Warlord

FORTY

THE MUSLIM GENTLEMEN'S READING SOCIETY MET at the far end of the prison library, behind all the stacks. There were about thirty hard-backed wooden chairs, like Stoke remembered from grade school, arranged in a semi-circle around a battered wooden podium. The imam, the little Yoda-like figure whom Sharkey had called the Wizard, was standing at the podium in a white robe, reading from the Koran. Standing next to him was his protector, the black Goliath Ishtar, arms folded across his chest, still as a statue, eyes ablaze with hate.

The audience was a strange mix of clean-cut young Muslim men, freshly arrived and beardless, who were staring at the imam like he'd just dropped down from paradise. The others were young black men, and boys, poor folk from the 'cane just outside the fence who'd come to learn about a religion that promised to justify and explain all the hate they felt toward their own country, its white rulers, its wars against the poor and downtrodden all over the world. Stoke saw the kid Ali, who'd invited him tonight, sitting one row back, and nodded to him.

The Wizard finished his reading, closed the Koran, and looked directly at Stokely. "Will Ali Baba rise?" he said in his weird little voice.

Stoke stood up.

"We welcome a new brother tonight," the imam said, "a new soldier in our worldwide jihad against the nonbelievers. Brother Ali Baba, have you something to say to us?"

"I have received a calling to fight the people until they say there is no God but Allah, and his prophet is Muhammad, peace be upon him."

Stoke sat down, and the imam continued.

"We are all servants of Allah. We do our duty of fighting for the sake of the religion of Allah. It is also our duty to send a call to all the people of this world to enjoy this great light and to embrace Islam and experience the happiness in Islam."

The audience all responded with some phrase in Arabic that Stoke didn't know so he just moved his mouth along with them. The imam picked up his Koran and stepped back from the podium.

"I now call upon our brother Ishtar to close this evening of praise and enlightenment. Let the truth be known."

Ishtar stepped up to the plate and got right down to it, clearly addressing the young black brothers in the audience. He said:

"You better watch what the fuck flies outta yo mouth

Or I'ma hijack a plane and fly into your house

Burn your apartment with your family tied to the couch

Slit your throat so you scream, only blood comes out

I see the world like it is, beyond the white and the black

The way the government downplays historical facts

Like the CIA trainin' terrorists to fight

Build bombs and sneak box cutters onto a flight

When I was a kid the Devil himself brought me a mike

But I refused the offer 'cause God sent me to strike

And you can't fathom the truth so you don't hear me

You think it's all just a fucking conspiracy theory

That's why conservative racists are all runnin' shit

And your iPhone is tapped by the federal government

I'm jammin' frequencies in ya brain when you speak to me

Technique will rip a rapper to pieces indecently

Pack ya weapons illegally, 'cause we ain't never hesitant

We snipe-scoping men in black surrounding the president."

AN HOUR LATER, STOKE, HAVING HEARD the Glades' poet laureate, Ishtar, let the truth be known, was sitting on one side of a two-inch-thick piece of Plexiglas looking at his beautiful Fancha on the other side, each talking on the prison phones provided. There was a long line of inmates to either side of him, all talking to their mamas or their wives or their girlfriends.

"How you doin', baby?" he asked her, putting his hand on the glass. She reached up and placed hers against his.

"Missing you. Tell me you're coming out soon."

"I am, I am. I'm getting close here. I'm on the inside of the bad guys, just what I came here to do."

"How long, honey?"

"Few days. A week at most."

"I saw the baby doctor today."

"Everything good?"

"It's all good, Stokely. As soon as you make it all good."

"Aw, baby, you know I will."

"How do I know?"

"Well, because when I say I will-Hold up a sec."

A woman had just taken a vacant seat about five chairs to the right of Fancha. It was that same shooter who'd tried to kill him twice, once in the street, once in his own damn apartment. She wasn't a blonde now. She had flame-red hair, cut short, but he'd know that face anywhere. She wasn't looking his way and Stoke could tell by the intense way she was talking on the phone and staring straight through the glass at somebody that she hadn't made him yet. He also knew she could glance his way at any second. He twisted his head slowly left to get a look at who she was talking to.

Ishtar.

"Baby, I gotta go. Now."

"I just got here. I drove all the way up from Miami to see you and you gotta go? Damn!"

"I'll explain later. I promise. But now-Oh shit."

She'd seen him. Her eyes went wide, and she stared straight at him. She started talking urgently into the phone indicating Stoke with a couple of head nods in his direction. Ishtar leaned forward and peered down the line until he saw Stokely.

His expression told Stoke all he needed to know. He'd been made. Completely busted. And he had barely minutes to do what he needed to do.

"I love you," he said to his fiancee and hung up the phone. He got to his feet slowly and tried to walk slowly toward the guard at the door; he could feel Ishtar's eyes burning a hole in his back every step of the way. The hack pulled the door open for him, and he said in the guy's ear, "White woman with short red hair. Talking to the huge black con. There's a warrant out on her. Miami-Dade PD. Murder and attempted murder. Arrest her soon as she leaves this room. Call it in right damn now before she makes a run for it."

Then he stepped outside into the green concrete corridor. A guard was assigned to escort him back to his cell.

"Listen to me," Stoke said quietly as they headed back to his cell block. "I am a federal agent placed inside this facility on a matter of national security. I've just been made by a con and I need to speak to a guard named Figg immediately. Okay?"

"Fuck you talkin' about, Smokehouse?"

"Call the warden, goddamn it. Tell him Mr. Jones is in trouble. Tell him I need Figg to meet me at the imam's cell in two minutes or less. Call him on your radio now or believe me, your career here is over."

Stoke looked the guy in the eyes until he got on his radio and asked to be patched through to the warden's office. Stoke was walking very fast and the guy had to hustle to keep up with him as he spoke.

"Okay," he said. "Sorry about that. Figg will be waiting for you."

"Appreciate that. Can I speak to Figg?"

"Yes, sir," he said, handing the walkie-talkie to Stoke.

"Sergeant Figg, the little imam must be immediately removed from his cell. Toss his cell now, before anyone gives him a heads-up. He's got a hidden laptop somewhere that contains vital national security intelligence. He'll scrub it clean if you don't get there right this second. Understand?"

The imam's cell was open when he got there two minutes later. Three corrections officers were tearing the place apart.

"Got it!" a guard said, holding up a small black Dell. It had been sealed in three watertight plastic bags and hidden inside the toilet tank. Not where you'd go to look for a computer, underwater.

"Thank you," Stoke said, taking the Dell. "Now if you could get me the hell out of here as quickly as possible? Also, have the warden immediately call the CIA agent-in-charge in Miami and relay what just happened, I'd appreciate it. I need an officer to drive me to Miami as well."

"Car will be waiting out front, Mr. Jones."

"Did you get the redheaded girl coming out?"

"We did. She's being Mirandized and charged right now."

"Man, this is turning out to be one fine day," Stoke said as he raced away, a guard on his heels to let him out of prison.