Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (5 page)

Jon said nothing, so al-Ghazali continued. “I just can’t believe I didn’t catch it, since
radi
—
evil
—sounds nothing like
tahaddi
—
challenge
, as you well know. Well, they rhyme, but . . .”

“That could be, Osman,” Jon finally replied, softening. “Have you called our publisher in Cairo?”

“Even before calling you. I made them repeat the correct term for ‘challenge’ three times, and they’ll e-mail me proofs before going back to press.”

“Good, Osman. What in the world ever made the typesetter in Cairo do that—
if
he’s responsible? He’s not a Coptic Christian, is he?”

“I don’t really know. But I’ll find out.”

“In any case, you should also have a few words with him—to say the least.”

“You bet I will.”

“More than that, I think you’ll have to do a
careful
proofing again of the whole Arabic edition to make sure there are no other errors.”

“I’d already planned to do that.”

“Good. Oh, one more thing: word about the translation error seems to be a deep, dark secret as far as the media are concerned. I worry most about Al Jazeera. If they don’t report that it was all a mistake, rioting will rage on in the Islamic world.”

“Ah! Good that you tell me. I have a friend or two there. I’ll call Al Jazeera immediately—the start of my long journey back into your good graces, Jon.”

“Fine, Osman. Be sure to keep me posted.”

Shannon, who had been listening intently to Jon’s side of the conversation, seemed relieved and sighed. “I do hope that’s the end of this bizarre business. How it can ruin a beautiful spring!” It was obvious that images of her husband being hanged in effigy had done very little to boost her spirits.

They turned off the TV, put on walking shorts, and headed down to the Atlantic shore. Perhaps a long stroll along the beach and many breaths of fresh sea breezes would clear their minds.

Jon and Shannon returned from their seashore promenade eager to check the progress of Jon’s story. “What was it Mark Twain said?” Shannon asked. “‘A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth even puts its boots on’?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “I guess it’s a corollary to Murphy’s Law that wrong information—particularly of a sensational nature—gets front-page treatment in the press and opening-story status in the broadcast media, while the truth, by way of correction, shows up later with only the briefest coverage on page 6 of section D in the papers or as a small afterthought on TV.”

Gingerly they turned on the television evening news, flipped through the networks, and were happily surprised. Diane Sawyer of ABC, Katie Couric of CBS, and Brian Williams of NBC all opened with a story on the error in the Arabic text of Jon’s book, while CNN even showed footage of a perspiring Osman al-Ghazali heaping blame on himself, but even more on the typesetter in Cairo.

Later in the telecasts, however, Jon felt the clutch of concern return when the news programs shifted to reports from foreign correspondents. A firebomb had been lobbed into the first floor of Jon’s publisher in Cairo, scorching much of the reception area until the blaze was extinguished. Footage from Lebanon showed a long column of Hezbollah marching through downtown Beirut, clad in green and white and demanding revenge against “Web-air,” as they chanted the name again and again. In Tehran, where the offending sentence had been mistranslated into Farsi with an even stronger term for
evil
, enraged mullahs were preaching about possible jihad, while rioting in Pakistan had actually left five dead on the streets of Islamabad.

Jon held his head in his hands and muttered, “People getting
kille
d
? For nothing?
Nothing?
Good grief, it’s Salman Rushdie all over again! How many died in those riots after Ayatollah Khomeini put a fatwa on his head?”

“Not just Rushdie,” Shannon added. “There were dozens of deaths in the riots that followed the Danish cartoon of Muhammad with bombs in his turban. And the same after the pope’s address in Germany at Regensburg.”

The phone rang—inconveniently, since the evening news had not yet ended.

“Just let it ring,” Jon said.

Shannon paused, then shook her head and lifted the receiver. “Weber residence.” She listened for a moment before handing the phone to Jon.

“Yes?” he said into the phone, with a questioning look at his wife.

“Professor Jonathan Weber?”

“Yes . . .”

“This is Morton Dillingham, director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“The CIA? Right! And I’m Alex in Wonderland.”

“No, Professor. This
is
the CIA, and we have
very
serious matters to discuss. Are you free to speak?”

“Yes,” Jon replied, meekly, in case the call was authentic after all.

“Is your phone line secure?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Is anyone else there?”

“Yes, my wife.”

“No one else?”

“No. And by the way, how did you get this phone number? It’s unlisted.”

“We convinced your secretary that it was in the national interest and for your own personal safety.”

“Okay. Sorry about my levity.”

“Not a problem. Now, Professor Weber, here’s the situation. Our operatives in Tehran have just informed us that the grand ayatollah in Iran, Kazim al-Mahdi—their Supreme Leader—in consultation with his Shiite clergy, has just declared a fatwa on your head because of that Arabic translation business.”

“Ridiculous!”
Jon nearly shouted into the phone. “Don’t they know about the translation error? And it’s in Arabic, not Farsi. In fact, do
you
even know about the error?”

“Of course I do—the CIA also watches the evening news! But no, evidently they don’t know about that mistake in Iran. And they decided to exploit the translation error for their own purposes, even if it was in another language.”

“Do you have any idea why Al Jazeera hasn’t announced the error?” Jon assumed the CIA also knew about the Arab TV network’s silence.

“We’re working on that one even as we speak.”

“Good.”

“But first things first, Dr. Weber, and that’s security for you and your wife. We hope, of course, that the fatwa will be lifted once they finally learn the truth in Iran, but meanwhile your lives are in some danger.”

“Oh, please; this can’t really be happening, can it?”

“I am
not
exaggerating, sir,” the CIA director said in a credibly serious tone. “Now, we have a direct parallel in the case of Salman Rushdie and his
Satanic Verses
novel that earned him a fatwa some years ago. We’ve already contacted Scotland Yard to learn how the British handled security in his case with such obvious success: although his fatwa has never been lifted, the man lives on! We intend something similar in your case, although—”

Jon erupted. “Rushdie was in hiding for
months
after the fatwa was announced, and I just can’t spare that kind of time!”

“A fatwa?” Shannon whispered. “Jon, what’s happening?”

He covered the phone with his hand and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure it’s nothing, darling. I’ll explain in a minute.” He spoke into the phone again. “I’m sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

“Dillingham. And that’s quite all right. But we do need to take every possible precaution to protect your life and that of your wife as well. You see, all we need is for just one fanatic to take the fatwa seriously and act on it. Your death would be his passport to paradise.”

Jon was stunned into silence. One stupid error was turning his life into a grotesque nightmare. Shannon’s too. Finally he asked, again rather meekly, “What do you suggest?”

“Since the FBI covers the home front and we the international, we asked them to send over a security detail immediately. In fact, they’d probably have been there by now if your secretary had told us where you are.”

Thank you, Marylou!
Jon mused. Then he replied, “No, not here. It would disrupt the peace of the neighborhood. . . . All right, my wife and I will return to our home in Weston, and you can incarcerate us there.”

“Well, we certainly don’t intend to—”

“Strike that; bad humor on my part. But seriously now, we’re grateful for your concern.”

“We do have your home address in Weston, but we’d really prefer to have you escorted there by—”

“No, I absolutely decline that. Categorically. But thank you, Mr. Dillingham. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning and should return to Weston by, say, early afternoon.”

“I’d feel better if you left this evening.”

“No, morning will do just fine. The fatwa hasn’t been announced over here yet, evidently.”

“Well . . . all right. Thanks for your cooperation, Professor Weber.”

“Yours too. Good night.”

Jon hung up and turned to Shannon, who was hovering nearby with a worried look on her face.

“What is it, Jon? A fatwa? On you? You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not, sweetheart. That was the CIA. They want us to head home so they can put us under official protection, at least until this thing blows over.”

“Jon, fatwas don’t ‘blow over.’ At least Rushdie’s didn’t. What about our trip? Our work? Oh, this is just ridiculous.”

“I know; I know. But when the truth finally sinks in at Tehran, they’ll lift it, I’m sure.”

“And if they don’t?”

Jon saw a tear or two glistening in her eyes. He tucked two fingers under her classically chiseled chin and said, “Then we’ll flee Weston and fly to Tahiti.”

Shannon made a conscious effort to shrug off the curdling climate of fear in their lives as they drove eastward to Chatham. She appreciated Jon’s attempts to cheer her up with a seafood dinner overlooking the Atlantic—one of her favorite things to do when they were staying at the beach house. It began with obligatory Lambrusco—the vintage they had shared on their wedding night—and went on to lobster for him, crab cakes for her.

Was it the edge supplied by danger? The wine at dinner? The gorgeous full moon floating over the eastern seascape? Whatever. The evening was a success as far as Shannon was concerned. By the time they returned to their hideaway, she had managed to put the fear and danger out of her mind. It was heavenly to return to their beachfront hideaway and forget, at least for the night, that anyone else existed outside the circle of their love.

They had missed the 11 p.m. news, of course. But during the morning drive back to Weston, they heard it all on the car radio. In the name of Allah, the Iranian clergy had declared an official fatwa on American professor Jonathan Weber of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Muslim faithful were duty-bound to seek him out for apprehension, trial, judgment, and condemnation. And the penalty for insulting the Prophet, as Professor Weber had done? Death.

Jon and Shannon’s new roles as moving targets? Not a felicitous feeling. Jon was quiet, but he seemed to be checking the rearview mirror more often than usual, while Shannon found herself scanning each approaching vehicle with uncharacteristic scrutiny.