The Aisha Prophecy (25 page)

“As a practical joke? You think that’s all this is?”

“You know the man, Rajib. I’m only asking.”

“Impossible,” said Sadik. “He wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Are he and Stride now together?”

“As I’ve said, I’ve lost track.”

“But I think you could find them if you put your mind to it. You have an interesting circle of friends.” Mansur held Sadik’s eyes as he said this. They both knew that the reference was to certain Israelis. They both knew that it was best not said aloud.

Mansur drummed his fingers. “You need money. How much?”

“Two million for now. And you can make it a loan. I’ll pay it back as soon as my funding is restored. In return, I promise to do all I can to prevent further harm from being done.”

The second mullah asked the first. “Why should we give him money? He’s Hamas and Hamas is a Wahhabi front. The Wahhabis see all other Muslims as apostates. They preach that we all must recant or be killed.”

Sadik asked Mansur, “Is he baiting me again?”

“Just a little. Yet, he makes a valid point.”

“The Palestinians, my people, preach no such thing. They want what we all want. They want honor and respect. They want to build a society that will give them a future. They want peace; they want families; they want decent jobs. And they want to stop burying their children.”

“Well spoken,” said Mansur. “We endorse all those objectives. But I didn’t hear you mention Hamas’ primary goal. I refer to the destruction of Israel.”

“That remains a goal to some.”

“Not to you?” asked Mansur. “It is specified in your charter.”

He might have said, “I don’t live in a fantasy world.” But he answered, “Let us see to our own statehood first.”

“You also failed to mention the greatest goal of all, to establish an Islamic society.”

“It’s already Islamic. Not like yours, but Islamic. Beyond that, our goal is progress under competent leadership.”

Sadik winced within himself. He should not have said that. But Mansur only smiled. He did not seem offended. He said, “That is indeed to be desired.”

Mansur asked, “And yourself. Are you firm in your faith?”

“I consider that I am. I try to be a good Muslim. But I also try not to let it get in the way of…” He stopped. He’d almost done it again.

“I know,” came the mullah’s surprising reply. “There’s too much hard-headedness. Even here on this Council. We’re accused of resisting liberalization. What we think we’re doing is building a base. Islam is evolving. Not its truth, but its politics. Move too slowly, you’re conservative. Move too quickly, you’re a radical. There are many outside forces that would like to see us fail so that they – as they have so many times in our history – can come in and suck us dry to their profit.”

Sadik said nothing. No response had been invited.

Mansur continued, “So I come to this question. Is this Aisha affair just a hoax, a passing fad, or is it an organized conspiracy? If the latter, who’s behind it? Not the hairdressing industry. And what is the motive? Destabilization? If so, that result is well underway. You’ve said it yourself. Rebellious wives and daughters. A not so passive resistance to all male authority, which includes, not incidentally, male conjugal rights. It’s bad enough to have the problem of a Muslim Joan of Arc. We don’t need a Lysistrata on top of it.”

The second mullah asked, “A Lysis-who?”

“It’s an ancient Greek play about the women of Athens. They got tired of war, so they said to their husbands, ‘You can have war or sex, but not both.’ The movement quickly spread to Sparta and beyond.”

The second mullah blinked. His expression became distant. Sadik suspected that his own wife had made excuses lately. But Sadik preferred to stay on the subject at hand. He said, “And there’s the drying up of funds.”

“Funds don’t really dry up. They just move around. You’ll see the funding restored, but perhaps from new sources, and no doubt with new conditions attached.”

Sadik squinted. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Benefit of the doubt. Let’s say it’s a hoax. If so, the hoax is having an effect far beyond what its authors envisioned. Other plotters and schemers have been sure to take notice. They’d be looking for ways to use this to their advantage.”

“Any plotters and schemers in particular?” asked Sadik.

“Americans, apparently. That seems to be where this started. It actually sounds more like the British to me. Very Byzantine, the British. Americans, by their nature, are more heavy-handed. Either way, the motive would come down to oil. The Americans need it, not to fuel their SUVs, but to fuel their thirsty tanks and jet aircraft. Any power that needs it will try to control it. Any power that has it cannot let that happen. It’s why we’re taking steps to…”

Mansur stopped himself. He had almost said too much. Sadik knew, however, what those steps had to be. Iran’s ambitions went beyond its own oil wealth. It hoped to lead the creation of a Shiite oil crescent that extended through Iraq to the Saudi Eastern Province. The trick was to do so without being invaded and occupied by the western powers. Sadik knew Iran’s intention. Mansur knew that he knew it. Even so, it was better left unsaid.

Mansur clapped his hands to break the brief silence. “It’s a pity, incidentally, that you don’t have a drop of it. You would not be asking us for a loan of two million. You’d spill more than that every day.”

Sadik shrugged.

“But I digress,” said the Mansur. “Let’s get back to Lysistrata. Our women, as you know, have the vote, as do yours. But yours get to nominate candidates of their choosing. Ours do not. Do you understand why?”

Sadik did, but thought it best to let this come from Mansur.

“If they did, they’d vote secular. Wouldn’t you in their place? They’d give Islam a nod, an honored nod, to be sure, but no cleric could hope to get many votes unless he was both liberal and cuddly. More to the point, they’d elect other women. Any candidate named Aisha would breeze into office and appoint other women to positions of authority. The men? Emasculated. Marginalized. Reduced to carrying bags for their wives while they shop at Victoria’s Secret.”

“I… think you exaggerate,” said Sadik.

“Not if this happens too quickly,” said Mansur. “All people need time to adapt to change. You saw what happened when the Shah was deposed. You saw what happened when the Taliban took power. Overnight, a massive crackdown. Millions of women draped in hijab when they weren’t confined to their homes. All their gains erased, even such as they were. Would you like to see that happen again?”

“I would not.”

The senior mullah glanced at his watch. He turned to the others. “We need a few minutes to talk among ourselves.” He said to Sadik, “Would you please wait outside?” He tossed a hand toward the fat man. “You, as well.”

The first to speak was one of the Council’s two lawyers. He said, “This Sadik has murdered one of our women. Why aren’t we throwing him in prison?”

“Now she’s one of our women? We were killing her.”

“Well, he also maimed the jailer. He left him an invalid.”

“In my view, an improvement,” said Mansur. “Let’s move on.”

“We should at least detain him and question him further. He’s not telling us all that he knows.”

Mansur curled his lip. “How astute of you.”

The lawyer blanched. He said, “I am astute enough to ask questions that you haven’t. How is that this doctor, a leader of Hamas, not only knows so much about the Nasreens, but even seems to be defending their methods? How is that he’s also such a friend to this German who’s a friend to a killer of Muslims?”

“He wasn’t always Hamas. He wasn’t even Palestinian. And as I’ve said, he has an interesting circle of friends.”

The lawyer asked, “This circle. Does it include Jews?”

“I would think so. They live right next door.”

“And you find this acceptable? Collaboration with Jews?”

Mansur rolled his eyes. “Let me put it to you simply. Sadik talks to people. Sadik, unlike some, also listens to people. Most Islamists, by contrast, only talk to each other because, to them, there is only one way. And there isn’t. Not even within Islam.”

The mullah who’d been taking notes raised his pen. “You never mentioned these neighbors as possible plotters. You mentioned the British and the Americans. Why not the Mossad? This is their cup of tea.”

“What is?”

“Disinformation. Subversion. Causing turmoil among us.”

“Granted,” said Mansur, “but why? To what purpose? Do you think the Israelis hope to grab a few oil wells?”

“It’s not always oil. Sometimes it’s just deviltry.”

“The Mossad always has a clear set of objectives, all of which involve their continued survival. They have no time to make idle mischief. They’re probably wondering who’s behind it themselves, although I don’t think they’ll lose any sleep over it. But they, and all the other more shadowy ‘theys,’ will be watching to see what opportunities arise. That is why this must not get out of hand.”

Mansur paused. He addressed Colonel Aram Jalil. He said, “Colonel, did you know that the girl was being lashed?”

He shook his head. “I only learned of it when you did.”

“Have you questioned her friends?”

“You said wait for Sadik.”

“And now we have,” said Mansur. He turned to the others. “We are, however, not much further along in locating the source of this prophecy. Nor have we been able to locate Darvi’s daughters who, it appears, are among these handmaidens. Sadik, right or wrong, thinks he knows where to look. He has people who’ll help him, this network of his. We should give him whatever else he needs.”

“You heard him swear,” said the lawyer, “that he means no harm to this Aisha who’s supposed to be coming. You heard him say that he approves of what she’s done for Muslim women. You heard him say that he wants her alive.”

“Your point?”

“This man has a scheme of his own.”

Mansur wanted to say, ‘How astute of you’ again, but he didn’t. He said, “Let’s get him back in here.”

Sadik entered first. The man named Darvi entered afterward, looking even more disheveled and more frightened than before. He entered holding one hand to his cheek. Mansur guessed that Sadik had had a few words to say to him, very likely punctuated with a slap.

He said to Sadik, “How does four million sound?”

Sadik answered warily, “Twice as good as two million.”

Mansur gestured toward the father of the runaway girls.. “This man will be happy to donate that amount. It will be wired in your name by the end of this week, but of course the money comes with conditions.”

“I’d no doubt,” said Sadik. “Let me hear them.”

“Find the source. Find this Aisha. Find out who is behind this.”

“And then?”

“Swear now that you will report back to me. Tell me who, tell me where, and tell me what other assistance you will need. We have people in America who are ready to serve in any capacity that’s asked of them.”

Sadik asked, “Assistance? Assistance for what? Say out loud what sort of capacity.”

“Not killing her, certainly. The Hasheem would. We would not because, ethical questions aside, that would make matters worse. If we did, we’d soon read that we got the wrong one and that the real one is angrier than ever. What I want is a confession by everyone involved that this was a joke done in very bad taste. I want to see it broadcast on the media world-wide and especially over the internet. I want an apology for the trouble they’ve caused. Not to us. To the women of Islam.”

Sadik suspected that he wanted a good deal more than that. But he said, “Fair enough. What if it isn’t a joke?”

“As opposed to what? You think she’s really coming?”

“I… meant if it’s part of a larger conspiracy.”

“Again, who and where. I want names and locations. For conspiracy, also add why.”

Sadik asked, “And then?”

“The gloves come off. You know that they must. And you must decide who your friends are.”

TWENTY THREE 

Yitzhak Netanya, the head of Mossad, had a closet-full of loud Hawaiian shirts. He seldom wore them in public. He’d stand out too much. In Jerusalem, where he lived and worked, the norm was plain white shirts with open collars.

Even so, Netanya prized his collection because all of the shirts had come as gifts. They were all the same brand. The labels said Big Kahuna. This was actually something of an inside joke because although his title was Director of Mossad, his unofficial title was The Big Memuneh. That word was Hebrew for “the one in charge” and Kahuna in Hawaiian meant much the same thing. The two even rhyme. Hence the joke.

Netanya also liked to relax at the beach, dozing off to the sound of the surf. For this reason, he was always deeply tanned. All this taken together had made it inevitable that friends and family would start buying him these shirts. It became a competition. Who could find the loudest shirt?

It was easier now because of the internet. Type in “Big Kahuna” and there they were. Hundreds. There were several to choose from with semi-nude wahines, their modesty protected only by leis, and even a few with the face of Elvis Presley from when he made the movie, Blue Hawaii. Netanya wore them mostly in the privacy of his apartment. But never an Elvis and no semi-nudes. His wife and children would be less than merciful if they were to catch him in either.

On this day, a Wednesday, he was at home. It was his habit to take Wednesdays off because he often got no rest on the Sabbath. He would bring work home with him, but he’d seldom touch it. Wednesdays were for giving his brain a rest and puttering with things that were not so important. Or at least not a life and death crisis.

He had found himself reflecting on this part of his collection because one of the gaudier shirts he’d received a few years back was an Elvis and it came from Martin Kessler. This was typical of Kessler in more ways than one. It was also most welcome in more ways than one because Kessler, back then, had been believed to be dead for at least the second time that he knew of. The card read, “You shouldn’t believe all you hear. Bad pennies always turn up.” The next time he was dead was of course in Angola, but Netanya knew better so he didn’t get a shirt.

One of the first and most voluptuous of his semi-nude shirts was equally surprising, considering its source. That one came with a card signed by Rajib Sadik. One would think that a Muslim would take a dim view of hard-bodied beach blossoms strutting their stuff, but in those days he wasn’t high up in Hamas. Back then, he wasn’t even Sadik.

Netanya was reflecting on both of these shirts because of a message that blinked on his machine before he’d even got out of his pajamas. An instant message. Not a regular email. It came from Sadik and he was looking for Kessler. The message also mentioned Elizabeth Stride. It asked if she and Kessler were together again. The tone of it was breezy enough. No special reason for asking, it said. Just wondering how an old friend was doing. How is he? What’s he up to? Have you heard from him lately? But the breeziness seemed just a little bit forced. Netanya wasn’t sure that he was buying it.

He typed, “Who’s asking? The old friend or Hamas?”

The answer came, “Oh, don’t start. This is not Hamas business. I’ve been closer to Kessler and for more years than you. I’ve lost touch and I miss him. Do you know where he is?”

Netanya did. Or he probably did. The last news he had of Kessler was about three months old from when Kessler reunited with Stride after finishing his work in Angola. They’ve settled down, living more or less quietly, but the Saudis still have a big price on Stride’s head, so one can’t say that’s not Hamas business.

Netanya cleared his screen and typed in another code. A box appeared and he typed Sadik’s name. A file dropped down with its latest entry first. That entry showed that Sadik had flown to Tehran as recently as the night before last. From where? Amman? No, he flew from Riyadh. In Tehran, he checked into the Azadi Hotel. The Azadi? That’s a good one. Five stars, gourmet restaurants. Sadik has never been one to live high on the hog. Netanya wondered who picked up the tab.

According to the entry, he’d arrived this past Monday, got in around midnight and went straight to his room. No one greeted him, no minders, just Sadik. The next morning, yesterday, a car picked him up. Again, no escort. Just a driver. No report on where he went or who he met with. Interesting, however, that two hours later, he returned, this time with escorts, and seemed visibly upset. The escorts were Savama, Iran’s secret police, almost as feared as the Shah’s old Savak. The observer was quite sure that he saw fresh bloodstains on Sadik’s hands and on the cuffs of this shirt.

Had he been tortured? Had his fingernails pulled out? No, that didn’t seem likely. He was seen to be walking with strength and with purpose. Whose blood, then? A patient’s? That didn’t seem likely either. If he’d come to Tehran to perform surgery on a patient, he’d have done so wearing a surgical smock and with latex gloves on his hands. So whose blood? And why hadn’t he washed up?

The report said he took his meals in his room until early this morning when, again, a car pulled up out front for him. He had minders with him, very serious minders. They’d probably spent the night outside his door. The minders, the Savama, made Sadik sit between them and the car headed off to who knows where. Was he being arrested? It certainly seemed so. But the same day, today, he landed back in Amman, apparently no worse for wear.

Netanya clicked down to the next most recent entry. “Hmmph,” said Netanya. “Busy man.” On the morning of the day when he flew to Tehran, Sadik had flown to Riyadh. There, he took a taxi to a building downtown. The building housed Saudi Overseas Charities. He was there for less than one hour. This entry was otherwise short on details, probably because the trip seemed routine. Sadik made such trips every three months or so for the purpose of drumming up cash contributions toward another one of his clinics.

The Saudis were by far his primary source. They were good for about two million per quarter. And it didn’t come easy. Sadik had to work for it. His competition for that money is Hamas itself, especially its militant wing.

Netanya clicked down again. There’s another. Three months ago. But the informant who had reported that visit said its purpose might have been personal in nature. He didn’t know for sure. He’s just heard some local gossip. It seems that some prince was missing a daughter and was in the Saudi doghouse because of it.

Netanya shrugged. He thought, well, so what? Unless this prince thought his daughter had run off with Sadik, Hamas is no missing persons bureau. They must have met for some other reason.

Netanya closed that window and brought up Sadik’s message. He hit Reply and typed in, “How were things in Tehran?”

A few minutes later came Sadik’s response. “Must you be such a show-off? It’s not Mossad’s business either. No, wait. Show off more. Run your file on Kessler if you haven’t already and give me a way to make contact.”

Netanya had, in fact, already done so. He had Kessler’s address and several email addresses. But first he had a few questions. He wrote, “Nothing for nothing. Come on, Rajib, give. First, what were you doing these last two days in Tehran and what’s with the bloody white shirt?”

Sadik answered, “I repeat. It is none of your affair. It was strictly a personal matter.”

“Like Riyadh?”

This time Sadik didn’t answer so quickly. His reply, when it came, ignored Riyadh totally. It said, “Tehran was a mission of mercy, you schnorrer. On my word, this is true. Don’t make a big deal. Are you able to help me or not?”

Netanya more or less believed him. He’s a surgeon, after all. Sadik would be Netanya’s first choice as well if they ever found a lump in his chest. And Sadik knew better than to tell an outright lie. It might close a door that’s better kept ajar.

He wrote, “If Kessler and Stride are where I think they are, I shouldn’t contact them directly. I can, however, reach them through a friend. I’ll tell him of your wish to get in touch. He’ll ask me why and I’ll tell him that you say it’s personal. But I’ll also have to tell him that you are Hamas and that, I assure you, will raise a red flag. This man is like me; he likes to know what’s going on. He’s going to want to know what you say to each other. Failing that, he will not let it happen.”

Netanya sat back and waited for a response. The “friend,” of course, was Harry Whistler. Sadik also knew Harry. Or at least he knew of him. But from another time, another life. Let’s see… when did Kessler and Stride first meet Harry? Ten years ago, maybe? Something like that. Sadik and Kessler go back farther than that. Sadik must not know that they’d hooked up with Whistler or it would have been the first thing he asked.

Sadik proved it. He replied, “Yitzhak, you’re full of shit. There isn’t any ‘friend’ unless maybe it’s you. Never mind. I’ll ask someone else.”

Netanya wrote, “You wound me. It happens to be true. I can’t and won’t go around this man because I get the same courtesy from him. If you cannot accept this, by all means go elsewhere. That’s if you have an elsewhere to go to.”

Sadik replied promptly. “Let me think.”

Netanya would wait. Perhaps it really was personal. Perhaps Sadik’s business with Kessler and Stride has nothing to do with this part of the world. That would, incidentally, be just fine with Harry who preferred to stay clear of the Mideast and its problems. True, he’d worked with Mossad on a couple of occasions, but on nothing related to the Palestine question or to its Muslim neighbors in general.

Netanya had told Whistler that he envied him that luxury. “Stick to Europe, America, anyplace northern. You have crazies there as well, but not in such abundance. Stick with countries not devoid of all rational discourse. Here, you try to be progressive and you get shouted down. Not just by the Muslims. We have Jews just as radical. Both of them ask, ‘Who knows better, you or God?’ Each side says that God says the other must be killed, so stop wasting our time with your peace plans.

Better yet, thought Netanya, stick to Geneva. Better still, to your mountain retreat in Chamonix. Build a wall. Make a fortress. Keep the world out. Which, of course, is what Israel is trying to do, and which is damned near what he’s done with his ski lodge.

Netanya had misled Sadik just a little when he implied that Harry might not permit direct contact. Under Harry’s hospitality doesn’t mean he’s Kessler’s nanny. Nor would Harry have any real control over Stride. Harry might indeed see a red flag in this, but he’d leave it to Kessler to decide for himself as long as Kessler keeps him informed.

Keeping Harry informed, however, was one thing. Keeping Yitzhak Netanya informed was another. Over here, we always need to know what’s going on. What we don’t know gets people killed every day. If Sadik needs to contact to Martin Kessler, he may, but he’ll do so through Yitzhak Netanya.

Sadik’s email popped up. It was not what he’d expected. Sadik wrote, “At least tell me; is Aisha still with them?”

Still with them? Yes, of course. They’re all she has left. Good for her that she has them. Maybe not so good for them. People close to her keep getting killed. First her parents and then the two Nasreens who took her in. She’s already had more than her share of bad luck. Let’s hope that it doesn’t come in threes.

It’s also good that Stride and Kessler are together again. Let’s hope that it’s more than just an on-again phase of their on-again-off-again relationship. The most recent off-again lasted two years, the time during which Stride thought he was dead. He wasn’t, of course. He was in Angola. Working deep cover. Doing a job for Harry Whistler and yours truly.

Kessler was willing to pretend to be dead because he thought he was, in fact, dying from a dose of radiation to which he’d been exposed during his last misadventure with Stride. And he is, very probably, but not for a while. The doctors thought that he had perhaps two good years in him before certain of his organs start to fail. Time enough to do the job in Angola. Now they say they were wrong. They say he’s either much stronger than they thought or the dose was fewer rads than they thought. Even so, say the doctors, he’s got five at the most and in the meantime he’s both sterile and impotent. The impotence factor was another of the reasons why Kessler was willing to get out of Stride’s life. But as he himself said, he’s like a bad penny. In any event, he did finish in Angola. Next thing you know, he turns up in the States just as Stride and Aisha were forced to relocate when the Nasreens closed their Hilton Head facility.

Was she glad to see him? She was ready to kill him. No word for two years. He’d caused Stride to cry, to shed actual tears, and Elizabeth Stride doesn’t cry. Well, not often.

In any case, Kessler survived their reunion. But Stride isn’t one to forgive and forget or to purge her homicidal impulses. Instead, she redirects them. Guess who’s the new target. Yours truly is who. It’s for that Angola business. It’s for convincing Kessler that it’s better all around if he let her and Aisha believe that he’s dead. It didn’t help that he isn’t and that he came back. It didn’t help that it worked out well in the end. It didn’t help that she herself had worked for the Mossad and should have known that we do what we must. Yes, we used Kessler. We’d done the same thing with her. But apparently, to Stride, enough was enough. According to Kessler, she laid down the law. She told him, “I forgive you now that I know your reasons, but I don’t forgive Yitzhak Netanya. If I’m ever within reach of that man again, I’ll carve him up like a roast.”