The Guardian Page 6

  Jackson stopped and slowly turned back. “Car accident,” he said shortly.

  Toby sent him a searching look. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.” The car accident was only half the story, but Jackson didn’t know Toby well enough to tell him the rest.

  “Let’s look up the journalist,” Jackson suggested at 9:45 P.M.

  Naomi and Silvia had withdrawn upstairs to retire for the night. He and Toby were cozied into their little office waiting for the scheduled teleconference with Ike. Jackson, who couldn’t get Lena Alexandra, aka Maggie, out of his head, figured they could use the ten minutes before their conference started to plan their “party” at her place tonight.

  Toby sat forward. “Sure, let me show you what I’ve found.”

  Jackson’s blood flowed faster as his colleague typed her name into their search engine.

  Crime and Liberty’s website was the first hit to come up, but with the server hacked, they could only view a cached page, several years old. The bombshell’s photo was there, nonetheless, her title listed even then as Freelance Editor, and she’d been every bit as sexy in her mid-twenties as she was now. The figure-hugging crimson sweater made Jackson’s mouth water.

  Toby gave a low whistle. “I get hard just looking at her.”

  Jackson stabbed a finger at a link. “Click that,” he ordered tersely.

  The subsequent page was filled with a list of dozens of articles written by Lena Alexandra. Looking at her long list of accomplishments, he felt suddenly queasy.

  “She’s been busy,” Toby noted in a more subdued tone.

  Lena. Maggie. Maggie. Lena. Jackson had a sudden thought. “I bet her real name’s Magdalena,” he wagered, enjoying the way it rolled off his lips and tongue. Margaret, my ass.

  “Magdalena Alexandra,” Toby said with flare. “That’s about as Greek as they get.”

  From what the old website suggested, Lena Alexandra had been contributing articles to Crime and Liberty since her first year out of college. There were titles relating to theft, embezzlement, kidnapping, even murder. Jackson scratched his neck, feeling harried. Not only was she beautiful and crafty, but her accomplishments bespoke of a highly intelligent woman. A pro. She could probably smell an imposter a mile away, which meant he would be in some deep shit if they didn’t succeed in getting rid of her.

  “You really think she’ll leave if we cramp her style?” Jackson was starting to have his doubts.

  Toby shrugged. “Only one way to find out. If that doesn’t work, I volunteer to hold her hostage in my hotel room until the investigation’s over,” he said with a straight face and a twinkle in his eyes.

  Like hell, Jackson thought, hiding a scowl. “Maybe we could get her arrested.”

  “Her?” Toby scoffed. “She probably knows fifteen lawyers off the top of her head.”

  Given her profession, she probably did. Jackson reminded himself that she would be Ike’s problem if she refused to leave.

  As if summoned by thought, their conferencing program chimed. Ike’s rugged features filled the screen, his thick head of silver hair glinting under the halogen lighting at the National Center for Counterterrorism. “Evening,” he bit out, as terse as ever.

  Subdued by their lead’s grim presence, Jackson and Toby returned the greeting. To Jackson’s practiced eye, Ike looked more haggard than usual, which was saying something since his default expression was that of a man predicting world calamity. The only time he ever looked relaxed was when he took off to his mountain hideaway with his lovely bride, Eryn.

  Of course, Eryn could make any man feel better, Jackson reflected. There’d been a time about a year ago when he’d hoped she’d be a balm for his own soul. He’d even taken Eryn out on a couple of dates while Ike was in Afghanistan, but with her heart already pledged to Ike, Jackson had never really stood a chance. Especially not when Ike came home early—gravely injured—but alive enough to claim Eryn’s hand in marriage.

  “Starting with the Judgment Day pamphlet,” Ike began, diving right in. “Our analysts came back with this report.” He read from a printout. “The passage is a direct quote from the Qu’ran. It’s the same story that’s found in the Bible and the Torah, only with its own particulars. In Islam, the prophesied redeemer is called the Mahdi, who is predicted to live on Earth for seven, nine, or nineteen years before Judgment Day, depending on the translation. Then on Judgment Day, he’ll rid the world of wrongdoing, injustice and tyranny.”

  “So the pamphlet is harmless,” Jackson concluded, with relief. The report corroborated his gut impression that Gateway’s agenda was perfectly benign.

  “Except that the illustrations suggest that it’s going to go down in our Nation’s capital,” Ike countered, scowling.

  “That’s to give modern significance to ancient scripture,” Jackson argued. “They have to appeal to the parolees’ mindset.”

  “Possibly,” his boss agreed. “But we can’t afford to overlook a reference to some planned attack, when Gateway donates funds to Islamist rebel groups that slaughter civilians. Jackson—”

  “Sir.” Twelve years in the Marine Corps had conditioned the respectful term to come out of his mouth. Ike was the team lead, yes, but they’d had equal rank when they left the military.

  “What have you seen and heard this week?”

  Jackson shook his head. Because he had nothing else to offer up, he finally mentioned the book that had caught his eye. “In my visual search of Ibrahim’s office, I saw a book called Supreme 120 Lessons: for the Nation of Gods & Earths. It struck me as…off.” He shrugged.

  Ike’s eyebrows came slowly together. He leaned toward his keyboard and started typing. Then he sat back with a frown. “The Nation of Gods and Earths is another name for the gang called the Five Percenters.”

  A faint alarm went off in Jackson’s head. “Who are they?”

  “Allegedly, they’re the number of enlightened people living on the planet who are willing to share their knowledge with less enlightened black men.” Ike continued to scan the information on his end. “NGE was founded in the 1960s by a student of Malcolm X. They broke away from the Nation of Islam over a fundamental difference in how they perceived God.”

  “I’ve heard of this gang,” Toby volunteered.

  “The NGE doesn’t believe in a traditional God,” Ike continued. “For them, the black man is Allah, which stands for arm, leg, leg, arm, head, not a separate and divine entity. Being the original man, Allah is destined to rule other races.”

  “Plus, most Five Percenters are prison converts,” Toby chimed in. “They tattoo a sun, moon, star, and the number seven onto their bodies to identify themselves.”

  Crap. “That was the logo on the side of the book,” Jackson admitted, realizing now why the image had looked familiar. He must have seen it while studying gangs for his Master’s in Criminology.

  Ike sat back. “Okay, let’s assume Ibrahim is a Five Percenter,” he proposed. “How does that change things?”

  Jackson had trouble envisioning the beneficent leader as a gang member.

  “He is from Harlem, remember?” Toby pointed out. “That’s where the gang originated.”

  “I thought we were looking for terrorists, not gang members,” Jackson objected.

  “What’s the difference?” Ike sent him a hard look.

  Jackson pondered the question. Gangs and terrorist cells alike emerged out of a sense of social helplessness, its members drawn to the structure and moral order imposed on them, as well as to the sense of belonging. Actually, they had more in common than he’d realized.

  Toby broke the silence. “Don’t forget Ibrahim spent twenty years as a jail chaplain,” he reminded them. “He could’ve converted hundreds of inmates to the NGE.”

  Ike continued to scan the information on his end. “A lot of hip hop artists are Five Percenters,” he announced.

  Jackson remained dubious. “Ibrahim might be a Five Percenter, but aside from this pamphlet all he and
Zakariya have ever preached is moderate, mainstream Islam.”

  “Have they ever mentioned Supreme Mathematics or the Supreme Alphabet?” Ike pressed.

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  The leader scraped a hand over the short bristles of his silver hair, thinking. “I want you looking for more about this Five Percent stuff when you search the place,” he decided.

  “How are you coming with the alarm system?” Jackson asked.

  Ike grimaced. “They have a Cinch Security System, one of the trickiest to override, which is a red flag in itself. Why would they need that in a mosque? Plus it has encrypted end-to-end communications, which means that any kind of sabotage alerts the company to a break-in. That means I have to broker a deal with the company.” Ike didn’t look too thrilled about it. “I’ll let you know when it’s clear to break in. In the meantime, Toby, start monitoring the imams’ sleeping hours, taking note of their rituals. And, Jackson, keep alert to any mention of the Five Percent Nation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

  Toby nodded.

  “I don’t need to remind you both that the eleventh anniversary of 9/11 is just weeks away.” Ike’s voice turned as rough as sandpaper. “I don’t want any acts of terror happening on my watch. You copy?”

  “Copy,” Jackson confirmed.

  “Yep,” Toby said.

  “Let’s talk about the journalist,” Ike said in the same terse voice. “You know how I feel about the media.”

  Jackson did know. Ever since MSNBC broadcasted the rumor that Eryn had been abducted by a Navy SEAL, Ike had harbored a deep resentment for journalists, especially since he’d been that SEAL, protecting Eryn from a crazed terrorist, and their live coverage had exposed her location, putting her right in harm’s way.

  “You know Crime and Liberty wrote a huge spread about my involvement in the Yaqubi disaster,” Ike added, referring to the tragedy that had taken the life of nearly every man in Ike’s SEAL squad several years ago. “Do whatever it takes to send her packing,” he said meaningfully.

  Jackson suffered a pang of compunction. He would miss his adrenaline-racing encounters with Lena, but she had to go.

  “I’ll check with you tomorrow.” Ike tapped a key on his end, and their screen went black.

  “In and out like a lightning strike,” Toby commented.

  “Never seen him quite so irritable.” Jackson glanced at his watch. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Toby jumped to his feet. “Hooah,” he said, which, in Ranger speech, meant, hell yeah.

  “I’ll meet you by the car,” Jackson reluctantly agreed.

  Five minutes later, dressed all in black, the two men slipped into the Crown Vic and rolled stealthily out of the driveway. Toby glanced over at Jackson. “Jack, I’m jealous. I can’t even see you in the dark.”

  “My name’s not Jack, either,” Jackson retorted.

  Toby just chuckled.

  Chapter Six

  Lena stepped out of the Jeep into pitch-black darkness and eyed the outline of her rental with sudden foreboding. She was positive she had left the porch light on when she went to work, so either the bulb had burned out or. . . She didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.

  The crickets chirping in the fallen pine needles fell mute as she felt her way to the porch. Stubbing her toe on the step, she hobbled for the door. At her touch alone, the door cracked open, and fear shot straight up Lena’s spine. She dropped the keys, plunging her hand inside her purse to reach for the Micro Compact .45 caliber pistol she never left home without. The reassuring feel of its stainless steel frame steadied her pulse as she thumbed off the safety and cautiously pushed the door open.

  A hush emanated out of the darkness. Sliding her free hand along the wall, she felt for the switch and snapped on the light.

  “Diavolos!”

  It looked like a tornado had swept through her rental. Cushions littered the floor. The recliner lay on its side. Even the braided rug had been ripped from the hardwood. In the kitchenette, drawers and cupboards stood open, their contents swept onto the counters and floor. Ceramic and glass shards lay broken and gleaming on every surface. And in the midst of the chaos, a steak knife stood straight up out of a cutting board, its point imbedded deep into the wood.

  Shock ricocheted through Lena’s body.

  The silence suggested the intruder was gone, but he might still be here, lying in wait. Holding her gun aloft, she waded deeper into the wreckage. Was there some malicious intent behind this ransacking? What had the intruder been looking for? Hopefully not her.

  Oh, crap, my camera! My laptop!

  She pushed open her bedroom door with her toe. The room stood dark and still. Braced for the mess, Lena hit the light switch. The house appeared clear, but God in heaven, her laptop was gone and so, it seemed, was her camera.

  The wardrobe, where her camera had been hidden, stood gutted, its contents strewn like entrails across the floor. When she failed to spy her camera case, she laid her pistol on the bed and sifted hopefully through the piles of clothing at her feet, to no avail.

  Devastated, she crossed to the vanity where she had left her laptop and stared at the table top, where a single sheet of notebook paper lay with the message GO HOME OR DIE scrawled on it.

  The warning yanked Lena’s scalp tight. Her gaze flew to the window. Was someone out there watching, even now? Assailed by vulnerability, she spun toward her bed and snatched up her pistol.

  Bang!

  It discharged without warning, tearing a startled scream from her throat and ripping a hole into the drywall by the head of her bed.

  Cristemou! She’d forgotten the safety was off.

  Numb with shock, she reset the safety, whipped the curtains across the window to conceal herself from spying eyes, and sank onto the edge of her bed, shaking. She could have shot herself.

  Calm down. Breathe.

  She had faced retaliation in the past, but never anything this personal. Who would do this?

  Abdul Ibn Wasi.

  The name jumped into her head, and her spine stiffened.

  Yes, he was the only soul in Mechanicsville who even knew about her camera. Plus, he’d demanded she delete her photos, the ones she’d already offloaded onto her computer, which was now stolen. All those pictures of Davis and Abdul Ibn Wasi, gone!

  Violation gave way to chagrin. If he was somehow able to circumvent her password and examine the contents of her hard drive, he might guess her obsession with him. Either that, or he’d wrongly assume that she’d been spying on him all along. A look at her browser history would reveal that she’d researched his arrest history, or tried to. That would be misleading, too.

  That bastard!

  But wait. How could Abdul have broken into her place when, according to Bill, all the parolees had left Gateway that morning with their parole officers. Her six-hour shift had been endless and uneventful without them.

  Leaping off the bed, Lena paced her room, kicking aside the clothes that littered her path.

  Could Abdul have discovered where she lived? Why not? He could have had her followed after work by some crony he had contacted. And if he could do that, he could certainly have orchestrated this kind of havoc. “Malakas,” she cursed, gnawing on a manicured fingernail.

  What now? Calling authorities was out of the question. The last thing she wanted was for the local sheriff to poke his nose into her business. All she could do was ignore the fear that his death threat evoked and confront Abdul upon his return.

  How dared he steal her work and threaten her life in such an ugly fashion! The man was nothing but a thug. And going to such extremes suggested he was trying to protect a secret even bigger than she’d imagined.

  Unfortunately, if he didn’t already suspect she was a journalist, he would know she worked for Crime and Liberty by the contents of her hard drive. And if he told Rupert Davis she was an undercover journalist, Davis would never let his guard down long enough to say somethi
ng incriminating.

  She would have to cut a deal with Abdul, promising that she would ignore him from now on if he would keep mum about her occupation. Of course she wouldn’t really ignore him. How could she, after what he’d done?

  A sudden, consoling thought had her reaching for the smooth green stone at her throat. She still had her pendant; she was still in business.

  Abdul might have put a dent in her intentions, but as long as he didn’t tell Davis his suspicions, she could complete her objective with the tools she had. If she ran out of storage space in her mini-camcorder, she could offload her files onto the computer in Artie’s storeroom.

  The note lying on the floor caught her eye, rekindling her outrage.

  Like hell she’d go home. Abdul Ibn Wasi was hiding something big, or he wouldn’t be so driven to get rid of her. She might be busy wrangling a murder confession out of Davis, but she knew a good story when she smelled one.

  **

  Now, this is the life.

  Jackson closed his eyes and sank deeper into the lounge chair. The heat of the morning sun warmed his bare limbs and the backs of his eyelids, but the briny breeze wafting off the Patuxent River kept him cool.

  Over the sound of waves lapping at the sand by his feet, he discerned the call of a white heron echoing from the other side of the tree-lined river. Nearer by, Naomi flipped like a fish as she dove with goggles to scan the river bottom for treasures. Silvia had gone inside to whip up lunch. How long had it been since he’d taken a vacation?

  Oh, yes. Four years ago, he’d taken Colleen and Naomi to Myrtle Beach, only to rent a car so he could drive back to work early. A vision of Colleen’s red face and watering eyes as she watched him pull away shackled him with belated guilt. He’d tried persuading her that he hadn’t had a choice. His battalion chief had contracted the flu and he had to stand in for him. Or had he actually volunteered to return? Either way, he’d expected Colleen to understand, to console herself with the satisfaction of having made sacrifices for her country.

  Only, she never seemed to get that. In her eyes, Jackson’s commitment to the Corps was a direct snub against his family. The days he’d missed with them were days he would never be able to get back. Strange, but with the benefit of hindsight and maturity, Jackson realized she’d been right all along. How could it have taken him years, on top of his wife’s senseless death—a death he had contributed to because of his workaholic lifestyle—to come to his senses?