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.
21
It was dusk when Hassan arrived at the Sandbridge beach house. The sun painted pastels over the small bay that bordered the two-mile-wide strip of land covered with vacation homes. He parked in the carport, checked in all directions, and duct-taped Ja’dah’s mouth before he moved her into the ground floor of the house. He dragged her into a corner of the rec room and shoved her to the floor, then pulled out another thick plastic tie and cinched it around her ankles. He left the duct tape over her mouth for the time being and avoided looking into her eyes.