The other folks who didn't come off too well in the book were the Jews. Chief enemies on the Muslims' shit list, no doubt about that. Jews, Baptists, and women. Three bad enemies to have, he thought.
He finished his supper, but remained at the table, reading his book, underlining passages with his green highlighter.
'Good evening, my brother,' somebody behind him said in a soft voice. 'Do you mind if I sit down?'
He turned his head and saw a nice-looking young black kid, maybe twenty-three. Bone skinny. Round, wire-rim glasses perched on the end of his nose, like a college student. Clean-cut, shaved head, no gangsta bullshit karma here. A young black Gandhi. Stoke sorta liked him.
'No, son, sit down, sit down.'
'Thanks,' the boy said and put his tray down across from Stokely. He put his paper napkin in his lap and started in on his baked chicken. Didn't look up or say another word till he'd cleaned his plate and polished off his chocolate pudding. So Stoke just kept flipping pages and underlining, thinking if the kid had something to say, he'd get around to it. Or not.
'I've been sent to express our appreciation,' the boy said quietly, not wishing to be heard.
Stoke looked up. 'Me? Why?'
'For what you did today.'
'What did I do?'
'Two of our most dangerous enemies now fear you. All of our enemies now fear you. The enemy of mine enemy is my friend.'
'That's a good one. Where'd you learn that?'
'It is an ancient Arabic proverb.'
'You a scholar?'
'I was. Now I'm a murderer, just like you.'
'Who'd you kill?'
'Infidels. Nonbelievers. Aggressors. I blew up a U.S. Army recruiting station in Atlanta.'
'I remember that. Who you think I murdered?'
'White state trooper up in Georgia. Pulled you over on I-84 for a busted taillight.'
'I have killed. Yes, I have.'
'Maybe those two in the yard, too.'
'Well, I was just trying to knock some sense into their heads, that's all.'
'We think you may have succeeded. We'll find out when they get out of the hospital. Certainly they will steer clear of you.'
'They're in the hospital?'
'Concussions. Both of them.'
'Damn, I didn't mean to knock sense into them that hard.'
'If you'll excuse me, I need to be going. But before I do, I've been asked to invite you to attend a gathering. Friends of mine would like to meet you.'
'A gathering? What kind of gathering?'
'We meet in the prison library reading room once a week. Tomorrow evening at six to be exact, this week. We discuss the great books. One in particular. May I tell my friends that you will attend our gathering?'
'What's your name, son?'
'I am Ali. What is yours?'
'Ali Baba,' Stoke said, thinking fast, going with the first name that popped into his head.
'I welcome you, brother.'
'Well, Ali, listen up, you tell your friends that I would be very grateful to be included in their reading group.'
'Inshallah,' the boy said.
'Inshallah,' Stoke replied without a moment's hesitation, glad he'd learned that all-important phrase. God willing. That was the truth, in any religion.
The boy nodded and, without a word, rose and left the table. He looked pleased. He would tell the great imam that there was a new recruit. A most powerful soldier clearly ready to join the Army of God.
And Stoke would get some face time with the Wizard.
THEY CAME FOR HIM AT TWO in the morning. A hack unlocked his cell, walked in, and woke him up.
'Come with me,' the guard said.
'Where?' Stoke asked, immediately awake. It was pitch-black and all he could see was a shape standing over him.
'You'll see.'
They took him to the prison hospital. And a private visit with Sharkey in a single room, Stoke realized when the hack said, 'Twenty minutes,' and pulled the door closed.
'Hey, Stoke,' came the thin, reedy voice from the hospital bed. Stoke crossed the small room and put a comforting hand on Sharkey's shoulder.
'Shark. Oh, man, I am so sorry.'
'Shit. Don't be. You coming to the Glades is all I care about. They're moving me over to Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm tomorrow. I told the warden I needed to see you tonight.'
'Good. How're you feelin'?'
'Like something you drain spaghetti in.'
'It's called a colander.'
'Si, es un colador en Espanol.'
Stoke laughed. 'You look pretty good, little perforated brother. Now, while we still have time, tell me about the shit you saw on the Wizard's computer.'
'Stoke, I think they're gonna start killing kids.'
'What?'
'Serious. I saw some shit on there about blowing up schoolhouses full of children. Some high school in Chicago. And school buses, shit like that.'
'Jesus.'
'Yeah. All they do, these Sword of Allah guys, is train how to be homegrown suicide bombers. Teach 'em to fly under the radar. Take poor kids from the cane fields, teenagers, fill them with religion, and show them how to blow shit up, including themselves.'
'But, kids? Schools? Why do you say that?'
'I only had time to read a couple of his e-mails, but one of them freaked me straight out.'
'What'd it say?'
'The children will die first.'
'Was there a name? Who sent that e-mail, Sharkey? You remember?'
'Yeah, I remember. On a lot of e-mails. Got to be a code name. Smith.'
'That's it? Smith?'
'Smith.'
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
