A Stranger on the Shore: Book Three of the Isis Project

By M.D. Johnson

Sixty-something Emily Cowan, aka “Amina Desai”, is overcoming the aches and pains of passing for the new forty by analyzing terrorist threats for The ISIS Project think tank. While trading information and flirting with death to make the right global connection, she meets student Alina Qureshi, an American Muslim with both a secret and a very hostile father! Into the mix comes the sexy child bride of a terrorist-mastermind hiding out in Pakistan while his outraged senior wife is on her way to the love nest ready to “take out his eyes”. Stir in Bibi Gupta, another member of the ISIS Project, whose Chesapeake waterfront home becomes the landing spot for a corpse. Throw in a twist of betrayal and hostage taking and the end result is a lethal cocktail of terror!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664175730

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Arnold, Maryland

Emily Byron Cowan ran her fingers absent mindedly through her thick, almost strawberry blonde curls, scratching her scalp as she usually did when tired and looked directly at her students. Honor Killing: Murder or Divine Justice? she reiterated, as the community college class stared at her PowerPoint illustration. On the screen before them, a woman was being dragged away while her family looked on without raising a finger to help. Please evaluate the following statement and its accompanying notation, Emily instructed her students.

Over the picture, a sentence appeared, It is acceptable for a Muslim man to control the actions of a woman by completely eliminating her; and yet at the same time find peace and forgiveness with God. Emily glared at them for effect while they absorbed the statement and continued; as we’ll discuss it in the next class.

She paused and noticed seated before her a young woman in a silk headscarf, brushing tears away from her face, And in closing ladies and gentlemen, remember that in the harshness of his world, such a man has not violated any code, but has, or so it is deemed, defended his honor! Emily closed her notes, thanked the class for their participation and waited for the girl to approach her, assuming that was her intent.

Professor Cowan, the girl stood before the podium looking up. May I speak with you privately?

Cowan, a mother herself, recognizing the look young women have when their world is about to fall apart, responded wisely, If it is class related I can help, but if it is personal I should refer you to one of the therapists we have on staff. They’re trained. I’m simply a criminalist, a teacher and a mother.

Are you a Muslim?

Emily answered her honestly, explaining that her belief structure was now more rooted in the time before the big three had come into being. My creative deities are female, for the most part. Frankly I probably would say I have neo-pagan leanings if I subscribed to organized religion at all, but I have somewhat of a diverse heritage, including Arabs and Jews as well as Druidic Europeans. Was that your question?

My parents are Pakistani. They were born there, the girl began matter-of- factly, My father came here in 1978. He is now a doctor, a gynecologist, respected and trusted by his peers. My mother is a housewife. She was ordered and shipped here to him like a package in 1990. She came to this country specifically to marry him. They had never met before that date, She paused for breath, then rushing on continued, It was arranged by his parents. They do not understand love. They understand duty, but American law doesn’t apply to them. It is like they are really strangers on these shores! She covered her face and began to wail.

Pull yourself together my dear. Let’s start with your name. I’ve not seen you before in my class. What’s the problem? How can I help you? Emily looked at her watch, aware that she was due for a dinner date with two other professor friends.

Let me make a quick phone call first, Emily said. Twisting around to get a better signal on her cellular phone, she walked to the other side of the classroom.

After the two short minutes needed to complete her call, she turned to continue with the girl, but the room was empty and the girl was gone!

Emily checked the hallways before giving up and walking quickly to the elevator to the garage for her car. Entering the elevator, she met Criminal Justice Department Chair James Weldon Jackson, known affectionately as Dubya to his friends. Jackson, a tall light-complexioned African-American, was a former CIA Analyst and Gulf War Army veteran with a Ph.D. in Criminal Justice. He cut a handsome, impressive figure, even in a garage after a ten hour day.

Hey girl! In the mood for Italian?

Always my dear, but as a matter of fact I should be meeting Dana and Sinead right now! she said, referring to international lawyer Dana Johnson and Sculptor Sinead O’Malley, both of whom were professors on staff and Emily’s close friends.

By the way, there was a strange girl in my class just now, clearly upset about something. She obviously needed to talk, but while I called Dana to tell her I’d be late she just disappeared! Muslim, definitely! And I got the feeling something I touched on in class got to her. She was very, very distraught.

Jackson stared at her. What can I say? I’ve always like your classes. They never made me cry. Maybe it’s your clothes, he grinned, looking at her mid-calf asymmetrical black jersey dress, black leggings and the huge chunks of blonde amber around her neck.

What this? This, you fashion cretin, is what is known as ‘Lagenlook’. It means, she said, choking on laughter, ’layered look’, all the rage in Europe and Israel for chunky women with big bums.

OK. OK, he said, feigning embarrassment, Way too much information. I was just sayin’; you’re not the standard professor for Islamic thought, culture or terrorism. I mean, the British accent is all wrong. Like ‘bums’. What sort of word is that? He started to laugh.

Oh shit, Weldon. Next time I’ll wear a burqa or something easier to understand. I mean, it’s black, right? Do you know the girl or not?

No idea who she is. Did you check around or look for her? Jackson asked, then turning suddenly as they heard tires squealing ahead. Whoa! What the hell is that?

A black Mercedes station wagon sped past and as it abruptly rounded the corner, Emily could see a dark-bearded man driving and an older woman with glasses and a headscarf almost completely hiding her face seated beside him. As the tires screeched and the car sped past, Emily caught a glimpse of the fear-filled face of the young girl who vied for her attention earlier, staring at them from the back window.

That’s her, Emily said, catching Jackson’s arm, She’s in the car! Call security!

For what, speeding? Jackson turned to face the outgoing car as he spoke.

Anything! But stop them! Make sure she’s alright. Please! Just do it! Emily was frantic.

The college had a complicated route to the main gate, which was guarded at night. Once past the gate the car would hit the parkway leading to Route 50 making it almost impossible to trace further if traffic were heavy. Jackson quickly contacted the security guard at the gate and asked her to stop the vehicle, get a tag number to run and to warn them about speeding while discretely checking the passenger in the back for any visible signs of injury.

Five minutes later the guard, having complied, called back to report there was nothing unusual, other than the driver had developed a slight attitude due to the warning she had given him. The driver was Dr. Daniyal Imran Qureshi, the passengers his wife Nadira and their daughter Alina. Alina was a student in the Criminal Justice department. The guard confirmed that all was in order with their registration. Miss Qureshi had appropriate student ID and confirmed that her parents met her after classes each night. Jackson thanked the guard and relayed the information to a nervously waiting Emily Byron Cowan.

On the way to the restaurant, following Jackson’s black Lexus, Emily Cowan’s thoughts slipped back to the look on the motorist’s face. She knew that look! It reminded her of being young and vulnerable herself; forty years ago she’d been married to a wealthy Afghani student who became a religious fanatic and then changed completely. He also had that wild fire of religious fervor and anger in his eyes. That look, she remembered, somehow always preceded disaster. Emily read somewhere, perhaps it was a teacher in psychology or women’s studies, something about the religious teaching of Islam inside is having the notion of death being the ultimate goal of life, and she pondered, Death meaning honor, perhaps? But that look, she knew, was about the notion of death and she had seen it countless times before.

Her thoughts went back once more to Ghulam Ansari, her first husband, recently released from Cuba’s ‘Gitmo’ prison courtesy of the latest presidential administration. She had heard that Ansari was back in Herat, the third largest city in Afghanistan, just fifty miles from the Iranian border. His parents, former diplomats, though now retired in Paris, still held valuable land in what was left of the now almost leveled Afghanistan. At least that was what Emily gathered from her son Mason, who himself, to her utter disgust, also had leanings towards fundamentalist Wahhabism.

Mason, who now preferred to be called Masud, was a physician in his own new clinic serving the Red Crescent and Red Cross on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border in an area controlled by the war lord Ismail Khan, the most powerful man in Afghanistan. The clinic was funded in part through Emily and also, she suspected but had not proved, the CIA, where it served as a trading post for HUMINT or Human Intelligence.

Emily pulled into the parking lot, her thoughts far away in Afghanistan and Pakistan, thinking of her commitment to Islamic women’s rights and wondered whether she should organize a public awareness workshop for the upcoming ‘CRYSISTERS: Women At Risk’ Conference.

Exiting her car and staring through the large glass front of the restaurant she saw her friends Sinead and Dana welcoming Dr. Jackson, who had just arrived and settled. They yelled at her to come over and she motioned to the server to bring her usual double Glenlivet with water and a twist of lemon on the side, before seating herself and picking up the menu.

Despite the convivial companionship, Emily remained glum, remembering the girl’s face looking out of the window. She was now convinced that the girl in the Mercedes was in some sort of trouble.

What’s wrong Emily? You look like you’re in the twilight zone; a feat damn near impossible with this menu, asked her friend Dana Johnson; a sturdily built woman in a flowing black jersey dress topped by a red shawl and some elegant Kasarani tribal jewelry. Dana tossed her long braided hair defiantly as she selected her food with her diet in mind. I’m having the ‘Caprice’ salad of mozzarella, tomatoes and basil, a Carpaccio of thin sliced raw beef, served with olive oil, a few vegetables and soda water with a twist of lime instead of wine. I’ve got to fit into all the clothes I bought back from Kenya, you know ladies.

You’re insane, said Sinead O’Malley, an attractive, curvaceous redhead with a penchant for wearing dark green, best known for her ferocious appetite when it came to Italian food. Split the Veal Florentine and we’ll all have the Tuscan beans on the side.

Not for me, Dr. Jackson interrupted, patting his stomach, I’m going for the lamb with truffles and a small salad. I’ve got to fit into these pants.

The two women laughed then looked at Emily. What about you?

Fettucine with Prosciutto, Asparagus and Cream, and an order of Arancini di Riso with a small green salad, Emily replied.

That’s the beef, chicken, herbs thing mixed into rice balls isn’t it? Dr. Jackson asked. "Didn’t we have that at your house at that party for Mason’s leaving?’

Yes. I had these people cater it and Mason got upset because it wasn’t Halal.

No shit! He’s really into following the Islamic dietary code now? asked Dana Johnson.

My son, now a most boring individual, is serious about his belief structure and lectures us all on ‘Haram’ or what is forbidden. I keep hoping the novelty will wear off, and remember; this is the same person who loved my Liverpool ‘bacon butties’ as a child. But on the subject of those who follow the path of so called righteousness, does anyone know a student named Alina Qureshi?

Can we order first? Sinead was getting impatient and signaled the server who was on his way with Emily’s double whiskey.

Once the order was placed, Emily returned to the subject of the girl. It was Dana who responded with her usual authority and vehement distaste for men who even remotely appeared controlling. Actually, she sticks out in my mind because of that idiot father of hers, who is seven hundred years behind the times!

Really! What’s he done? Emily was now intrigued.

He stormed into my office last week claiming that my ‘Feminism and the Law’ classes were influencing his daughter to question his goddamn authority at home! Now, my classes are a sort of historical view of feminism from the early settlers to present day. This is part of our history right? She looked at the group questioningly Colonials, slavery, factory workers in both wars, prohibition, the whole thing up to the Sixties and Seventies, covering law and how things changed positively. So this guy barges in yelling that his daughter is talking back, taking charge of her life, doesn’t want to be a dutiful Muslim and it’s my fault. He was furious! Dana took a large gulp of her drink waiting for the responses.

So how did you react? And how the hell did he get access to the building, much less to your office?" Emily asked.

I told him he could discuss this with his daughter; that she was over eighteen and could study what she wanted and as long as she paid for it, I was happy. Then I followed it up with a threat to have him removed. Now get this! He’s a freakin’ gynecologist at Northwestern Hospital! Can you imagine having this bozo performing any type of surgery on you with an attitude like this? Jesus wept! He’s probably part of the Islamist wives conspiracy!

Oh puleeeese, Dana, not this again! her boss and Sinead chorused in unison.

Emily was finally relaxed enough to laugh. OK! OK! Let me in on this!

Weldon Jackson spoke first, Dana has a theory that we’re preparing ourselves for an Islamic takeover. A move to radicalism where super-rightwing Christian men and their Islamic Fundamentalist counterparts join forces to create the perfect, subservient, obedient woman. Sort of ‘Malibu Barbies’ in black burqas with their heads covered; brainwashed, brain dead but healthy, fertile and submissive.

A cross between the Levin’s ‘Stepford Wives’ and Atwood’s ‘Handmaid’s Tale’ in a burqa? Emily asked.

Precisely! Sheeeeit! It’s the woman of the future. Obedience and observance in a burqa. I, of course, will sport an AK-47 underneath mine, Dana laughed.

I’ll drink to that. ‘Burqa Queen!’ The fast food place with a difference! Emily raised her glass. Seriously though, she went on, She needed to talk to me this evening because of something I’d said in the class I think she must have audited. She’s not on my student list. And Emily recounted their brief conversation.

Do you think she’s in some kind of trouble? Weldon Jackson asked. I can report it, but as faculty that’s all I can do. We have staff psychologists and contact numbers posted in the bathrooms and offices on where to get help in case of abuse. But we cannot personally get over-involved.

Just wait and see what develops. Did you give her a card to call you? Sinead asked Emily.

No I didn’t, but if I see her again, maybe I should,

Whoa! Look at this! Food’s here and I’m starving. Dana grabbed her salad.

Emily however, pondering once more the girl without really knowing why and perhaps with a pre-cognitive sense of dread creeping up on her, found she had lost her appetite.

CHAPTER TWO

Harrison Cowan, Emily’s husband of many years, poured the coffee in his wife’s special blue ceramic mug etched with circles of life that he had bought for her at a local farmer’s market. It was his new mix of Brazilian, Mysore and New Guinea Peaberry beans that gave her the boost of energy she needed first thing in the morning.

You still look frantic, hinny. Can ye’ not go to the office and perhaps telephone her under the pretense of something else? I kinna bear to see you so worried. You have to learn to detach yourself from students. You know this already, and I’m wastin’ my breath. His cultured Scottish accent was, after over forty years of living in America, still discernible, and it always brought warmth and comfort to Emily when she was worried.

Aye, well, she lapsed into the old Northern English dialect that prevailed when she was stressed, but what if she’s under some sort of death threat? Honestly Harrison, it wasn’t so much what she said, it was more her overall demeanor. She was afraid. I’ve been there, I know that look. When I saw her father, just from his face, I recognized in him the same bloody fanaticism driving that bloody car that Ghulam had.

Em, you can’t compare the two. Ghulam regressed. He became primitive. ‘Went native’, if you will, living in the caves of Afghanistan with Bindy, Harrison’s pet name for al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden. From what you said last night this girl’s father is a well-known gynecologist. He’s educated, cultured and worldly. He’s lived here for years, or at least he must have done to get where he is.

Harrison, my former husband was the son of a diplomat. Look at him! Look at my own son for that matter! Radical Islam is no longer a religion or culture or even way of life; it’s emotional blackmail, terror under God, an anarchistic, uncontrollable disease, like cancer. Besides which, this damned doctor is Pakistani, and I expect more from them!

Em, not all Pakistanis are hell bent on Jihad! We know people from Pakistan who are normal. Well perhaps westernized, but what makes us right and them wrong? Do we have a monopoly of religious correctness?

"Harrison, do you know that the Human Rights Commission in Pakistan claims that one woman is raped every three hours there and that one in every two victims is a juvenile. Seventy two percent of all women in police custody are physically and sexually abused. The term Zina includes adultery, fornication, rape and prostitution. Women charged with violation of Islamic law face one hundred public lashes and ten years in jail. To prove a crime against the Islamic law like Zina or Hudud ordinances, like amputation of hands for stealing and stoning of married people for illicit sex you need the backup of those with good moral standing. In the case of a woman it is almost impossible to prove rape because four Muslim men of good reputation must be present to testify that penetration has taken place. She is usually charged with adultery or illicit intercourse. Rape is considered an admission of guilt rather than an act of violence. That’s the law. What effing chance does a woman have there?"

Emily’s voice was raised and she continued, When a Muslim woman comes here, she is impressionable, she is taught in our schools to value herself, and she enjoys a certain amount of freedom. What happens when she takes that culture home? Emily poured another coffee while she spoke. "If this girl has violated Hudud like theft, alcohol consumption, defamation of Islam, and adultery, the punishment here or there, by their law, is flogging. For adultery, for Chrissake, it’s stoning, beheading or shooting! In this culture Harrison, men and women do not mix freely. Women, even affluent ones are covered in public so as not to tempt weak men. They even have to announce they are unveiled if a man is heard to approach! So what the hell happens when they live here? Do they arbitrarily forget the rules and exist like we do? Not hardly! This girl is under siege, I can feel it Harrison. As soon as she’s back under their control it’s over for her and if she’s broken the rules she’s in danger!"

My dear, the question becomes, what can you do? And the answer is, absolutely nothing. She’s an adult under our law and can leave home. Harrison said quietly.

But she can’t Harrison. Think about it. She’s innocent aside from her education. She probably has no friends outside of the family or those selected by her parents. Where can a girl like that go? There are no services in place for women like this. Even worse, our system bends over backwards to protect these men because of political correctness and forgets that such behavior is a violation of our laws until it’s too late. Remember that case last year in Texas when two girls were shot dead by their father for dating boys who weren’t Muslim? The FBI put the words ‘honor killing’ on the wanted poster and then they were forced to remove it because of political pressure. And no one’s in a rush to bring him back from bloody Egypt, Iraq, Iran or Pakistan, wherever the hell he’s from, to stand trial.

Emily reached out for her cell phone to call Dana Johnson’s office at the college, now determined to contact the girl. Dana confirmed that she had seen her earlier in class and knew she was signed up for ‘Organized Crime’ later that morning.

After cleaning up the breakfast dishes, Emily and Harrison walked their three dogs Tanith, a large Zaarloos whose bloodlines went back thirty years to a dog Emily had adopted in Germany, and the two German shepherd yearlings known as Quanah, after Emily’s Native American hero the Comanche War Chief Quanah Parker, and Little Laika, named after the first dog in space. The puppies had been a gift from Tony Shallal, former MI-6 and British diplomat, now the official go-between for Britain and the United States and they previously lived in Washington’s fashionable Georgetown area with Mina, their older German shepherd sister, whom Shallal had named after Emily.

Walking the dogs on the beach, alone or accompanied, was Emily’s respite. Here for decades she had solved her life’s problems and world affairs, practiced her Tai Chi form, held her morning rituals of welcoming each day, battled illness and come to terms with the lives of her children growing up and out of her control. Just a few years ago the beach had revitalized her marriage when she thought it had failed. She found peace within herself with the sound of the waves lapping at the beach every sunrise. It was this community beach near the state park on Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay that was Emily’s own private piece of heaven. She hummed a song from the Sixties made popular by a clarinet player who usually played jazz; it was the theme from an old TV series that had become an international hit. The haunting melody, as Emily remembered, had lyrics about a very lonely person; the proverbial ‘Stranger on The Shore’. So moved was Emily in those days by the song, she recalled, that she had bought a copy and then much to her parent’s amusement played it a hundred times or more before discovering she liked the B side even better. It was the name of the song that struck her as odd and she’d been prompted by the girl Alina to remember the song because of what was said about her parents being just like ‘strangers on the shore’.

Tanith the Zaarloos was getting older and arthritic, as was her owner, and she no longer enjoyed the same zest for living since the loss of Emily’s other dog, Gorby, in a violent manner, shot by a neurotic State Trooper, allegedly in self-defense a few years previously. Emily’s heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces by his death. Her own health literally took a beating at the hands of the same officer. No charges had been filed against him, as was usual par for the course. Her work in this instance came under the heading of International Security. The assignment then had been to lead a task force under Tony Shallal’s supervision as intermediary between several world investigative agencies looking into the Russian Mafia’s activities in Maryland, their correlation to illegal arms deals amongst known terror organizations as well as worldwide slave trafficking which brought the mob millions of dollars. It had been a very dangerous assignment, intertwined with the death of a man they knew in Germany decades before and the investigation, in its entirety, had almost destroyed her marriage.

Harrison held her hand as they walked slowly onto the beach with the sun just breaking the horizon. There was a sailing ship almost centered in the sun against the burning red sky and the sight of it was magnificent.

Look at the sunrise, Harrison! We are so lucky to be alive.

You’re right my dear. It’s the other poor buggers I worry about, he laughed.

Are we doing anything special for the next ‘CRYSISTERS Women’s Symposium’? she asked him, as their respective companies, his ‘Deep Creek Security Systems’, a risk management and international security systems endeavor and Emily’s own research consultancy, ‘International Security Investigative Systems, Incorporated’ or ‘ISIS, Inc.’ which she affectionately termed an acronym for ‘I Should Investigate Something’, often hosted public awareness days for outsiders in the field. Frequently they were attended by international spotters of diplomatic officials, assets or cold recruiters from any side or country. It was a hazard of the trade, but the espionage game had neither morals nor scruples as both Emily and Harrison were well aware.

Perhaps, began Harrison, We should resurrect old faithful; the plight of oppressed women in Muslim countries and, even more importantly, at home this year. Maybe Bibi Gupta from The ISIS Project would like to chair it.

Brilliant, Harrison! I’ll ring her later.

Bibi Gupta was a Ph.D. as well as a General Medical Practitioner. She was, through her maternal ancestors, Afghani by birth and had become an American by choice with rights to Indian citizenship via her father. Dr. Gupta was an expert in Islamic culture and like Emily, on Women in Terrorism. She was also the founder of FOISN (Free Our Islamic Sisters Now), an outspoken critic of The Taliban and Editor in Chief of ‘Ariana: the Magazine for Islamic Women in America’. Bibi was also multi-lingual, fluent in Arabic, Pashto, Urdu, Hindi, Farsi, Dari, German, French and Russian, as well as her perfect Oxford English. She consulted to several letter agencies. She lived close by with her American husband RADM Kyle Pafford, recently retired, who occasionally taught Military History at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis when not ‘advising’ with Harrison’s company.

The couple had recently received attention in the spy community when it became known that they had been included on both the Taliban and al-Qaeda assassination lists. Bibi was no stranger to assassination attempts; each time she entered Afghanistan, where she frequently traveled with her organization to fund schools and start-up companies owned by women, she always received death threats. She sought political asylum in the United States in 1993 and finally took citizenship in 2002, shortly after working with Emily on the first ISIS Project.

Bibi was an asset to any organization. Her language skills were superlative and she was that odd combination of fearless yet sentimental when it came to friends, food and the country of her birth. She and Emily often hosted Afghan food parties and workshops, which to Bibi meant floors laden with Afghan carpets and jewelry, all made by Afghan women, together with the best hummus, kadu, burani, aushak and mantu on Earth. She wanted nothing in return, happy just to let the world know the true nature of her people. Her magazine had become the best protest-mag of its kind internationally and was smuggled into embassies worldwide for distribution. Few realized that it was paid for by CIA slush funds. Emily was a frequent contributor to ‘Ariana’, as was her daughter-in-law Safiya, also a doctor