Fatal Convictions (7 page)

18

the present

washington, d.c.

Hassan jerked awake and was half out of bed before he could gather his thoughts. Feet on the floor, he looked at the clock: 3:30 a.m. He felt his heart pounding, the images still vivid in his mind. His childhood dream had returned, as it often did the night before a gruesome assignment. But it had been different tonight, distorted by what lay ahead.

He had again been riding through the armies of infidels, wielding his sarif, severing heads. But this time, in the midst of the conflict, he had been surrounded by women and children, even infants. Nevertheless, he kept fighting until he felt the piercing arrows enter his body.

When he appeared before the throne of Allah, there was no chanting. Hassan bowed his head, mindful of the women and children he had killed.

Once again, Allah had dropped Hassan’s blood on the scales and placed the crown of virtue on his head. But rather than thundering his approval, Allah’s voice was soothing, his sad eyes registering his approval. “Only my loyal Hassan would complete such a difficult task,” he said tenderly. “Welcome to your reward.”

Hassan shook away the lingering images and turned on his light. He put on a pair of shorts and walked out onto the second-floor balcony. The parking lot was quiet at this hour, the night air muggy and thick. He took a deep breath and looked up to the heavens, asking Allah for courage and discernment.

The task ahead was more difficult than combat against armed adversaries. When the enemy took the form of a pleading woman or when collateral damage included small children, Hassan’s nerves and devotion were tested to the limits. He forced himself to look past the innocence in their eyes and into the darkness of their souls. Allah made no mistakes. Some were destined to die.

He went inside and got out a flint stone and his long, double-edged sword. He removed the sword from its brown leather scabbard. The blade glistened as it reflected the glare from the overhead light. He began stroking the edge of the sword with the flint, first one side and then the other. The sword was already razor sharp, but the task calmed his nerves and strengthened his resolve.

Perhaps Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi would repent and renounce her Christian faith. Perhaps Hassan could spare her life and deal only with Martin Burns, the infidel who led her astray. But if not, he could at least make her execution as painless and quick as possible.

He made a few more strokes with the flint.

The handle was made of steel covered with well-worn leather. The crosspiece was brass, polished so it reflected Hassan’s face like a mirror. Hassan’s name and a verse from the Qur’an were engraved on the upper end of the blade.

Verily the promise of Allah is true: nor let those shake thy firmness who have no certainty of faith. Al Qur’an 30:60.

19

Alex struggled to get out of bed Saturday morning and didn’t make it to the Belvedere Coffee Shop until 8:15, fifteen minutes late for his weekly breakfast. He chained his beach cruiser to a bike rack in the parking lot and squeezed his way past the line of tourists that snaked out the door of the restaurant.

Inside, the coffee shop was cramped and narrow, about half the size of a typical Waffle House. Booths lined one wall, and about ten barstools faced a Formica-topped counter on the opposite side. The saving grace of the place was the wall of windows that surrounded the booths, giving nearly every diner a view of the beach. Alex had tried to talk his grandmother into other restaurants, but she was a creature of habit—greasy eggs, strong coffee, a big glass of orange juice, and a two-mile walk on the boardwalk. Rain or shine, unless Alex was out of town, he and Ramona met here on Saturday mornings.

His grandmother usually commandeered a booth, but today she was sitting at the counter. Her purse marked the stool next to hers as
taken
. She had on knee-length shorts, a T-shirt, and white sneakers. Her sunglasses hung around her neck on a sky blue Croakie.

“Sorry I’m late,” Alex said, giving his grandmother a quick peck on the cheek.

She told him not to worry about it, then let the cook know they were ready for breakfast. Alex almost always ordered French toast, and his grandmother had already placed the order. The place smelled like grease, and Alex tried not to watch the cooks manning the grill in front of him.

“You look tired,” Ramona said.

“I’m fine.”

“How much sleep are you getting?”

Alex dumped three creamers into his coffee and took a gulp. He didn’t like lying to his grandmother, so he decided to dodge the question. “I don’t need much.”

His grandmother shook her head. “Too little sleep makes you irritable, intellectually sluggish, and overweight.”

“Overweight?” Alex asked, his voice still husky. He had never had a problem with weight in his life, and he typically slept only about five hours a night. After a good day of surfing, you could count his ribs.

“That’s what they say.” Ramona neglected to mention who “they” were. “Of course in your case, metabolism overrides the normal rules of nature.”

Ramona pulled a folded copy of a page from the
Tidewater Times
out of her purse and placed it on the counter next to Alex. “I know you don’t get the paper, so I brought this for you.”

Alex glanced at the story on the local news page about Aisha’s case. He had already read it online, but he thanked his grandmother anyway. They talked about the case for a few minutes, and then Ramona gave him updates on various church members—who needed what kind of surgery, financial hardships for several others, compliments she had heard about Alex’s sermons.

But hearing the second-hand compliments also brought to mind the murmuring Alex knew was out there. In the months following Alex’s unexpected call to ministry, the church had grown at a somewhat dizzying rate, climbing from sixty to nearly ninety. But recently things had plateaued, then slowly declined, and the church members had started taking sides. The older women all loved Alex, as did the handful of teenagers. But a few of the deacons blamed the lethargic attendance on the absence of a full-time pastor. Alex wanted to get his grandmother’s take on the situation but decided he should wait until they got outside, where they could talk without sitting elbow to elbow with complete strangers.

After they finished eating and Ramona paid the bill, they left the restaurant for their Saturday morning power walk. They headed down the boardwalk toward the south end of Virginia Beach.

There were bikers and skaters sailing by on the bike path, runners grinding it out on the boardwalk, and lots of tourists lining the various hotel and restaurant patios and verandas. The heat was stifling, but there was a mild ocean breeze. Despite the conditions, his grandmother never messed around on these walks, keeping up a pace that might qualify as a slow run for some. She pumped her arms to complete her full-body workout.

For a few minutes, they walked in silence, and Alex considered whether to even broach his concerns about the church. He hated to worry his grandmother, and he knew his preaching was a great source of pride to her. But he also wondered if it wasn’t time for South Norfolk Community Church to hire somebody who actually knew what he was doing.

Though he had the bloodline for the ministry, Alex would be the first to admit that he became the pastor of South Norfolk Community more by accident than by calling.

His dad had been a pastor, a church planter who spent two or three years getting a church off the ground so he could pass the reins to a less-restive man. His last church had been in the suburbs of Las Vegas, the ministry cut short when a drunk driver had killed Alex’s mother and father on a rainy Friday night. Alex, an only child, was in sixth grade.

After the funerals, Alex had moved in with his grandparents in Virginia Beach, where his free spirit met its match in the strict discipline of Ramona Madison. Alex’s grandfather had little time for church in the midst of his busy law practice, but Ramona was there every Sunday with Alex in tow, even during his rebellious teenage years. As soon as church ended, Alex would grab his surfboard and head to the beach.

He never once dreamed of being a pastor.

But two years ago, at his grandfather’s funeral, Alex climbed the steps of the platform, stood behind the podium, and quietly eulogized one of the most galvanizing men that had ever graced the doors of the church. He used his grandfather’s Bible, particularly the margin notes his grandfather had written, as a road map to his grandfather’s life. Later, Ramona would tell Alex that some of the church members didn’t even know his grandfather had owned a Bible.

Alex told the rapt audience about the conversation he’d had with his grandfather the night before his death. Though Alex had not been ready to lose him, John Patrick Madison was ready to go. With no regrets. “The test of faith is not just whether it helps you live well,” Alex said as he concluded the eulogy. “The real test of faith is whether it allows you to die well.”

South Norfolk Community was without a pastor at the time, and Alex’s stirring eulogy was followed by a mediocre message from a retired pastor who now lived out of town. Not one person thought that Alex had been outpreached.

The next week, a fill-in preacher called at the last minute to cancel. One of the deacons asked Ramona if Alex could take his place for just that week. One week led to two, which led to a month. Six months later, after three candidates had turned the church down, the pastoral search committee disbanded. The board of deacons ordained Alex to preach.

A second job for which he lacked a diploma.

“Can I ask you a question?” Alex said, matching his grandmother stride for stride.

“Of course.”

“Do you think it might be time for me to step aside at the church?”

Alex half-expected the question to draw some kind of dramatic response. Maybe his grandmother would quit walking altogether and look at him like he’d lost his mind. Maybe she would launch into a big think-of-the-lost-souls pep talk. Maybe she would wax philosophical about God’s will and the building of Christ’s church.

She did none of those things. She took the question in stride, as if Alex had merely asked about her favorite restaurant. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. It just seems like maybe we’re stuck as a church. I know some folks would rather have a full-time pastor. Maybe we need someone with a little more experience and I should stick to the law.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

Alex looked at his grandmother and frowned. “What is this, a counseling session? You’re answering every question with one of your own.”

“Am I?”

Alex chuckled. “Seriously, Grandma. What do you think?”

They were coming up on a spot behind the Hilton Hotel now, just under the shadow of the giant statue of King Neptune rising up out of the boardwalk. The tourists were thick here, and the two of them had to weave in and out.

“First of all, the people who are complaining have always complained. They complained when we changed the color of the pews. They’ve complained about every full-time pastor we’ve ever had. You can’t listen to them, Alex. You’ve got a gift. Your dad had it too. You’re every bit as good of a preacher as he ever was. You inspire people, make them think. . . .”

She paused, and Alex sensed there was more. They’d been together so long, he felt like he could read her mind.

“But . . . ?” Alex prompted.

“What makes you think there’s a
but
?”

“I’m a Madison, Grandma. I’ve got thick skin. Tell me the rest.”

She glanced at him, then returned her focus straight ahead. “Okay.” She hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “You’re young, Alex. And sometimes people get the feeling that maybe you haven’t figured out whether you’re totally committed to this. People want to follow someone with convictions, not questions. Smooth eloquence can never take the place of unwavering belief.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes as Alex digested that assessment. If anyone else had said those things, Alex would have been defensive. But his grandmother was such an encourager. She always had his best interest at heart. There was a Bible verse someplace that said the wounds of a friend are better than the kisses of an enemy.

She was speaking the truth. Alex just didn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s a matter of calling,” his grandmother said, as if reading his mind. “You know that list your grandfather made—the one with some things to keep in mind at the firm.”

“Sure.”

“What was the last item on the list?”

Alex didn’t hesitate; he looked at the list every day. “‘If you’ve been called to be a lawyer, don’t stoop to be a king.’”

“The same thing applies to pastors, you know,” Ramona said. She was getting a little winded now. They usually didn’t talk much when they walked. “You’ve just got to figure out what you’re called to do.”

The way she said it signaled that the conversation was over. She picked up the pace and pumped her arms a little faster. Alex hoped that the tourists would be nimble enough to stay out of the way of Ramona Madison.

20

Compared to the complexity of Hassan’s missions in the Middle East, capturing Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi was almost too easy. On Saturday night, he followed her from her home to the out-of-the-way parking lot of an abandoned Home Depot store. Ja’dah parked in the far corner of the lot, well away from any other vehicles, and left the car idling. After watching her routine the week before, Hassan knew she would be changing clothes.

He stayed on a side street out of her line of sight for about two minutes, just enough time for her to be in the middle of changing, and then crossed the parking lot and drove straight toward her. As he approached, he watched her scramble to put on a blouse and button a few buttons. He pulled in next to her, his SUV heading in the opposite direction from her vehicle.

Hassan smiled and rolled down his window. “Can you tell me how to get to the Marriott Hotel at the oceanfront?” he asked, using a heavy Lebanese accent. He raised his hands to show his confusion, a bewildered expression on his face. This was the risky part. If she drove away now, Hassan would let her go and resort to plan B—kidnapping her on the way home from church. But he was counting on her desire to be nice to confused strangers.

She initially seemed surprised and a little confused by the request. Hassan asked again, a little louder. He turned off his SUV’s engine.

Ja’dah’s window was halfway down, a polite smile on her lips. Her eyes showed apprehension, but she did not bolt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not all that familiar with this area. But if you get back on the interstate . . .” She motioned behind her.

“How do I do that?” Hassan asked. He checked his mirrors just to be safe. There was nobody in the vicinity, nobody watching them.

“Get back on this road and make a left—”

Before she could finish, Hassan threw open his door and jumped out, pointing a gun through Ja’dah’s window. “Don’t move.”

His actions were so sudden, the gun so unexpected, that it froze Ja’dah for a second, enough time for Hassan to reach inside her door and open it. He slammed his own car door shut with his foot. “Don’t say a word,” he growled.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, shaking her head, the tears starting.

“Move over,” he ordered, already cramming himself into the driver’s seat.

Clumsily, Ja’dah climbed over the console and into the passenger seat, on top of the folded Muslim clothes she had placed there. Hassan grabbed her left bicep and pointed the gun at the back of her head. “Bend over,” he said.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begged.

“Do as I say.”

He pushed her head down, and she let out a whimper of pain. He placed the gun on the console and wrenched her arms behind her, binding her wrists with a thick plastic tie, which he pulled tight. She winced as it bit into the skin. He pushed her back in the seat and strapped the seat belt around her. Then he took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on her.

“Don’t take these off,” he said. He pulled a baseball cap out of his waistband and put it on Ja’dah’s head so that the bill came down low over her eyes. “This either.”

He picked up the gun and kept the barrel lodged in Ja’dah’s ribs as he drove out of the parking lot and took back roads toward Sandbridge, a small beach community about ten miles south of the main Virginia Beach strip. He drove in silence, ignoring Ja’dah’s trembling questions about where they were headed and why he was doing this.

Halfway to Sandbridge, Ja’dah began to sob, then tried to fight back the tears. To Hassan, it sounded as if she was praying under her breath, whether to Jesus or Allah, he did not know.

Once they arrived in Sandbridge, he would find out.