CHAPTER THREE

      New York

      Calvin James had waited, watching the coming and going of the worshipers. This was his fifth day lingering near the entrance to the mosque. He was expecting Shaia Kerim. After scoping out the mosque for the past few days, Calvin had the man’s habits logged in his mind. Kerim visited the mosque at the same time every day. James saw no reason why he shouldn’t do the same today. It was time to make a connection. Time to see if his new identity would get him recognized as a believer, and a possible recruit for Hand of Allah.

       The Stony Man warrior had allowed his hair to grow out. He hadn’t shaved for a few days. He wore washed-out chinos and a long cotton tunic under a faded, much abused jacket. His pockets held a few crumpled bills and some change. He had no cell phone or wallet. The only other item he carried was a well-thumbed copy of the Koran.

       At this point in time Calvin James had become Ibrahim Hammid, devoted follower of Allah and totally disenchanted with the U.S.A. Stony Man’s detailed profile, available for anyone who wanted to check him online, had Hammid as a potential troublemaker with leanings toward extremism. The false identity placed Hammid on the edge, isolated and angry at a world he felt alienated from. The intention was to get James accepted by Kerim and eventually by Hand of Allah. It was a long shot, but the only possible lead in to the radical group.

       James spotted Kerim as he came into view, heading in the direction of the mosque. The man was tall and lean, clad in Western clothing. A neat beard adorned the lower half of his slim face. His thick black hair was stylishly cut. As Kerim came closer James crossed the street, the Koran clutched in his hands, head down as he recited verses from the holy book. To any onlooker it would appear to be an accidental collision as James shouldered into Kerim, then stumbled awkwardly and allowed the Koran to slip from his grasp. James immediately began to apologize, offering Kerim his heartfelt words.

       “Assalam alaikum, my brother. If my clumsiness has offended you it was only my eagerness to seek the solace of the mosque that blinded me to your presence.”

       “Wa alaikum al salam. You are of the faith?” Kerim asked. He spotted the Koran lying at his feet and bent quickly to pick it up, examining the worn leather cover and inscription. Le Coran, translated by Muhammad Hamidullah and Michel Leturmy. “This is a rare copy. Where did you get it?”

       “My mother gave it to me when I was a child. And schooled me in French so I could understand.”

       “Where was she from?”

       “She was Algerian. My father was African-American. In the French Legion. He brought us to this place when he left the military. Made my mother leave her home and live in America.”

       Kerim sensed the despair in James’s voice.

       “You do not like America?”

       James took the offered Koran, clutching it to him. He shook his head.

       “It has brought us only but despair,” he said. “A godless wilderness populated by corrupt people who mock Allah and all he represents. My father died a year ago. An alcoholic who beat my mother until she died of shame because he could not make anything of himself in America. I have nothing but hatred for this country. It has given me nothing. If I had the money I would leave this place of Satan.” James raised his hand. “I found the mosque and I want to go inside to pray for the comfort Allah can offer me. He will not turn me away, will he, brother?”

       “I have seen you here before. Yes? On the sidewalk. But you have not entered. Why?”

       “Because I was not sure my faith was enough to allow me to step inside such a holy place.”

       “Did you not say you were of the faith? Then that is all you need.”

       Kerim laid his hand on James’s shoulder and led him to the entrance.

       “Will Allah accept me?” James asked.

       “The faithful are never turned from his path, brother. Walk with me and we will talk together after I conduct my business. I am Shaia Kerim. And what are you called, my brother?”

       “Ibrahim Hammid.”

      * * *

      AT THE FAR END of the street, Rafael Encizo lowered the binoculars and picked up the transceiver on the seat beside him.

       “He made contact,” he said. “Have to give it to him. He worked it smoothly. Spoke to Kerim, then went inside with him.”

       “Stay on watch,” David McCarter said. “If you get a clear opportunity when they come out, see if they leave together and follow. But don’t get made, Rafe. Slightest doubt, back off and we’ll have to wait for Cal to contact us.”

       “That’s what I worry about,” Encizo said. “What if he can’t contact us?”

       “We understood the risks right from day one. So did Cal. I don’t bloody like the way we’re having to go, but there’s no choice. Call if anything goes down.”

      * * *

      THE INTERIOR WAS cool. The tiled floor was smooth under James’s bare feet after he left his shoes at the entrance. The silence was broken only by the murmur of praying voices.

       “Come with me,” Kerim said. “We will find a place where we can talk.”

       In keeping with his character, James held the Koran open, reading in a low voice, speaking French as he quoted from the verses. He portrayed a humble man, someone carrying much unrest inside him.

       Kerim paused at a closed door. “In here you can rest in solitude for a time.” He closed his hands over the book in James’s hands. “Seek the truth the Koran holds for you. Allow its strength to become your strength. Let Allah embrace you in all His glory. When I finish my business we will talk, my brother, and with Allah’s guidance we will find your path.”

       Beyond the door was a plain room, empty except for a pair of wooden chairs set around a table. As James entered his eyes wandered around the walls and ceiling, but he kept his gaze low-key. He spotted a small video camera in the angle of the wall and ceiling, the lens trained on the table. He suspected there