Patriot M.A. Rothman (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📖

pilgrimage, Bashir?” Hamid motioned for Connor to follow, then led him into an open-air courtyard.

The space was filled with shrubbery and potted trees, along with several benches for meditating. Several people were conversing in small groups, but none seemed particularly interested in Connor’s arrival, which suited him just fine. The mosque rose up six stories around the courtyard, and the ground level extended a bit underneath the levels above, creating a covered walking area in front of several closed doors.

“My haj was… invigorating,” Connor said, choosing his words carefully. He didn’t want to come right out and say he was interested in joining their jihad. It was entirely possible that this man didn’t have anything to do with the extremists connected to this place. For all Connor new, he was just another Brother of Islam, practicing the faith.

The entrance to the mosque proper was on the far side of the courtyard—a high, arched double door that stood open when prayer wasn’t in session.

“So good to hear, my friend. We have many returning from their travels with a fervor to serve Islam. We are grateful that so many choose our mosque as their home.”

Connor nodded. “I am definitely looking for a place to worship and serve. A place where our brothers can practice without concern, and maybe have the opportunity to show others the beauty of what Islam provides.”

Hamid turned, a sardonic smile on his face. “You have much fire in you. I can see that.”

Connor feigned embarrassment. “I am sorry, my friend. After my visit to our holy land, my commitment to the Prophet has become almost overwhelming. I desire nothing else.”

“As I said, no apologies necessary. A fiery spirit is welcome here, that is for sure. The people of this country are not easily swayed. In fact, most still refuse to see the truth even after presented with the undeniable facts. It’s quite disheartening, to say the least. But we must still persevere, must we not?”

Connor nodded, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes, we do. But remember what the Koran says in chapter two, verse one hundred and thirty-six: ‘We have believed in Allah and what has been revealed to us and what has been revealed to Abraham and Ishmael and Isaac and Jacob and the Descendants and what was given to Moses and Jesus and what was given to the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and we are Muslims in submission to Him.’ This is the message we should give to others, from the words of the Prophet. It just seems that we have a lot of work to do.”

“Indeed. Imam Shareef teaches the peaceful spreading of Allah’s love and guidance to the masses. He understands that shouting and posturing are not actions that encourage conversation, much less conversion. Our task is to bring people to Islam, not to turn them against it.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Connor said. And the truth was, he did. But he was more than a little surprised that this man was saying as much. If this mosque’s imam was preaching peace, why did Hakimi have connections here?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Thompson and Richards had set up a complete history for Connor’s new cover identity, complete with stamped passport, employment history, even dental records.

“Bashir Siddiqui” was from the Punjab province of Pakistan. They’d picked the location because of its high level of economic development and dense population—which reduced the chances that Connor would run into any would-be relatives. The story was that he’d emigrated to the United States three years ago, working as a translator for the Pakistani embassy in Washington, DC—an easy cover, since the Outfit had a man in the embassy who could vouch for Connor’s bona fides—then decided to make the journey to the Holy Land after obtaining a permanent visa. He had now returned to the US to help spread the word of Islam.

But Hamid bin Azim didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned with Connor’s fake history. The man accepted everything at face value and welcomed him into the mosque with open arms.

Islam is a religion of love and peace, Connor thought. No matter what extremists around the world had turned it into. ISIS and the Taliban and the like had twisted the words of the Koran, perverting them for their own use. Cherry-picking the verses that reinforced their ideology and ignoring the verses that didn’t.

Hamid led Connor through the open double doors, then turned and spoke quietly. “Do you have a prayer rug?”

Connor unslung his pack and patted the top. “Yes, thank you.”

Connor joined in with prayers, and afterward, the assembled members picked up their rugs and began to talk among themselves. As Connor stood and picked up his own rug, his attention was drawn to a tall man in a white thobe and black kufi. The man was addressing a small group, speaking in hushed tones, but his words seemed harsh and demanding, and he smacked his fist into his palm several times as he spoke. The men listening nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying.

Hamid rolled up his prayer rug and rejoined Connor with a smile.

“Who is that?” Connor asked, motioning to the tall man.

Hamid followed Connor’s finger. “That is Abdullah Khan. He is one of the senior members here, and one of the most outspoken. He is a little more… verbose than our imam, but he keeps to a more fundamentalist view when it comes to the tenets of Islam. He holds classes here on Saturday mornings.”

“I’m curious about his teachings. I’m always open to learning from someone others see as a great man,” Connor said.

Hamid held up a finger. “Ah, but men are not great. Only Allah is great. We are merely his servants.”

Connor bowed his head. “Of course, you’re right.”

“Your message said that you required an apartment, yes?”

“I was hoping there was something close by, but I have not looked myself. I’m not as familiar with the city as I should be.”

Hamid shook his head. “It