Bleeker swam to the ladder at the deep end, climbed out, and motioned to her to throw him a towel. "Please?"
He imagined her dropping the entire stack, stripping to her bra and panties, and diving in with him. Chasing each other, finally tiring, and floating together, wrapped arm in arm, kissing her lips, neck, shoulders.
But she looked weird instead. She didn't give him a towel. He stepped over, took one off the top, and said, "Thanks, yeah."
She nodded. Walked away. Placed the stack of towels on the rack near the door, and pushed through into the hallway. He kept watching as she went down the hall past the long windows lining the wall. Once she was out of sight, Bleeker felt cold. Stupid fantasy. Weeks since he'd been with Cindy, at his house while Trish was at work. Now she was dead. Hard to connect that.
He looked at the hot tub. Good long soak might finally relax him, let him sleep so he could be ready for the night's work. See if Al Jones could confirm that Adem and Jibriil had been sent to Somalia. Yeah, turn on the whirlpool and close his eyes. Maybe go back to the room, keep on thinking about the housekeeper, about taking her on the bed, stretching her toned worker's legs and hard scrabble feet for him. Jack off, fall asleep. Doze until dinnertime.
Instead, he dropped the towel and dove into the cool water, colder still now, for more breathless laps.
*
Mustafa knocked on his door after ten. By then the snow had piled at least six inches. Bleeker had slept maybe thirty minutes since parting ways with the city cop outside the pizza place. He chose not to pursue the housekeeper in his mind, keeping himself wound tight. Fell asleep mid-afternoon watching a butchered 80's flick on AMC. All the cursing tripped out. All the violence de-fanged. A joke. How the fuck did all those changes make it any more classic?
Now up, two pots of hotel room coffee in him, another two large Burger King pops. Pissing all evening waiting, but awake, ready, and willing.
"You think anyone's tailing you?"
Mustafa shrugged. "If they are, we'll lose them later."
Bleeker didn't invite him into the room. Mustafa acted as if he didn't want to come in anyway, leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway. Bleeker slipped on his jacket, hunter's cap, and closed the door behind him. "Let's go."
Outside, the temperature drop was like stepping onto another planet. They climbed into Bleeker's Roadmaster, cranked up and waited for the engine to heat up. Five minutes. Ten. Warm air began to flow through the vents. Bleeker pulled out of the spot and slowly made his way through the lot, down the service road, and down the on-ramp to the interstate.
Mustafa said, "Eden Prairie."
Bleeker laughed. "You're kidding. Come on."
"Serious. Took a lot of work, so let's go."
"Are we expected?"
Mustafa rubbed his gloves together. "I hope not."
Eden Prairie was a suburb down in the Southwest metro, closer to Bloomington and the Mall of America than to the city proper. Bleeker drove through it every time he came and went, usually stopping at their mall to shop and their fast food joints to eat because it was less crowded, easier to navigate.
The drive was slow, the plows not out yet. Slippery roads. Not a lot of traffic on the way out. Mustafa brought along a Tom Tom he'd borrowed, the computer pointing the way, except it wasn't updated and got confused the closer they got.
Mustafa said, "A couple of sources, plus a couple more guys from my old posse confirmed this. They'd left the gang about the same time I did, got married, grew up. Both still Islam, but not the extreme kind."
"No offense, but it seems they're all extreme to me."
"Thanks, real helpful."
The machine told them to go straight and stay right.
Bleeker said, "Sorry, but, okay…keep going."
"So there's an Imam, like a pastor-"
"I know, remember? I'm the Somali guy. I know the lingo."
Mustafa sighed. Bleeker cringed inside. Couldn't help himself. It wasn't that he was trying to disrespect Mustafa, but it seemed so goddamned easy to do. He was touchy. Guy gets away with killing some punks, and now he's noble or some shit. Still, Bleeker knew better than to burn a bridge while standing on it.
"I didn't mean…" Trailed off. Bleeker shrugged.
Mustafa started again, quietly. "This Imam, the kids call him Rockstar Muhammad. He revels in it. Anything to increase the flock. He's smart. He uses the language of the streets when necessary. Knows hip-hop lyrics. Hates them but knows them. So he ends up looking like he understands these young men when all he really wants is for them to be exactly what he wants them to be-Warriors for Allah. He wants them to either go and fight in Somalia, or head to Europe and Africa and all across the states and proselytize, keep building, until they can attack."
"Like Nine Eleven?"
"Not as flashy, but pretty much. Bombs, fires, mayhem, times a hundred. Also, sneaking themselves onto city councils, state legislatures, all the things Americans are scared silly of. Except, you know what they really want?"
Mustafa glanced over, hint of a grin. Held Bleeker's eyes.
"What's that?"
"White. Converts. Undercover Islam. Totally unsuspected."
"Like tonight?"
"No, no, not tonight. All Somali tonight. Rockstar travels around to the homes of donors, brings in new recruits, and pretty much tells them their lives are shit. All the violence, all the bling, all the drugs. Meaningless."
"And how's that go over?"
"Let's say there's thirty, forty there tonight? He'll get maybe ten, fifteen who want to join him. They'll play militant for a week or two, then fade back into what they were doing before."
"Because they don't like being told what to do."
"Exactly. He'll push them hard, too. Weed out the lazy, the rebellious, and the proud. Until there's one left."
"Like Jibriil."
"Just like Jibriil. But the Imam doesn't do all the legwork. He's very subtle. He's a preacher, that's all. A religious teacher. He has a small mosque in Roseville. Nothing fancy, very modest. From the outside, almost like a storefront. I think it used to be a pet shop. Behind the facade, he's building an army."
"And Al Jones is the one doing all the heavy lifting."
"You got it."
They didn't say anything else the rest of the drive.
*
For three blocks around the house, cars stretched in all directions. Lots of them tricked out imports like Mustafa's, some old Chevys and Lincolns from the 90's, mom and dad's old cars getting a second life. All of them dark, empty, the snow not yet covering them completely, but coating the windshields. Footprints converging on the two-story suburban cookie cutter in a development built maybe ten years ago.
Mustafa said, "The family who lives here owns two Super America stations. They're doing pretty well. It's their son who put this together. He's not a banger, but he knows plenty of them. And they got carried away by Al Jones singing the Rockstar's praises."
"What do we do?"
Mustafa smiled, pushed the car door open. "This."
He got out. Bleeker followed. Mustafa was striding, not a care in the world. Bleeker was starting to worry, though. So two uninvited guests show up at a private recruiting party. One obviously a white cop. Everyone will face the wall and wait to be handcuffed, sure, exactly.