Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

“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 I was 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.”

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?”

Ali turned to look at Fordyce. “The fiftieth time, yes, I do. But I’ll answer it anyway. I saw no sign, not any, of radicalism. On the contrary, Chalker seemed uninterested in political Islam. He was focused purely on his own relationship with God.”

“That seems hard to believe,” said Fordyce. “We’ve got copies of your sermons. In here we find comments critical of the US government, criticizing the war in Iraq, and other statements of a political nature. We’ve got other testimony regarding your anti-war, anti-government opinions.”

Ali looked at Gideon. “Were you in favor of the war in Iraq? Are you in favor of all the government’s policies?”

“Well—”

“We’re asking the questions around here,” interrupted Fordyce.

“The point I’m making,” said the imam, “is that my views about the war are no different from many other loyal Americans. And I am a loyal American.”

“What about Chalker?”

“Apparently, he wasn’t. This may shock you, Agent Fordyce, but not everyone who’s against the Iraq War wants to blow up New York City.”

Fordyce shook his head.

Ali leaned forward. “Agent Fordyce, let me tell you something new. Something fresh. Something I haven’t told the others. Would you like to hear it?”

“I would.”

“I converted to Islam when I was thirty-five. Before that, I was Joseph Carini and I was a plumber. My grandfather came from Italy in 1930, a fifteen-year-old kid with a dollar in his pocket, dressed in rags. He came all the way from Sicily. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps in this country, got a job, worked hard, learned the language, bought a house in Queens, got married, and raised his kids in a nice, safe, working-class neighborhood. Which to him was like paradise, compared with the corruption, poverty, and social injustice of Sicily. He loved this country. My father and mother felt the same way. We managed to move out to the suburbs—North Arlington, New Jersey. They were so grateful for the opportunities given them by this country. So was I. What other country in the world would welcome a penniless fifteen-year-old kid who didn’t speak English and give him the opportunities he had? And I’ve benefited from those same freedoms here, which allowed me to leave the Catholic Church—which I did for very personal reasons—convert to Islam, move out west, and eventually become imam of this beautiful mosque. Only in America would this be possible. Even after 9/11 we Muslims out here were treated with respect by our neighbors. We were as horrified as everyone else by that terrorist attack. We’ve been allowed to practice our religion unmolested, in peace, for many years.”