The Protector

by Marliss Melton

  From where he sat, Farshad couldn’t see anyone with grease under his fingernails. Nor could he have picked out any of the other extremists who met online. Not even the informant, who’d mentioned the address of the safe house after Farshad had found it himself, was known to him.

  Imam Nasser’s voice cut into his thoughts as it rolled out over the congregants. “Mustafa Masoud, are you here?”

  “Here, your eminence,” said one of the worshipers.

  “Stand.”

  A slender Afghani-American rose to tower over his kneeling companions.

  “Why does this rumor exist?” Imam Nasser asked.

  Why would Nasser ask the man such a question? Farshad wondered. Was it possible that he was the informant, the man whose sister was married to an FBI clerk?

  “Imam, The Washington Post received a phone call from someone in the Brotherhood claiming responsibility,” Mustafa explained. “They, in turn, called the FBI.”

  Farshad’s hopes rose as his suspicions doubled. Knowing who the informant was meant he wouldn’t have to enter the online chat in order to question him about the whereabouts of his target.

  Farshad would send Shahbaz to ask the man in person. Yes, it was time to put his new recruit to work, at no risk to himself. Shahbaz could not identify him anymore than he could identify the Shahbaz.

  “This is a lie!” Imam Nasser railed, thrusting a finger in the air. “We are a peaceful organization seeking the creation of a global Islamist state! Our Ummah is governed by Mohammed’s law. Sharia forbids the murder of innocent people.”

  Farshad hid a sneer. Your interpretation of the law is weak.

  “Let all thoughts of persecution cease,” the cleric demanded with a stern gaze all around. “Sharia means unity through love, never through hatred. Now let us pray all together.”

  Farshad had no need to pray. Allah had already spoken to him.

  **

  The look on Ike’s face as he savored his lasagna had Eryn biting her lower lip to keep her pleasure from showing. She willed the flush of satisfaction from her cheeks. It was obvious by the reverent way he chewed each bite that he loved it, though he hadn’t said a single word.

  Words weren’t always necessary, she assured herself. She ought to know that from teaching English to speakers of other languages. Body language conveyed thoughts just as effectively, if not more so. But she wasn’t comfortable sitting at a table across from someone and saying nothing. Seeking some way to fill the silence, she attempted to continue the conversation he had aborted earlier. “So, you grew up in Ohio. Which part?”

  He shot her a dry look. “Small town outside of Columbus,” he admitted shortly.

  “Anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  She couldn’t imagine growing up in just one place. “I’ve lived in Northern Virginia, South Korea, Japan, Germany, and Jordan,” she offered, ticking off each locale on her fingers. She looked over at him, awaiting a response.

  It took him several seconds to respond. “Which was your favorite?”

  “Germany.” She didn’t have to think about it. “Oh, my gosh, every kid should have such an experience! On weekends we’d take the train into bordering countries, even across the channel to England to sightsee. That’s where I got Lancaster, remember? You’ve been to Europe, haven’t you?”

  “Turkey,” he said, getting up for a second helping.

  “Oh, I’ve been there, too. I went on this fantastic archaeological dig with my mother when I was eleven. She was crazy about ceramics. Everywhere we went, she collected pieces. And on this dig in particular we got to uncover a mosaic that dated back to the Byzantine era.”

  Ike sat across from her again, his gaze lingering on her face, which she knew was lit up with nostalgia. “So where have you done your tours?” she asked, trying to put the focus back on him.

  He stabbed at his dinner. “The usual tourist traps,” he said, his mouth quirking with cynicism. “You know, Iraq, Darfur...Afghanistan.”

  She could only imagine what his adult years must have been like, trading one hellhole for another. “I didn’t care much for the Middle East,” she admitted, “though don’t tell my students that. There’s just not enough foliage. I need color. I need green.” Like the color of your eyes, she almost added.

  “Jordan’s not bad,” he said, forking up a bite.

  “I guess not. Dad got orders to go to Iraq the same week my mother was told her cancer was spreading. She wanted to be close to him, and Jordan was the only stable country with decent hospitals.”

  Ike lowered his fork. It chinked against his plate. “Stanley talked a lot about your mother.”

  His confession put a weight on Eryn’s chest. “They were crazy about each other,” she agreed. “If Mom hadn’t been sick, I’d probably have a dozen siblings.”

  A log in the woodstove popped and sprayed sparks. Ike cut the edge of his lasagna with the side of his fork, but he didn’t eat it.

  “Are you an only child?” she asked, crossing her fingers that he would give her an answer this time.

  “Have an older brother,” he said shortly.

  “Were you close?”

  “He beat me up to keep me in my place.”

  His words told her more than he knew. “I guess having a sibling doesn’t guarantee you’ll get along,” she said, subdued.

  He grunted in agreement, stuck his food into his mouth and chewed.

  Eryn’s goal had been to get him to talk, but maybe if she set the bar, he’d follow her example. “I was thirteen when my mother died. We brought her body home and buried her in Arlington so that she and Dad could be together again one day.” She hadn’t meant to get emotional about it, but tears rushed unbidden to her eyes and spilled over. Embarrassed, she dabbed her wet cheeks with her napkin.

  “I’m sorry,” Ike murmured, looking uncomfortable. He put his fork down, pushed his plate away, and brooded.

  Here it comes, she thought, sensing the words building in him. He was going to tell her something of himself now.

  “I was wondering…”

  “Yes?” She realized she was holding her breath in anticipation of his disclosure. She was that keen to get to know him better.

  “Did Stanley ever teach you how to shoot?”

  The question was so unexpected that her mind went blank for a moment. All she could do was stare at him, disappointed. “No,” she finally managed, expelling her held breath. “He-he tried teaching me Hapkido when I was a teenager, but I figured I had him to keep me safe. Why do you ask?” She was curious despite herself.

  “I want to teach you to shoot.”

  “I thought I had you for that,” she said stiffly.

  “You do.” He blinked as though just realizing that she was annoyed with him. “We’ll can talk about it later,” he suggested.

  “No. That’s fine. Obviously this is something you’ve been thinking about.”

  His expression was a mix of wariness and determination. “Look, eventually you’ll have to go back to your own life,” he said, distancing himself with his words rather than drawing nearer. “You should learn to defend yourself. What would it hurt?”

  She had to concede that learning to shoot couldn’t hurt anything. The thought of returning to D.C. as vulnerable as when she’d left it terrified her. “Fine,” she agreed. “You can teach me how to shoot.” She envisioned what that would look like—lots of one-on-one time with Ike. Maybe it just took time to get to know him. “When do we start?” she asked, her optimism returning.

  “Tomorrow.” He excused himself from the table.

  Eryn watched him wash his plate in the sink. “Did you like your dinner?” She knew he had, she just wanted to hear it.

  He glanced up, obviously surprised. “Dinner was excellent,” he assured her, making her glow inwardly. Drying his hands, he felt over the top of the kitchen cabinet and came away with a gun. “This is a Glock,” he said, carrying it toward her and extending it out for her to take. It fit s
nugly in the palm of his hand.

  Eryn refused to take it from him. She’d never talked weapons over dinner before. Her gaze flickered to the rifle he kept hidden under the sofa. “How many more weapons do you have tucked away?” she asked him tartly.

  “Plenty,” he admitted, avoiding her searching look.

  His answer underscored how very different their worlds were. She had grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. He’d grown up as his older brother’s punching bag. Their differences put a gulf between them where Eryn craved some commonality. Did she and Ike have anything in common, aside from their mutual affection for her father?

  “I’ll clean up supper,” she offered, slipping from the table and turning her back on him.

  Or did she just crave a friend right now to stave off her loneliness and fear?

  **

  Returning to his parents’ home, Shahbaz Wahidi logged into the fictitious online email account, eager for the Teacher’s feedback about Imam Nasser’s sermon.

  Just as he expected, the Teacher had scripted a lengthy and caustic retort about the imam’s weak interpretation of the Qu’ran. Following his rant, the Teacher gave Shahbaz his first assignment: to approach Mustafa Masoud in person and ask him if he could please discover where the Commander’s daughter had disappeared to.

  Shahbaz’s heart trotted with excitement. As it turned out, he knew where Mustafa worked: at the Wardman Park Marriot Hotel behind the concierge desk.

  Shahbaz rubbed his hands in anticipation. All his life, he had dreamed of punishing America for advertising itself as the land of the free, home of the brave. Hah! His life had been nothing but a cesspool of unfairness and discrimination. Finding himself under the guidance of the mysterious Teacher was providence. To be chosen for such a task was a privilege.

  Hastily, Shahbaz typed a succinct reply, saving it as a draft for the Teacher to read the next time he logged on: I will do it tonight.

  Mustafa Masoud finished with a hotel guest before giving his attention to the broad-faced youth lurking nearby. He had recognized the boy as a member of the Brotherhood, possibly one of the extremists who betrayed their political leaning by their aversion to authority.

  “Do you want something?” Mustafa asked, mentally comparing him to the photos of the suspects involved in the safe-house bombing. He was too old to be the youngster filmed at the UPS store; his eyes too widely spaced to be the suspect posing as the gardener.

  With a furtive glance around, the boy sidled closer and announced in an undertone, “I am Vengeance from the online chat.”

  Mustafa pretended to neaten the stack of maps of the D.C. metro system. He was not surprised; but he was startled to be approached so overtly.

  “What do you need from me?” Thank Allah the hotel lobby was virtually empty.

  The burly youngster leaned closer, scarcely moving his lips as he made his request. “We wish to know where the girl was taken.”

  Confirmation of his suspicions sent a chill up Mustafa’s spine. Pretending to adjust his tie pin, he snapped off a photo of the youth with the tiny camera the FBI had loaned to him. “Who is we?” he asked, in the hopes of learning more.

  “I cannot tell you that.” The boy glanced toward the door as if having second thoughts. “Can you help us find the girl or not?”

  Mustafa feigned disinterest. “I can try,” he said with a shrug.

  “Good. When you know something, call this number.” The boy slid a scrap of paper with a number on it across the concierge desk. Without another word, he turned and darted through the turnstile.

  Mustafa called a colleague from behind the check-in counter. “Cover me for a minute, will you? I have to use the bathroom.”

  In the employee lounge, he took off his tie pin, stuck the end of it into the tiny port on his Blackberry and forwarded the photograph of Vengeance to the FBI, along with a text quoting the youth’s exact words and including the phone number given to him.

  Perhaps this was the break the FBI had been waiting for. If they were lucky, the number would lead them straight to the terrorists threatening the Commander’s daughter. Then he, Mustafa Masoud, a follower of true Islam and an American patriot, would be a hero.

  **

  “Rise and shine.”

  Eryn awoke from a nightmare in which she was struggling to assemble the components of a handgun while Itzak’s killer threw his shoulder against her locked door.

  She cringed to see a silhouette looming over her. But then she made out just enough of Ike’s face in the starlight to recognize him. “Oh, it’s you.” She fell limply back against the pillow.

  “Time to start your training.”

  Relief turned into denial. “I just fell asleep,” she protested, snuggling deeper into her bedding.

  He tugged down the sheet and blanket without warning, exposing her to the now-cold air in the attic.

  Eryn shrieked. She had stripped down to nearly nothing when the attic had felt like a furnace several hours ago.

  Ike sprang back. “Get dressed,” he ordered, his tone telling her he’d seen plenty of pale skin, despite the dark. “Sweats, T-shirt, and running shoes.” He backed toward the stairs.

  “All I have is my Skechers,” she called, rubbing her sticky eyelids. “And why are we shooting in the dark?”

  “First we train, then we shoot,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Train for what?” She hadn’t signed up for this.

  “For the worst,” she thought she heard him say as he melted out of sight. “Keep the lights off.”

  Clutching the blanket to her body, she considered what the worst meant. To her, it meant her dream, still so fresh in her memory, becoming real.

  God forbid she would ever come face to face with Itzak’s killer, who wanted to decapitate her. But better to be armed than defenseless. Rolling out of the bed, she felt in the dark for her new, pink velour sweat suit.

  Five minutes later, she joined Ike downstairs, finding him at the kitchen table wearing what looked, in the dark, to be an Army-green hoodie.

  “Why no light?” she whispered.

  “Light betrays you to the enemy.”

  She had never actually thought of that. To Ike it was probably second nature.

  “Eat and let’s go,” he said, handing her a power bar like the one he’d given her the night before.

  With no appetite to speak of, she choked it down.

  Ike stood up abruptly. “Ready?”

  “I guess.” It was hard to whip up her enthusiasm.

  Cold air enveloped her as she followed him through the door and off the porch. Shuddering, she drew hood of her jacket over her ears and knotted the pulls.

  A hint of buttery sunlight edged the adjacent mountaintops, but the sky was still an indigo sea sparkling with stars. Down in the dark valley, a rooster crowed. Only farmers and newspaper delivery boys had any business being up at this hour.

  And soldiers training for the worst, she amended with a shudder.

  “Warm up.” Ike turned beneath the tree and started doing jumping jacks.

  Eryn followed his example, her breath forming a cloudy vapor before her. They did fifty jumping jacks then something Ike called burpees, which entailed dropping to the damp ground and jumping up again, keeping her feet together. Then they stretched their quads and hamstrings.

  “All set?” He straightened abruptly.

  “All set for what?” she asked, mentally counting back to her last workout at the gym.

  “Running.”

  She didn’t care for the word running. Jogging was more her style.

  “Follow me,” he said, taking off.

  Crap! Eryn hurried after him. His dark form blended instantly with the vegetation growing up behind the cabin. She found herself on a path that formed a dim tunnel through the woods.

  Whatever you do, don’t twist an ankle, she cautioned herself, promptly stubbing her toe on a rock.

  They were running uphill on a rugged, rain-eroded trail. Her calv
es and ankles immediately protested. Her lungs strained. But she refused to be a victim, running scared. If she wanted her life back, she would need to learn a lot from Ike.

  With renewed vigor, she pushed herself to catch up with him. Her breath sawed in the backwoods stillness. The scent of sap and minerals filled her nostrils. Her fingers, ears and nose stung from the cold, but she managed to close the gap between them.