Jihad

CHAPTER 147

Dr. Saed Ramil stared at the sheen of water, hypnotized by the gentle ripples and the soft glitter of the light. God was ever present in the universe, so why couldn’t he talk to someone? Not Ramil, necessarily, but someone else, someone worthy of hearing God’s voice directly?

Because modern man didn’t believe in such things. Some did, certainly, but men like Ramil — students of science — didn’t. Allah might guide them, influence them, push or pull them in the right direction, but speech was something that happened in the past, not now. Even someone like Asad bin Taysr, a devil incarnate, didn’t claim God spoke to him, not in words.

Had religion changed, or man?

Man, Ramil decided. Man always changed.

And therefore religion changed. Not God, not the core of belief, but the manmade world around it.

That was what this struggle was really about. Asad bin Taysr and his ilk didn’t like the way Muslims had changed. They didn’t understand that someone like Ramil could be at home in the West, could be a contributing member to its society, could save lives.

Not many, but enough. In his small way, Ramil had made a difference. Asad could not fathom that.

Nor could he fathom that someone like Ramil could hear God’s voice — not in his head, but in the slow roll of the river as it rolled endlessly past.

And that was at the root of his sin, was it not?

Tommy Karr ambled down the rocks, easing his way toward the river line. The Hudson sent a gentle surge against the shore, a kiss belying its awesome power.

“Nice view, huh?”

Dr. Ramil turned around with a start.

“Hey, Doc,” said Karr, sliding down next to him on the big rock. “Long time no see.”

“How’d you know where I was?”

Karr gave him a smirk.

“Oh, the chip in the phone,” said Ramil after a second. “I’d forgotten.”

“Kind of slips out of your mind, huh?”

“The technology — does it bother you ever?”

“Ah. Just gizmos. Tools of the trade.” Karr shrugged. “How ya feelin’?”

“Not bad. The river is very peaceful.”

“Not the best neighborhood up there,” said Karr, thumbing past the railroad trestle.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

The waterfront park was an oasis of upscale development, with restaurants, parking lots, and a marina; above it lay a pot-holed stretch of city even Karr might not have walked through alone at night.

“There’s been a change in plans,” Karr told the doctor. “You up for implanting another bug?”

Ramil’s eyes seemed to catch fire. “On Dabir?”

“Advance to Go. Collect two hundred dollars. Art Room says it’s a K-three-point-two bug. That’s supposed to mean something to you.”

“Yes,” said Ramil. “It has more range but is a little bigger. The procedure is the same.”

“Good,” said Karr. “Come on. We’ve got a lot to do.”