Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

is nothing to worry about, my friend. We have several locations within walking distance that will be happy to accommodate you. It just depends on your personal taste.”

“I have a taste for serving Allah,” Connor said. “That is all. Everything else is secondary. Meaningless.”

“Yes, but I can assure you, when presented the choice between roaches or not, the decision is not meaningless.”

Connor laughed. “Okay, you may have a point there.”

“I will get you the address of Jared, the manager of the Winston Place. He is a friend of the mosque, and his prices aren’t too bad, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering this is New York City and everything is overpriced.”

“They can’t be much higher than DC, can they?”

“You’d be surprised.”

At the front of the room, the imam walked over to Khan and bowed slightly before addressing him. That was odd, Connor thought. The imam was the highest-ranking member of the religious order. Why would Shareef show such deference to Khan?

“I’m confused,” Connor said, nodding toward the two men. “Isn’t Shareef the imam here? Yet he just bowed before speaking to Khan.”

Hamid waved dismissively. “Don’t trouble yourself over such a thing. They are old friends.”

That didn’t exactly clear it up for Connor. In the Islamic faith, the imam of the mosque was considered the leader of the people, and showing any form of disrespect to him was considered extremely rude. In stricter mosques, it wasn’t unheard of for men—or women, for that matter—to receive beatings, or worse, for disrespect shown to the leaders of the faith.

Yet no one here took any note of the odd interaction between the two men. Either that, or they were willfully ignoring it.

Over the next two days, Connor integrated himself into daily life at the mosque. He happily volunteered to do whatever odd jobs needed doing: general maintenance work, cleaning, washing. He kept his head down and listened. And he made a point to try and capture every face he could and send the images back to the Outfit’s servers. He had to physically stop himself from adjusting his glasses after realizing he’d been touching them every few seconds, making sure they were positioned correctly on his face.

So far, everyone he’d scanned had returned with clean records. The members included US citizens—either born here or naturalized—people here on work visas like Connor’s cover, and a few simply visiting on a passport. Only one had popped up on a watch list, and after some digging, Thomson and Richards found that he’d actually been put on the list by mistake.

But one thing became abundantly clear: Sheikh Adbullah Khan was almost certainly running a not-so-small drug operation out of his office. Unless of course the white packets of powdered substance Connor had spotted being handed from one to another was something other than illegal drugs. He’d also picked up bits of conversation referencing money and product, and had seen more than a few visitors enter Khan’s second-floor office with suitcases and leave empty-handed.

The idea that a sheikh would violate the Koran in such a way was infuriating to him. Without even understanding why, the words of a passage from the Koran played in Connor’s head. O you who have believed, indeed, intoxicants, gambling, sacrificing on stone altars to other than Allah, and divining arrows are but defilement from the work of Satan, so avoid it that you may be successful. God absolutely despised and forbade alcohol and drugs.

Yet here was Khan, preaching his anti-American sentiment and rallying people to his cause through the front door, then pushing them out the back with drugs in their pockets and a mission to sell to the masses. The entire operation was so obvious, Connor wondered why the NYPD hadn’t picked up on it. The only thing the police had on Khan was a parking ticket from Madison Square Garden, and Connor knew no one was ever going to bother an Islamic religious icon over a parking ticket.

His stomach growled as he finished sweeping the courtyard on his second day. Time for lunch, he thought. He’d found a small halal Indian restaurant the night before that made excellent biryani, and whose owner had seemed accommodating enough.

As he put the broom away and angled around a row of potted trees, he almost ran into a woman walking in the opposite direction.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said, hand covering her mouth. She wore a lavender abaya, the traditional Muslim woman’s gown, with gold trim along the collar, cuffs, and bottom hem. Her plain navy-blue hijab framed her face perfectly. When she smiled, her brown eyes almost sparkled.

Connor backed up a step and bowed his head. “My apologies, ma’am, I didn’t see you there.”

“No apologies needed, Mister…” The inflection in her voice suggested she was interested in his name.

“My name is Bashir,” Connor said.

She bowed her head slightly, mirroring Connor’s gesture of respect. “It is nice to meet you, Bashir. I am Aliyah.”

“It’s nice meeting you.”

She was beautiful. Smooth skin, thin lips, just a hint of eyeliner. As he looked into her deep brown eyes, they called to him, inviting him in. She exuded a natural beauty and confidence.

Aliyah cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before, Bashir.”

“I just arrived here a couple days ago. I’ve come to serve Allah, and here seemed like a good place.”

“I see. And how is your service going so far? Have we made you feel comfortable here?”

Connor chuckled. “Yes. Everyone has been fantastic.”

“That’s good. We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh?”

“We help many migrants on their paths,” Aliyah explained. She motioned around the courtyard with a finger. “This is a place of transition for the souls of our brothers and sisters, who follow all walks of life. Everyone is on their own path with Allah. I’m glad your path has brought you here.”

Her voice had a beautiful tone that Connor found attractive. “So am I,” he said.

“Are you done serving today?”

“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it,” Connor said honestly. Since he wasn’t actually employed by the mosque, he