“Civilized,” Yancey said. “Right. Listen, Muhammad-”
“Rafiq,” the imam corrected.
“-as much as I’m enjoying our little chat, I don’t have time to dance with you all day. Here’s how this is going to work. The restraints stay on. My men stay where they are. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them. My satisfaction with regard to those answers will dictate how the rest of your day goes.”
“I would like a lawyer,” Rafiq said.
“Would you, now.”
“Yes. If you wish to question me, it is my right.”
“Well, would you look at that,” Yancey said to his men, “Rafiq here knows his rights! Only here’s the thing, Rafiq. I’m private sector. Your so-called rights don’t mean shit to me. So, as I was saying, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
Rafiq set his jaw. “And if I do not?”
“Then you’re going to find out what’s in that bag.”
“I see. Then by all means, please begin,” Rafiq said, his quiet confidence in the face of Yancey’s attempts to intimidate a subtle act of rebellion.
Yancey pulled up an image on his phone. It was a black-and-white ID photo of a thin young man with dark hair and deep-set eyes, his face clean-shaven, his expression neutral. He showed it to the imam. “Do you recognize this man?”
Rafiq said nothing.
“I asked you a fucking question. Do you recognize this man?”
Still nothing.
Yancey thumbed to the next image. A different photo. A different young man. “What about this one? Or this one?” he said, swiping again.
Rafiq looked Yancey in the eye. And remained silent.
“These men are terrorists,” Yancey said. “Known members of the organization that claimed credit for the bombing. And these photos were taken from the visas they used to enter the country. Why, I wonder, would you elect to help them by refusing to answer my questions?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the manner in which those questions are being asked. I am curious: What, besides my religion and the color of my skin, makes you think I know anything of these men?”
“Cry profiling all you want-it ain’t gonna fly. We have a witness that puts them in this mosque.” It wasn’t technically a lie. But it also wasn’t the whole truth.
“This is a place of worship,” Rafiq said. “Many people come and go.”
“Even terrorists?”
“If in fact these men were here, as you claim, they were not yet terrorists.”
“So you do remember them.”
“I did not say that. I simply inferred it, based on the fact that they were issued visas. It is my understanding that the U.S. government is not in the business of abetting the travel plans of known extremists.”
“That’s a funny argument to make, Rafiq. Kinda makes it sound like they were radicalized here.”
“Impossible. As I have said, I neither preach nor condone violence. And if you must know, I truly have no memory of these men, which means if they passed through here, it was but briefly.”
Yancey got down on his haunches so that he and Rafiq were eye to eye, and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. And you know what? I believe you. So let me make things easy on you. You want out of those restraints? You want me and my boys to leave you be? All you need to do is give me a list of congregants or whatever the fuck you people call ’em who might be sympathetic to these men’s cause. The sorts of people who might, say, give them a boat or someplace to hole up when the cops come looking.”
Rafiq shook his head. “As I said, I do not know these men. If I did-if I knew anything that could prevent further bloodshed-I would be happy to tell the proper authorities.” The stress he put on the proper authorities made it clear he didn’t think Yancey qualified. “I have no loyalty to this so-called True Islamic Caliphate. Their beliefs insult those who, like me, truly wish to follow the teachings of the prophet Muhammad. But while I would gladly aid in their apprehension, what I will not do is assist you in conducting a…witch-hunt is, I believe, the term, against the law-abiding men and women who worship here.”
Yancey stood. Shook his head. Walked over to the convenience-store bag. “You know much about waterboarding, Rafiq?”
Rafiq’s face tightened with worry. He shook his head.
“Well, I do,” Yancey said. “See, the way it works is, you strap a guy down at a slight incline-ten, fifteen degrees will do-so that his lungs are higher than his head. Most folks picture a special table with straps and shit, but the fact is, you can use whatever you have on hand. That chair back you’re fastened to would work just fine. Then you put a rag over his face, so his mouth and nose are covered.”
Yancey reached down and removed from the bag a five-pack of small white terry towels, the type used to buff cars. “These’d do the trick,” he said. “Once the rag’s in place, you pour water over it real slow so that it fills his nasal passages, his sinuses, his throat. The idea is, the guy-or gal, there’s no need to discriminate-won’t drown, because his lungs are uphill from where the water pools, but honestly, most folks aspirate it anyway, or puke and fill their lungs with vomit. I’ve seen both, and it ain’t pleasant. And of course, even though the manuals say water, really, any liquid will do. I like using something carbonated because the bubbles burn like a motherfucker and have a way of loosening the tongue.”
Yancey reached into the bag again, and removed two forties of Colt 45. Rafiq began to struggle atop his chair, though the zip-ties held him in place.
“Oh, right,” Yancey said. “You people are forbidden to consume alcohol, aren’t you? Well, then, you’d better start working on that list I asked for, or hope your God ain’t watching.” He nodded to his men, who moved silently to either side of Rafiq, grabbed the chair, and tilted it backward, Rafiq screaming, until he lay with his head on the ground and his bare feet up in the air.
Yancey’s phone chimed-a text. He read it. Smiled. Typed a brief reply.
“Sorry, Rafiq,” he said. “It looks like I’m not going to get to stay for the festivities. I’ve got other business to attend to. But don’t you worry-I’m sure my boys will take good care of you.”
27.
WHAT’S THE word, kid?”
“The word is ninja,” Cameron replied, excitement raising the pitch of her voice. “As in, I am one.”
“Come again?”
“We got a hit.”
Adrenaline surged through Hendricks’s system like a drug, spreading warm and tingly through his limbs. He felt lighter, suddenly, more present, his aches, pains, and exhaustion chemically erased. “Your, uh, programs decoded a call or whatever?”
“Aw. It’s cute when you pretend you have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. But yeah, they found something, and it’s way better than a phone call, it’s a text. Well, two, to be exact.”
“How’s that better?”
“Because the first one included a pic. I’m sending you the details now.”
His phone vibrated. He clicked the notification, and his text app opened. No names, just phone numbers. The first message read: POI acquired. Awaiting instructions. The attached photo was of the old man from the video, bound and bloodied on a couch. There was a woman beside him, bound as well. Men in body armor stood guard on either side of them, their heads cropped from the shot. The second message said: On my way. Time stamps indicated the second message had been sent less than two minutes ago.