Jihad for Hire

By James Babcock

Jihadist terrorism comes to Florida’s Emerald Coast in this fourth novel in the Joe and Maryanne Phillips mystery series.
A suicide bomber destroys an offshore oil rig platform in the Gulf.
As the local Sheriff, Joe takes on a missing person case.
FBI agent Bill Burkhimer is sent undercover to investigate the purpose of anonymous funds transfers from the Mid-East to Joe’s hometown bank; the government fears a terrorist plot to attack the nearby Eglin Air Force base.
A newly-arrived African-American Muslim starts a cleaning company that hires girls as prostitutes to serve the Eglin airmen.
Burkhimer and Phillips wife Maryanne become romantically entangled.
The Sheriff’s son is kidnapped.
In the end, all these threads intertwine as the plan to attack the air base is foiled, the boy is rescued, and Maryanne uses her financial skills to help Joe solve the missing person
case and the cause of the oil rig explosion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Babcock
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005267445

James Babcock

Following three years in the Navy and forty years in international and domestic banking, Babcock took up a second career as a writer and composer. His plots draw on his travels abroad and experiences in foreign exchange trading, bank operations, lending, trust services, auditing, and bank management. Active in community work, he served as a university rector, symphony president, and chairman of economic development organizations. He holds degrees from Princeton and the Wharton School. In addition to his novels and short stories, his creative work includes books of humor and games and a number of pieces for violin and piano. He resides with his family in Blacksburg, Virginia.

Book preview

Jihad for Hire

Who blew up the oil rig?

James Babcock

Copyright 2020 by James F. Babcock

Second edition  All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Contents

of the fourth book in the

Joe and Maryanne

series

Jihad for Hire

The Story

About the Author

Books by James Babcock

Jihad for Hire

Chapter One

July 9, 2016

Along the coast of Florida’s panhandle the Gulf of Mexico’s crystal blue waters lap at the white beaches ever so gently—most of the time. Yet every so often there surges across these heated waters a monstrous hurricane—violent, disruptive, terrifying.

Crime was like that in the small coastal village where Sheriff Joe Phillips and his wife Maryanne had earned a reputation as ingenious sleuths in solving the few big crimes the town had ever known. Most of the locals made a living from fishing, tourism, and bagging sugar. Now, in 2016, in the haze of a hot summer, and despite the excitement of an even hotter presidential campaign, the town seemed drowsy, and crime too was somnolent. Indeed, as it had been for some time, life for Joe and Maryanne was quiet and peaceful.

Who would have guessed a hurricane of crime lay just over the horizon?

Joe liked to get up early and watch the sun come up over the barrier islands out beyond the harbor, and Maryanne often joined him. They enjoyed lounging outside on their backyard patio, directly overlooking the river that emptied nearby into the bay. On this pristine Saturday morning they shared coffee and toast. Their toddler Michael wiggled in his highchair between them while the family’s golden retriever, Ossy Junior, lay curled protectively at the feet of the little boy’s chair.

Joe lowered the newspaper and shook his head. Gruesome. More I.S.I.S. beheadings. Those creeps are spreading all over the Middle East, Maddy.  With friends and family Maryanne was known by her childhood nickname.

Maddy frowned. I’m glad we don’t have to worry about them here.

Well, so far anyway. Their recruiting seems to be mainly from Europe.

Joe laid the paper aside and gazed fondly at his beautiful young wife. He reflected once again on his good fortune in having unexpectedly discovered her. She had been hidden away in a back office on the second floor of the local bank. She was the small bank’s sole trust officer. Using her financial acumen, she had helped Joe solve several big financial crimes while they courted. But the bank had been bought out, the trust function had been centralized in the acquiring bank’s Tallahassee headquarters, and Maddy finally was let go. In a town that offered few jobs, she was fortunate to quickly find reemployment across the street with the town’s stockbroker, George Bartlett, Jr.

That had been five years ago. Joe reflected that the time had gone by quickly. It also occurred to him that in all that time he hadn’t shown much interest in Maddy’s work.

Tell me, Maddy, you’ve been with Junior quite a while now. I can’t imagine you get to use your law degree. Do you really feel at home in Junior Bartlett’s securities business?

To be honest, Joe, I still miss the bank. Not the bank itself, the customers. Suzanne Allen handles sales and Junior does the glad handing. The only contact I have with customers is when we do the annual account reviews. Junior lets me make all the portfolio decisions for our clients, just like I used to do at the bank.  That makes the work itself rewarding. And I get to do all the back office processing, such as it is. You know I enjoy accounting. Also I don’t have to work on Saturdays. So I like it.

Joe smiled. And you make a lot more money.

Yes, Junior is generous, I’ll give him that.

He’s not very hard working, from what I can see.

Maddy laughed. He does seem to do most of his big deals on the golf course.

Hmm. Nice work.  Joe stood up. He brushed crumbs from his uniform and donned his Sheriff’s cap. Well, my love, time to get moving. The crime scene waits for no man.

Maddy frowned. Joe, it’s only 7:30, and you know you’ll be lucky if one of your officers turns in a parking ticket.  You’re the Sheriff, the boss. You might do me the favor of keeping shorter hours.

Show up after everybody else? What kind of leadership would that be?

Well, Junior Bartlett never comes in until ten o’clock, and you don’t hear Suzanne and me complaining.

Of course not. When Junior’s not around, you don’t have to fetch and tote for him! Anyway, honey, public safety is a different ball game. You, of all people, should know that by now.

When they had married, Joe was still a detective lieutenant. Soon he was promoted to captain for solving several complex financial crimes, where Maddy’s expertise provided key breakthroughs. Then Joe had been elected to the top job after Sheriff Holtz retired. In his new position he continued to work with the detectives, and he often put in extra hours. Maddy had tried to reconcile herself to that, but it was still a sore point in their marriage.

Joe, I appreciate that you work hard and are an inspiration to your officers. I just wish you’d spend a little more time with me and Mikey.

Joe’s face hardened as he replied. I’ll work on it.  Then, softening, he reached down to tousle his son’s hair. Tell you what, Maddy. Let’s all go fishing tomorrow afternoon out in the bayou, okay?

We were going to have Sunday brunch at the country club with Mom and Dad, remember?

Sure. But we can do that and go fishing afterwards.

All right.

Good!  He leaned down and kissed her. It’s a date.

Oh sure—unless something comes up.

What! A great big crime so the Sheriff can’t have his Sunday off? Not damn likely!

With that expression of insouciance, Joe Phillips set off to his office, a seven minute drive away.

Watching him go, Maddy’s eyes filled with tears.

Chapter Two

July 10

On the north side of town, just beyond the estates of the wealthy and just off the highway that passed sugar plantations on the way west to the Air Force base lay the Sugar Cane Country Club. With the increase in salary from his election as Sheriff, Joe had bought a membership. But he and Maddy had often enjoyed the club as guests of golfing members as well as Maddy’s parents.

On Sunday morning, Joe and Maddy skipped church. That had become a habit. When Mikey was a baby they didn’t have a babysitter and they didn’t like risking his wailing during the service. Hence it was shortly before noon that they took seats on the club terrace and waited for Maddy’s father and mother to join them for brunch. Mikey ran off to explore the putting green. Maddy watched him with a fond gaze.

Joe, I want to start going to church again. Mikey should be in Sunday school.

Joe was not religious, but he reflected that his son should be raised in the predominant culture. I agree. He needs to know the Bible stories.

And learn about God, Maddy said. She looked at Joe for moment and then added, Joe, I’ve never asked you. What do you believe?

Joe gazed into the distance. I believe Jesus is a great man with a profound message no one can live up to. He smiled. I think he did it on purpose so preachers can make us feel guilty.

Don’t be cynical, Joe. Don’t you believe in God?

If you mean a personality that cares about us, no. But I understand why we have theology. We have big questions but no sure answers. All we know is that we live in an incomprehensibly huge universe and the whole thing is a great mystery. It comforts us to believe that behind it there is a being, a father figure who is like us. If we were turtles, we’d think God is a turtle.

Be serious, Joe. I agree there’s much we don’t know. But I have faith. Just because we can’t see God doesn’t mean he’s not there as a spirit.

People talk about spirits, but I don’t think the scientific evidence is there.

Maddy nodded. Well, I don’t believe in witches or ghosts. But mystics say they can feel the spirit world, and prophets experience revelation as the profound sensation of talking with God or an angel.

I think those psychic experiences originate as electrical storms in the brain. Of course, I don’t really know.

But Joe, even scientists claim they believe in things they can’t see, like quarks.

Quarks are abstract pictures we deduce from activity we see from experiments.

God is the same way. He’s a picture we deduce from certain experiences, just like quarks.

Joe grinned. You’re a good lawyer, Maddy, as always.

Well, like you, I don’t buy the whole scheme of beliefs. For me the main message of religion is ‘be kind.’

I can’t argue with that.

Maddy’s mother and father arrived. Both her parents had law degrees, but only her father had made the law a career. For years he presided over the county court. Judge Hudson Larkin was widely admired, and Henrietta Larkin was remembered for having been a leading liberal activist in the forefront of the civil rights movement of the Sixties.

Maddy collected Mikey, and the five moved into the club’s air conditioned main dining room.

Individual tables were decorated with bowls of colorful flowers. A long table covered with crisp white cloths displayed covered pans of scrambled eggs, eggs benedict, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, oysters, crab cakes, smoked salmon, ham, fried chicken, roast beef, orange slices, melons, strawberries, puddings, pies, and cakes.

After seating themselves and settling Mikey into a highchair, the adults ordered beverages.

Joe, I’ll watch Mikey if you’ll fix me a plate.

You bet.

Joe and the Larkins trooped along the brunch table.

My god, said the Judge, look at this spread. It gets more elaborate every Sunday. No wonder our dues keep going up!

Now, Hudson, you know you enjoy every bit of it. And you can afford it.

Only because, out of the goodness of my heart, Henrietta, I generously agree to come out of retirement to oversee those tough trials my less advantaged successors can’t seem to handle.

Nonsense, Henrietta retorted, you just can’t stand not being the center of attention.

Once seated again, Maddy asked whether her parents had enjoyed the church service. Was the sermon up to par, Daddy?

Henry Perkins bloviates more than Donald Trump! the Judge expostulated. The message was sound enough. Muslims are people of Abraham, just like Jews and Christians. We should all be able to live together. Revised and extended for thirty minutes.

Joe nodded. The problem is that Islam has its fundamentalist wingnuts, just like us.

Well, there’s a big difference, said Henrietta. Our Biblical literalists don’t practice violence like the Islamist jihadists do.

Excellent distinction, said the Judge. And here’s the problem. We can make war on the terrorists, but only their own moderates can change the ideology that creates the terrorists.

Ironically, Maddy said, it’s just like the cultural change we need in order to overcome the gun violence in our own country—very hard to do.

Impossible, I would say! Judge Larkin held up his finger. "Love is in their Koran, but so is jihad. Just as interventionism is in our own bloodstream. My god, Bush called our invasion of Iraq a crusade. Now, I do believe our foreign policy aims are basically peaceful, and I believe that when we make war, it’s against truly bad guys. The problem with seeing a cultural transformation in the Muslim world is that they can’t forget how the West dominated them for decades, even centuries. They’re right to harbor feelings of resentment. They can’t help it. It’s like the Chinese. The Chinese are surging ahead and doing big things, but they still feel resentful for what they suffered from the West."

It’s true, said Joe, which means we’re going to have to be on our guard for decades.

Henrietta shook her head. Sadly, politically, it will be very hard to maintain a proper balanced view that, on the one hand, most Muslims share our basic peaceful values despite cultural differences, while, on the other hand, we pursue the jihadists. The demagogues among us aren’t helping!

Oh Mother, surely you wouldn’t be referring to a certain presidential candidate.

"Of course not, Maddy. You know I never discuss politics."

Everyone laughed. Henrietta Faircloth Larkin had been well known for her youthful liberal activism and, as a senior citizen, her biting judgments of reactionary politicians.

The Judge turned to Joe. Speaking about issues of the day, these murders of police are horrifying. I’ve never seen the like. How are your troops holding up, Joe?

They’re concerned, angry, maybe a little wary, though most of us are pretty confident that we’re reasonably well respected by the community.

Both sides of town? How about the blacks?

Henrietta broke in. Hudson, we don’t say ‘blacks’ anymore. We say ‘African-Americans.’

"Oh, Henrietta. That’s a lot of cow droppings. Maybe you do, but I don’t. Neither does our esteemed Sheriff, I bet."

Joe smiled. I agree with the Judge. Black is what they call themselves, or worse—the forbidden ‘N’ word. Anyway, as for your question, I think most of those folks also respect our cops. Remember when that black kid who won the lottery was found dead? In the end, they were happy with how we handled that case. Also, they appreciated that we were able to corner the lottery money for a community fund that was administered by one of their own. Still, I have to admit that, deep down, and not so deep with some, there’s still a lingering resentment.

Let’s hope you’re right, Joe. Holding up his hands, the Judge broached a new topic. Well now, those of you who watched TV this morning, what’s the latest on the presidential campaign?

Oh, please, Hudson, said Henrietta, you’ll spoil my lunch!

Well, I don’t want to make you ill, my dear, so I will let you shut me up. But I will remind you that there are consuming issues at stake this time, and we the people need to get our head together.

Joe reflected that indeed he could not recall a more heated political season, nor could he remember an election where so many people were being challenged to review their principles. The backbiting between the candidates was less than edifying, but they had made it clear there was a lot at stake and much to talk about.

Well, I agree with Mother, Maddy said. It’s a lovely day and so peaceful here. Why don’t we all go out and sit on the terrace and find something else to talk about.

Indeed, said the Judge, standing up to help Henrietta with her chair, sitting in the shade of those umbrellas with a bloody Mary in hand will be just the thing to help our digestion.

Chapter Three

July 10

As the Larkins and Phillips