“Do you know this man?”
A video file popped open. It showed a young, slim Muslim man, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, shaking hands with another thawb-wearing man at the mosque. Hassan hit pause.
“Do you recognize him?”
Brett nodded. It was Mohammed. “How did you find him?”
“You weren’t followed, of course?”
“Of course.”
He hesitated. “I have backdoor access to most of the security cameras in the New York mosques. It has taken me years.”
“How much of that is legal?”
“Under this president? Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”
Brett sighed. “So tell me when that footage was taken.”
“It was taken four days ago.” Hassan anticipated Brett’s disappointment. “I know. Too long. But finding a man named Mohammed in a mosque in New York is like finding a Jew named Goldstein in a synagogue here. You’re bound to find some false positives. But this one stood out. That imam he is talking to—Anjem Omari—is trouble. He’s been under FBI surveillance on and off for years. Right now, off.”
“So what do you know about my man Mohammed?”
“Not much. I know that he has a close relationship with Omari.”
“Where does Omari live?”
Hassan laughed. “You can’t be serious. You want me to go over there and talk with him? It puts my entire operation at risk.”
“No,” said Brett slowly. “I want to go and talk with him.”
Hassan laughed even harder. Finally, he began coughing, pounded his chest until it subsided. “White boy, you’re out of your mind. You don’t know the first thing about him. Did you know he’s tight with Prescott? That he’s given opening prayers at the New York Stock Exchange? He’s high profile. And you think you’re just going to waltz over there and ask him some questions, and that he’ll answer you?”
Brett nodded. “Something like that.”
“Now why would he go and do something like that?”
“You leave that to me. What’s his address?”
It took Brett a bit over an hour to reach the imam’s home outside the I-287 loop. The imam actually lived on a rural compound off the road. In the dark, Brett missed the turnoff twice. The gravel clanked off the underside of the cheap Toyota Hassan had borrowed from a friend. The woods showed black against the early glimmers of rising sun. In the distance, Brett could see that the light was already on in the home—fajr prayers, the earliest prayers. By the time he drove up, the front door was already open. A thick oak of a man stood in the doorway, bearded, wearing a taquiyeh.
Brett stopped the car in a cloud of dust.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m here to see the imam.”
“It’s early,” said the man. “The imam’s office opens at 9:00 a.m.”
“Tell him the Teacher sent me.”
The mention of Ashammi’s nickname caught the oak man up short. He took a step forward. “We know nobody of that name.”
A hand crept up on the guard’s shoulder. Then the soft voice of the imam. “It’s all right, Mahmoud. I know this man.” The guard moved aside, revealing a white-bearded, fiftyish, willowy man. His deep-set eyes gazed out at Brett, seemingly looking beyond him. Brett found it slightly unsettling. “Come in,” said the imam.
Anjem Omari, Hassan had told Brett before Brett left for Jersey, was no one to be trifled with. He’d been rumored to have deep connections to various Middle East–based charities with their own connections to various terror groups. He fronted for a variety of Islamic human rights organizations dedicated to fighting Islamophobia, and it was in that guise that he’d become a go-to face for Prescott. The Prescott tenure had seen several small, lone-wolf attacks; each time, Prescott had cited Omari as evidence that the moderate Muslim community was alive and well in the United States. Omari spoke frequently about jihad as an internal struggle; he denounced terrorism, but evenhandedly decried American occupation of the Middle East and Israeli actions against Palestinians. His frequent appearances on network news made him a well-established media personality.
Now he ushered Brett into his richly decorated library, mahogany and grand, pictures of himself with Prescott and past presidents lining the walls. He sent his oak man for some tea. This time, Brett accepted. When the guard was gone, Omari turned his distant gaze to Brett—and the distance suddenly disappeared. Hassan, Brett thought, wasn’t lying.
“So,” said the imam, “what can I do for you, General Hawthorne? I am so glad you made it back to us in one piece. Allah must have protected you from harm.”
“Indeed, he must have,” said Brett. “I come here seeking your advice and help.”
“And yet you mentioned the Teacher. Why would you think I know such a monster?”
“No reason,” Brett said carefully. “But I am looking for a man, and I think that, given your prominence, he might approach you.”
“I’m approached by many Muslims. I am blessed by Allah in having a wide following and a grand platform. How would I know the man you seek?”
“His name is Mohammed,” Brett explained. “I know exactly who he is. He is perhaps seventeen years old. His beard is not yet fully grown. And I know that if he came to you, you would surely turn away his advances, thanks to his relationship with the Teacher. But you might also hope to convince him over time to join you in your cause, and leave his radicalism behind. After all, you are an influential voice.”
The corner of Omari’s mouth turned upward in a humorless grin. “Perhaps, General,” he murmured. Then, louder. “But I know of no such man. Or rather, I know of too many such men.”
“I think you do.”
“Are you implying that I’m lying to you?”
“No,” said Brett. “I’m flat-out telling you you’re lying. I know you know such a man. So either you can continue spouting this line of bullshit and I can have you detained and questioned, or you can tell me the truth.”
Omari laughed out loud. “No, I don’t think you have that sort of pull, General. You may be a hotshot with a particular segment of the population, but, as you say, I am somewhat well connected. Gentlemen, please come in.”
The door behind Brett opened. In came the federal agent from the hotel, his face impassive. Another black suit–clad fed stood next to him. Brett pushed himself to his feet. “Imam, I believe we’ll be talking again.”
Omari stood as well, looked Brett in the eye. “No, I don’t believe we will.”
President Prescott
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE kidding me with this,” Mark Prescott said. His eyes bulged. His face had turned beet red. “I’m trying to hold the country together, and you’re out there fucking supporting the enemy by targeting Muslims? How am I supposed to counter the accusations?”
Brett sat on the couch, watching the president rage at him. On the way to the hotel, the Secret Service agents had been utterly silent; they refused to answer any of his questions, give him any information at all. But Brett figured that they must have picked up Hassan as well—how else could they have found him at Omari’s?
Prescott continued to yell. “I elevated you. I made you. I saved you. And this is how you reward me?”
Brett could feel the anger building. He flexed his fist, then let it go, an old trick Ellen had taught him to take his mind off his temper. It wasn’t working.