Fatal Convictions

11

In Hassan’s view, Beach Bible Church epitomized everything wrong with American Christianity. It seemed like a godless blend of amusement park, social club, and rock concert. The parking lot spanned acres, the “sanctuary” would have dwarfed most concert halls, and the music was so loud that Hassan had a headache before the third song ended. The women dressed in provocative clothes while the men pretended not to notice. There was no community prayer, no reverential silence, no dignified reading from a holy book. It was all flash and glitter and noise.

A worship service, Hassan thought, without worship.

He sat on one of the padded folding chairs three rows from the back, trying to remain inconspicuous in a church that was surprisingly full for a Saturday night service. The people were friendly, though he tried hard to ignore them.

There were no cameras in the church. No security guards. There didn’t appear to be anyone surveying the crowd, looking for suspicious strangers with Middle Eastern complexions and hard eyes. This was America, not Beirut. The members of Beach Bible Church were blissfully ignorant.

The pastor talked about sacrifice, about taking up a cross daily and following Christ. But the examples he used were trivial. What if somebody insults you? What if you lose your job? What if your classmates start rumors about you because you’re too radical in your faith?

What did Americans really know about sacrifice?

What if Allah asks you to lay down your life? Hassan wanted to ask. What if he asks you to strap a bomb to your body and blow up as many infidels and Jews as possible? To the American Christians, sacrifice was a theoretical concept. For Hassan, it was a way of life.

Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi was indeed in the service. Hassan had followed her from her home in downtown Norfolk to this church in the Kempsville area of Virginia Beach. She had made one stop along the way, pulling into a deserted parking lot, where she sat in the car as it idled for several minutes. Hassan had parked too far away to see what she was doing. But when she pulled out of the parking lot, he drove close enough to get a better look and realized that Ja’dah Mahdi had changed her clothes.

When Ja’dah had left her home, she’d been dressed conservatively, wearing a hijab to cover her head, though she did not veil her face. When she arrived at church, she was wearing too-tight jeans and a white blouse with a neckline much lower than would ever be allowed in any mosque, and her hair was pulled into a tight braid. She was a beautiful woman, maybe fifteen years younger than her husband, but she was no longer modest. Hassan believed that beauty was like a jewel-if something was precious, you kept it hidden until the treasure was meant to be uncovered. Only Western women advertised their wares for the entire world to see, leaving little to the imagination. For Hassan, a place of worship-even godless worship like this-seemed a strange venue to promote lust.

During the service, he positioned himself on the opposite side of the sanctuary from Ja’dah. Occasionally, he would steal a glance at her. During the singing, he noticed that Ja’dah sometimes closed her eyes and raised her hands. At one point, he thought he saw a hint of moisture in her eyes.

After the service, Ja’dah went to an out-of-the-way restaurant with a group of church members. They were all relaxed and smiling. Hassan recognized one of them as the man from the text message. An hour and a half later, Ja’dah came out of the restaurant with the middle-aged man. The man climbed into the front seat of Ja’dah’s car, and the two of them talked for another thirty minutes. The man had his Bible open, and before he left, they bowed their heads and prayed.

As the man walked across the parking lot, Hassan started his car and drove past the line of parked cars that had separated them. When the man looked up, Hassan slowed and allowed him to walk right in front of the car. He was midforties and getting a little soft around the middle. Blond hair, soft blue eyes, pudgy nose, and smooth skin. The man gave a quick wave of thanks to Hassan for allowing him to cross.

Earlier, when the group was eating dinner, Hassan had found the man’s name in the church directory Hassan had grabbed earlier that evening. Martin Burns. He had two older children with him in the directory picture-a daughter who appeared to be in high school and a son who looked to be in middle school. There was no mother in the picture. Most likely Burns was separated from her. And now Burns was putting the moves on another man’s wife. Men like Martin Burns didn’t deserve to live another day. Hassan would be doing everyone a favor.

Sacrifice. Martin Burns had undoubtedly nodded along when the preacher told him how much he should be willing to sacrifice for the cause of Christ.

Hassan would help him understand what sacrifice really meant.