“Did he ever express any views against the United States? Express sympathy for any terrorist organizations?”
“No. He was a flag waver from way back. You should’ve seen him after 9/11. ‘Nuke the bastards.’ Little did he know Bush and Cheney organized the whole thing.”
Gideon did not venture a comment on this opinion. “Didn’t it then seem strange to you that he converted to Islam?”
“Not at all. When we were married, he used to drag me to the Zen center for meditations, to these pseudo-Indian Native American Church meetings, EST, Scientology, the Moonies—you name it, he tried it.”
“So he was sort of a spiritual seeker.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it. He was a pain in the ass.”
“Why did you divorce?”
She sniffled. “Just what I said: he was a pain in the ass.”
“Did you remain in contact with him after your divorce?”
“He tried to. I was sick and tired of him. When I joined the ranch, he finally left me alone. Willis read him the riot act.”
“Riot act?”
“Yes. Willis told him he would beat the crap out of him if he contacted me again. So he didn’t. He was a coward.”
Fordyce suddenly spoke from the front seat. “Do you and Willis have a relationship?”
“We did. Then he dedicated himself to celibacy.”
Yeah, right, thought Gideon, recalling the young woman he had glimpsed lolling in a bed next to Willis’s office.
“So what’s the idea behind the ranch, the purpose of it?” asked Fordyce.
“We’ve seceded from this bogus country. We’re off the grid, self-sufficient. We grow all our own food, we take care of each other. We’re the harbingers of a new age.”
“And why is this necessary?”
“You people are prisoners of your government. You have no idea. Your politicians are suffering from the disease of power. It’s totally corrupt and yet you don’t see it.”
“What do you mean by ‘the disease of power’?” Fordyce asked.
“All power structures, by their very nature, eventually get taken over by psychopaths. Almost all governments in the world have been taken over by gifted psychopaths who have a great command of human psychology and use normal people to their advantage. This race of pathological deviants can’t feel compassion, they have no conscience. They have an insatiable need for power—and they rule the world.”
It was a recited speech and it had a shopworn air, although it was not without interest, at least to Gideon. He had occasionally felt that way himself.
“So what do you plan to do about it?” Fordyce asked.
“We’ll sweep it all away and start afresh.”
“How will you sweep it away?” asked Gideon.
She suddenly shut up, her lips tightening.
After a moment, Fordyce asked: “So what do you do at the ranch?”
“I was originally part of the technical team, but now I work in the garden.”
“Technical team?”
“That’s right.” She tilted her head up pathetically. “We’re no Luddites. We embrace technology. The revolution will be delivered with technology.”
“What kind of technology?”
“Internet, the web, mass communications. You saw our satellite dishes. We’re highly connected.”
“Will the revolution be violent?” asked Gideon pleasantly.
“The psychopaths will not leave voluntarily,” she said grimly.
They were approaching the outskirts of Santa Fe, passing the prison, the grasslands giving way to suburban developments. “Any interest at the ranch in your ex-husband’s work?” asked Fordyce. “I mean, he designed atomic weapons. Might be a good way to sweep away the psychopaths.”
More silence. Then, “That’s not the reason Iwas invited.”
“Why were you invited?” said Fordyce.
“Because…Willis loved me.”
This pathetic declaration was the last thing she would say. No matter how they asked or cajoled, she remained silent. They delivered the grim witness to the NEST central command complex in Santa Fe without her speaking another word.
“Let ’em have sloppy seconds,” said Fordyce as they left, gunning the car and heading north. “We’re off to see the imam.”
25
The Al-Dahab mosque stood at the end of a winding road, a sprawling adobe building with a golden dome framed against red bluffs. It formed a striking picture in red, gold, and blue, surrounded by a sea of government vehicles. The cars and vans filled the capacious parking lot, and more were rudely parked on the grounds to either side.
As they approached, Gideon heard shouting and turned to see a small but vociferous band of protesters off to one side, held behind police barricades, shouting and waving signs covered with sentiments like MUSLIMS GO HOME.
“Will you look at those morons?” said Gideon, shaking his head.
“It’s called free speech,” said Fordyce, pushing along.
A mobile command unit had been set up in the parking lot, a capacious trailer with a cluster of communications equipment on top. As Fordyce looked for a place to park the Suburban, Gideon asked: “Why set up here? Why not haul everyone downtown for questioning?”
Fordyce snorted. “Intimidation. Invade their space.”
They went through several checkpoints and a metal detector, their credentials scrutinized, before being escorted into the mosque. It was spectacular: a long broad hallway led into the domed interior, beautifully tiled in blue, with complex, abstract patterns. They bypassed the domed central section and were led to a closed doorway in the back. A mass of NEST agents came and went, with guards milling about the door. There were few Muslims to be seen—everyone appeared to be a government agent.
Once again their creds were checked and then the door was opened. The small, spare room beyond had been turned into an interrogation room, not unpleasant, with a table in the middle, several chairs, microphones dangling from the ceiling, videocameras on tripods in the four corners.
“The imam will be in momentarily,” said a man wearing a NEST cap.
They waited, standing up. The door opened again a few minutes later and a man entered. Much to Gideon’s surprise he was a Westerner, and he wore a blue suit, tie, and white shirt. He had no beard, no turban, no robes. The only thing unusual about him was his stockinged feet. He was about sixty, a powerful, heavyset man with black hair.
He entered wearily and took a seat. “Please,” he said. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”
When he spoke, Gideon had a second surprise: the man had a strong New Jersey accent. Gideon glanced over to Fordyce, saw he was not sitting down, and decided to remain standing himself.
The door closed.
“Stone Fordyce, FBI,” the agent said, flashing his badge.
“Gideon Crew, FBI liaison.”
The imam seemed utterly uninterested—indeed, exhaustion appeared to overwhelm the faint traces of anger that remained in his face.
“Mr. Yusuf Ali?” Gideon asked.
“That’s me,” said the imam, crossing his arms and looking past them.
They had discussed ahead of time how to proceed. Gideon would go first and be the sympathetic questioner. Fordyce would interrupt at a certain point and be the heavy. The good-guy, bad-guy routine, as hackneyed as it was, had never been bettered.
“I was a friend of Reed’s up at Los Alamos,” said Gideon. “When he converted, he gave me some of his books. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what he’d done in New York.”
No reaction from the imam. He continued to stare past them.
“We’re you surprised when you heard?”
Finally the imam looked at him. “Surprised? I was floored.”
“You were his mentor. You were present when he recited the Shahada, the Testimony of Faith. Are you saying you didn’t see any sign of his growing radicalism?”
A long silence. “That’s got to be the fiftieth time I’ve been asked that question. Do I really have to answer it again?”
Fordyce broke in. “You got a problem with answering that particular question?”