allah will forgive this one patch of impurity when he sees the purity of my actions and my heart.
Despite the sacredness of the process, Hakeem found his mind wandering to the time when Meg had removed that same stretch of body hair. They were on their honeymoon, and Meg had mentioned her aversion to back hair. He remembered her exact words: “Ewww, Sal, it’s like mating with a monkey.” He had jokingly challenged her. “Well, why don’t you do something about it?”
Meg, never one to run away from a challenge, had disappeared into the bathroom. Hakeem expected her to come back with a razor and some sort of scented rubbing oil, but his romantic dreams were shattered when Meg returned carrying some heavy strips of paper, an applicator stick, and a big tub of goop.
For the next hour, the air surrounding their rustic, thatch-roofed cottage on the Kona shores was filled with the sounds of hair being ripped from Hakeem’s body, his cries of pain, and their subsequent shrieks of laughter. In later months, they had both come to the firm conclusion that that balmy June night was when Alessandra had come into existence.
Hakeem realized his mind was drifting again and quickly grabbed the straight blade he was going to use to remove the stubble the electric razor left behind. Allah, forgive me for my weakness, he prayed as he brought the razor across his forearm-partially for penance and partially to regain focus. As the blood dripped into the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. Toughen up! Does a dead man reminisce about the past? No! He realizes that what’s past is past, and he anticipates the rewards of the future.
After stemming the flow of blood with a towel, he lathered up his head and put the razor to its proper use. He removed any traces of hair from his head and face except for his eyebrows. The whiteness of his recently shaved head would be hidden under a hat, and the paleness of his face where his beard had been would be covered with makeup. But a man with penciled-on eyebrows was still enough of an oddity to receive second and third glances. Again, Allah, I trust you will forgive my small impurity for the sake of your greater plan.
When he was finished shaving the rest of his body, Hakeem put on a button-down white shirt and loose white cotton pants. Then he laid out his prayer rug, knelt facing east, and pressed his forehead to the ground. He remained in that position for several minutes, trying to will himself to go through the formulaic prayer that would complete the purification process. Finally, giving up, he stretched himself out flat on the rug-his arms reaching over his head and his face pressed into the fabric.
Allah the benevolent, the merciful, forgive my lack of words. I… I just don’t have the energy. You know the heart of your servant. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart…
Hakeem repeated that phrase over and over until finally sleep overtook him.
Friday, January 30
Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office
Los Angeles, California
The break room was popular again. Small clusters of agents talked and laughed around the twelve tables that until recently had been empty most of the time.
The change had come two days after Mustang team had set up at the L.A. FBI office. Riley decided he had finally had enough of the nasty Costco bulk coffee. So, under the guise of showing deep appreciation for the hospitality of the bureau staff, Riley had purchased a Bunn Infusion Coffee Brewer Twin and seventy-five pounds of Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. After installation, the industrial coffeemaker had begun cranking out the delicious brew into 1.5-gallon ThermoFresh servers, two at a time, elevating Riley’s status around the office to just short of demigod.
Two of the tables were not as full as the others. At one sat Skeeter Dawkins. People around the bureau had learned quickly that he was a man with a mission and that he was best left to himself. At the table next to Skeeter sat Riley and Khadi. Each had a mug of coffee, and they were sharing an oversize blueberry muffin-tearing off a bite at a time.
“I spoke with Meg Ricci last night-gave her my contact info,” Riley said. “I know I probably shouldn’t have, but she’s having a really hard go of it. I have no idea how she’s going to handle it when word finally leaks out of Sal’s involvement in all this.”
“Do you think he ever really loved her?” Khadi asked.
“In Italy, he tried to convince me that she was nothing more than a pawn in his little game. But I remember the way they were when they were together. They just… I don’t know how to put it… You know how there are couples that you see and you think, I’ll give them two years? And then there are others you can tell are going to be together their whole lives?”
Khadi nodded, using her thumb and index finger to place a portion of the muffin top in her mouth.
“These two seemed made for each other. What did I miss? How could I have been so incredibly stupid?”
“You weren’t stupid, Riley. I think there are some men and women who so successfully partition their lives that they actually become two different people. At home a guy might be the loving family man-all-star husband, coach of his kids’ Little League teams… the works. Yet when he slips into his other environment-the drug house, the hourly rate motel room, the secret rendezvous, whatever-the alter ego takes over.”
“Sort of like a Jekyll and Hyde thing,” Riley quipped.
Khadi smiled. “Yeah, I guess. But I think whichever world they happen to be in at any given time, the people who are around them can’t imagine them in any other.”
Riley took a sip of coffee, then stared at the rainbow of floating oils. Suddenly a big hand wrapped itself around his cup and pulled it away. Riley looked up and saw that the same thing had happened to Khadi’s mug. “Skeeter!” he called. But the man was already halfway to the counter to refresh their coffee.
Riley gave an exasperated grunt, and Khadi touched his arm. “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” she said. “He feels guilty for what happened in Barletta.”
“What? Why should he feel guilty? I ordered him away.”
“Nevertheless, he still feels that he should have been with you. He thinks if he had, none of that would have ever happened to you.”
“Well, I need to go straighten that out with him,” Riley said as he started to rise. But Khadi’s grip tightened on his arm, keeping him in his seat.
“Let him be, Riley. He’s got to work it out his way. Besides, having Skeeter as a shadow is not the worst thing in the world for you.”
Skeeter reappeared with the two steaming mugs. Riley mumbled his thanks, but Khadi grabbed the man’s hairy wrist, looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Skeeter.”
Skeeter looked quickly at Riley, then back to Khadi. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and returned to his table.
Riley sighed deeply-a little too deeply for his still-struggling lungs-and sent himself into a coughing fit. The coughing wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was strong enough to make the occupants of two or three tables turn around. He tried to stifle the fit with a long draw on his mug, with moderate success.
“Khadi, can I ask you a personal question?”
She responded with a noncommittal nod of her head and a shrug of her shoulders.
“Okay, and please understand where I’m coming from on this. What… how do you feel when you hear Muslims defending what was done at Platte River?”
Khadi remained silent.
“I’m sorry,” Riley jumped in. “I should have learned my lesson last time.”
“No, no, no,” Khadi reassured him. “I’m trying to think of a good answer. Truthfully, I’ve never really analyzed it before. I think my initial response is anger. But then that turns into a profound sadness. These people are taking my religion and giving it a black eye around the world. My people and my beliefs are despised and rejected based on the actions of a minority of fools and zealots. I mean, think about how you feel when you hear of some radical Christian guy blowing up an abortion clinic or a bunch of wackos picketing the funeral of a guy who died of AIDS with signs that say ‘God hates gays.’ No matter what your feelings are about abortion or homosexuality, you still find yourself thinking, I really wish they weren’t playing on my team. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, but… again, don’t take this the wrong way-I can point out specific places in the Bible that would blow those idiot radicals out of the water. Seriously, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But doesn’t the Koran actually support what these terrorists are doing?”
“According to the Islamists, it does. But I would also bet that your ‘idiot radicals’ would claim that they could back their positions with the Bible, too.”
They both picked a piece off the muffin, Riley feeling the uncomfortable squish of soft blueberry compacting itself under his fingernail. Khadi looked like she was trying to formulate a thought, so he quietly chewed.
“However,” she finally said, “if we’re totally being honest here… I will admit that there are some passages in the Koran that I don’t fully understand. Don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added, “it doesn’t make me cast doubts on my beliefs, only on my own comprehension. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m lying awake at night.”
“Okay, that’s an interesting qualifier.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. Riley, I love my faith. I love my traditions. My family has been Muslim for generations-I love having that history. I just wish… I don’t know. I guess I wish I knew where I stood with Allah. I often have this fear of standing at the great judgment and being one good deed out of balance. You know what I mean? One ‘walking the old lady across the street’ or one ‘giving a homeless person a dollar’ short of tipping the scales in my favor and making it to heaven.”
Riley chuckled lightly. “Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I don’t count on anything I do. If it was up to the way I live my life to get me into heaven, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I know the junk that’s in me. I live with my stupidity every day. That’s why instead of depending on what I do, I depend on what Jesus Christ has done. Because He died for me, I know I don’t need to worry anymore about being good enough.”
“It must be nice to really believe that. I wish I could… but once a Muslim, always a Muslim. Islam isn’t only what I believe; it’s who I am… You know, if it’s all right with you, Riley, I’m done with this conversation for now.”
“Fair enough. And thanks-for being honest and all.”
Suddenly a hand reached in again to take Riley’s mug. Riley seized the arm and, without looking up, said, “Skeeter, if you touch my coffee again I will see to it that you are immediately transferred to Secretary Moss’s personal security detail!”
The standoff lasted about ten seconds before Skeeter finally pulled his arm away and moved back to his seat. Riley called after him, “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve finally figured out how to go to the bathroom all by myself too-thank you very much!”
Unfortunately, Riley’s outburst came during a lull in the break room’s conversation. On the positive side, the ensuing round of applause was the largest he had received since the PFL.
“Citizens of America, the last time I spoke to you was following the incident carried out by Allah’s righteous servants in Denver, Colorado. At that time, although I introduced myself to you, I kept my face hidden. That was because my work was not yet done. Today, however, I show you who I truly am, because by the time you are watching this, I will have already gone to join my fellow martyrs.
“My name is Hakeem Qasim. Some of you may be saying, ‘But isn’t that Sal Ricci, the football player?’ I’m sorry to tell you that you are mistaken. There never was a Sal Ricci-only Hakeem. Sal Ricci was a part I played-a part that you, in your all-encompassing desire to be entertained, were all too eager to accept as truth.
“Why did I do it, you ask through your shock and tears? Because your government is in the habit of stealing land. Your presidents steal waqf land-land that belongs to Allah. Don’t you know that once something belongs to Allah it always belongs to Allah? You fly in with your jets, and you roll in with your tanks, and you think that you possess the land. And once you have it, you hold on to it tightly-at least until the price becomes too high. Then you hike up your skirts and run home. You are pitiful!
“Why did I do it? I did it because your presidents like to murder innocent people. They send in their missiles and leave parents without their children and children without their parents! So, you stole one family-my family-and I have stolen thousands of yours! Now, think of all the other children whose parents you have taken, and do the math! I am not alone!
“Now the truth is known-the Cheetah is out of the bag, you might say. Today I stand before you as living proof of what I said in my previous message. Nowhere are you safe. Trust no one. Remember, I was in your homes every Sunday. Even now, my image is on the walls of your children’s bedrooms. My number is on the back of the jersey you are wearing. My signature is on your prize football, in your autograph book, on your favorite hat. You invited a predator into your homes-and now you’ve been bitten!
“So as you lay your heads down on your soft pillows tonight, remember that I am only one man… and there are thousands more like me. My short chapter may be done, but the book is far from being written.”
Hakeem continued staring at the camera until the red light blinked off. The others in the room came forward to congratulate him on his message, but he waved them off and retreated to his bedroom.
He sat on the edge of his bed and held the brass coin that hung around his neck. Where he had expected to feel elation, he felt sorrow. Where he had expected to feel victory, he felt emptiness. And where he had expected to feel pride, he felt shame.
What will she think? What will little Aly think when she’s old enough to see this? Is this truly the price of honor? Is this truly what a benevolent and merciful God would require of me in order to restore my family’s name?
He continued rubbing the coin, but the smell of the metal soon became a stench in his nose. Yanking the chain from his neck, he threw the necklace against the wall.
His head dropped into his hands and he wept. He wept out of anger. He wept out of fear. He wept out of sadness. Most of all, he wept out of helplessness. He knew that no matter how he felt, he would still go through with his grand martyrdom. He had to. From the moment he had been purified, his fate had been sealed. Now he had made the video, and he was dead to the world.