The Aisha Prophecy (27 page)

Howard Leland will be ruined. Front page news the world over. Guaranteed, by the way. I have a friend in the business. The scandal will also bring down Roger Clew. You’ll have lost a most valuable ally. Your name, that of Stride and your sundry Muslim-ettes will be central to all of these stories. You’ll be deluged by the media, but that is the least of it. Angry Saudis, desperate Saudis will descend on Belle Haven. Some will do so through the senators and congressmen they own. They in turn will enlist the FBI, the CIA. Others will argue for more direct action. They’ll send their own brutish security people to kidnap as hostages anyone you hold dear. But as bad as this could get, they are not your biggest problem because all they want is their money.

Your biggest problem, by far, relates to this prophecy. Are you even aware of it? Possibly no. Possibly it’s just mischief by some girls who’ve passed through via this feminist underground railroad that’s run by your friends, the Nasreens. But who will believe that you’re innocent of it? Here’s the prince’s note. It’s all they’ll need.

And you’re in league with Sadik? That’s what the note says. That must mean you’re in league with the Zionists as well. But Sadik, now blown, can kiss his own ass goodbye. Who’ll kill him? Any Muslim. But Hamas has first dibs. And then they’ll be coming after you.

Talk about covering all the bases, thought the mogul. All that’s lacking in this note is a call to arms addressed to half a billion Muslim men. They won’t all come to Belle Haven, of course. Some will want you alive until you give up that money. But then, of course, there’s the lunatic fringe. The fanatics who will now know the source of this prophecy. How many? A few thousand? Oh, easily that many. And how many car bombs? At least one a day. So much for local real estate values.

The mogul folded the note. He returned it to his pocket. The banker asked, “What are you going to do with it?”

“We, my friend. We. First comes self-preservation. Is Leland your enemy? Is Clew?”

The banker hesitated. “Not so far.”

“Is Kessler your enemy? Is Whistler?”

The banker shook his head. “They are Haskell’s. Not mine.”

“And I propose to keep it that way.” The mogul rubbed his hands. “Okay, here’s what you do. Go back down and tell Haskell that I can’t come to breakfast. Intestinal distress. I’ve got to stay near a toilet. Has he asked if you’ve seen anything of Leland?”

“No.”

“He will. I don’t think he’ll be able to resist. If he does, say you have, that he went out for a jog. If he doesn’t, bring up Leland’s jog on your own. He’ll ask how Leland seemed. Say that he seemed hung over. The idea is to keep Haskell glued to his seat waiting for Leland’s return.”

“He’ll… see that something’s happened. I’m not that good an actor.”

“Yes, he might,” said the mogul. “He’s not easily fooled. Are you able to pretend that your stomach is churning?”

“That wouldn’t be pretending. It is.”

“Then go ahead and squirm as you’re sitting with Haskell. Let out a loud fart if you can. Let him see you trying to tighten your sphincter. Say, uh-oh, you think you may have caught the same bug that has me confined to my bathroom.”

“That I can do,” said the banker.

“Then go.”

The mogul waited as the banker descended the stairs. He closed Leland’s door and picked up his house phone. He said, “The chief of maintenance, please.”

The call was redirected. A voice came on. The mogul gave his name and his membership number. It wasn’t needed. The voice said, “I know who you are, sir.”

“I need a clean-up, a discrete one, with your usual thoroughness. The Teddy Roosevelt Cabin, Room 3, second floor.”

“A member, sir?”

“A transient. He won’t be missed. Pack up everything belonging to the guest in Room 3 and bring it to me in Room 7. Pack up everything belonging to the transient, room 5, and see that it’s properly disposed of.”

“Five minutes. Through the kitchen. Sir, you ought not to be there.”

“Understood. You’ll need a plumber. And some wall paint. And some plaster.”

“Sir…”

“Forgive me.”

“We can handle it, sir.”

“Bless you. Have a good day.”

TWENTY FIVE 

Netanya took a break. His wife had made him a sandwich. It would still be several hours before Kessler could respond.

When he does read it, though, he’s bound to assume that we know a lot more than we’re saying. We don’t, but we should. I mean, this is Mossad; we don’t fly in the dark. We’d better do a little more homework.

He returned to his computer. He sat cracking his knuckles. But where, he asked himself, do we start? Sadik wanted to know, “Are the Darvi girls with Aisha?” He wouldn’t say who they are, so, okay, we’ll start there. Netanya tapped a few keys. A search engine dropped down. He typed in the name “Darvi” and hit “Enter.”

Dumb, he thought. Much too broad a search. His screen had flooded with Darvis. Too common a name in some parts of the world. There were probably dozens in Israel alone. But okay, use your head. Sadik’s visit to Tehran. Perhaps there are fewer in Tehran.

He refined his search to read “Darvi Tehran,” but again there were far too many hits. Tehran is a city of six million, after all. More people than are in all of Israel. Take a minute, thought Netanya. Let’s think this thing out.

Whatever brought Sadik to Tehran had to have been government sanctioned. That’s a mystery in itself because Sadik is Hamas. Iran supports Hezbollah, not Hamas. More to the point, they detest the Wahhabis and Hamas had been a Wahhabi tool. Or at least it was at the beginning.

No, thought Netanya. They wouldn’t deal with Hamas. They must have needed Sadik himself, irrespective of him being Hamas. He wasn’t sure where this line of reasoning was getting him except to conclude that someone high up had invited him and that something big must have been at stake. But that “someone high up” was not someone named Darvi or the name would have already rung a bell.

Darvi, however, was all that he had. He refined his search further, adding “Doctor.” It seemed worth a try. Darvi could well be a doctor. Perhaps Sadik was called in to consult on the surgery of this someone or other high up. But Netanya came up empty. No doctors named Darvi. He deleted “Doctor” and typed “Government Official” even though he considered that unlikely. But, bingo, he hit. The list was now down to five. Five minor officials named Darvi.

Netanya assumed that the five were all relatives. In every bureaucracy throughout the Mideast, there are suck-ups who have jumped aboard the wagon. The first to hit pay dirt brings in brothers and cousins. Family members are more readily trusted or at least they’re more easily kept an eye on. The senior Darvi of these five must be this first one, Mustafa Darvi. It says he’s a Deputy Minister. The other four all have “assistant” in their titles. So, okay, he’s a minister, but a minister of what? This says he’s with the Council on Energy Services. What’s a Council on Energy Services?

Netanya grunted to himself. It was a vague enough title. It could mean almost anything that was energy-related. Not nuclear, however. Netanya would have heard of him. Probably not oil or natural gas either for much the same reason; his file would be flagged. His responsibilities – if he had any worth mentioning – would probably limited to some ancillary service such as servicing pipelines and oil pumping stations. Maybe running a few of the state-owned gas stations. Quite a number of Iranians were given gas stations in return for some service to the mullahs’ revolution. It didn’t have to be much of a service. They’d been useful, so the mullahs threw them a bone. But Darvi’s seemed a pretty lucrative bone. The file showed a good address in Tehran, a beach house on the Caspian, an apartment in Paris and minority ownership of a time-share in Monaco where he takes a gambling trip once a year.

The Mossad clerk who’d compiled and entered this file must have agreed that he was nobody special. Otherwise, there would be more of a personal history. Mossad doesn’t spend much time on flunkies. There were no notes regarding his immediate family except to say that he had two sons. No daughters mentioned, but that’s not unusual. Sons are everything to people like Darvi. Daughters are just so much baggage. Or, assuming that the daughters are halfway attractive, they’re bartered to arrange an early marriage to a groom from a more important family.

Netanya hit some more keys. Another box opened. He dashed off a note to his Deputy Director who didn’t get to take Wednesdays off. It read, “Yoni, do me a personal favor. See what else we have on Mustafa Darvi, a minor oil official in Tehran. Find out if he’s missing any daughters. Also a Saudi princess named Rasha. The Saudi ran off about three months ago. Find out what you can about her father.”

Sadik said “girls” so there are at least two. They could be cousins, but more likely daughters. What might they and the Saudi have in common? Well, Sadik, of course. And certainly the Nasreens.

Under “Search” he typed “Darvi” and added “Nasreens.” Once again, his screen flooded, but with only Nasreens. No cross reference with anyone named Darvi. This was no great surprise. He’d just given it a shot. Missing daughters doesn’t necessarily suggest the Nasreens. If you’re a daughter and you want to run, the Nasreens are far from the only game in town, but they’re certainly the most hated and condemned. Six of the first dozen entries were fatwa’s. Calling for their deaths. Big rewards for their capture. All of them called lesbian whores and apostates. He wondered if Sadik, when he fights with his wife, has ever called Maryam a lesbian whore. Sadik wouldn’t, of course. Nor would anyone else. Not if he liked his nose where God put it.

He did notice, however, that of these rewards, few seemed to be offered for the return of the women whom the Nasreens had helped to escape. Not even rewards for information as to their current whereabouts. That seemed odd, but it was perhaps understandable. Some might have decided to cut their losses rather than to risk failure and more humiliation. Others might have claimed that their daughters were dead. Not just dead in their eyes. Dead for real. Found and killed. It’s a safe enough lie unless their daughters turn up. But few will. They’ll have taken new identities while the heat is on, changing back later if they wish. Up to them.

Netanya wondered what Aisha was calling herself now. Aisha Bandari was the name she was born with. Did she keep it or change it? What if Stride and Kessler marry? Aisha Kessler? He hoped not. It falls hard on the ear.

He didn’t bother with a search of Elizabeth Stride. He knew what he’d find. Spawn of Satan, God-cursed, a long list of her crimes, and a million dollar price on her head. And he knew that there would be few recent entries because Stride, like Kessler, was thought to be dead. There were several accounts - he’d seen them before this – of groups who had tried to claim the reward by providing proof that they’d killed her. On two occasions, they videotaped her. They had her strapped to a chair; she would recite her confession. On one they slowly sawed off her head. On the other they wanted it to be seen that she suffered so they started by slicing off her ears and then her nose as she shrieked and gagged all the while. At last count, she died at least eight different times and in almost as many locations.

The sad thing was that all of these deaths were real deaths. Some were women who were merely suspected to be Stride and made to confess under torture. Two or three were even women who claimed to be Stride in the hope of being admired or enriched, doing talk shows, maybe writing a book. The real Black Angel, they assumed, would not come forward to dispute them. Well, she didn’t. But they dug their own graves.

Aisha, he murmured.

Aisha, Aisha. Aisha, Aisha.

Why does that name set off a spark in his brain?

Netanya knew the answer. All this talk of that prophecy. Type “Aisha” into Google and the other search engines; you’ll get something like three million hits. This explosion is new because the rumor is new, but the groundwork was already well in place. Type “Muslim feminist” into any search engine and you get about four million hits. If you narrow it down to Muslim Feminist Websites, you’re talking four or five thousand. Tehran all by itself has more than sixty.

The Iranians and the Saudis try to block them, of course. It’s hopeless because new ones pop up every day and are often disguised to seem harmless. Netanya recalled one that went under the title, “How to cultivate prize hothouse flowers.” It took the censors three months to catch on that the prize hothouse flowers were their daughters.

Netanya smiled. He chuckled. But he felt his smile fading. That spark in his brain was flashing again. He saw his fingers moving, almost unwilled, to type the name “Aisha” on his keyboard. To that name, he added the word, “Prophecy.” He clicked on “Search” and his screen seemed to shout at him. There it was, in every language, even Hebrew. It didn’t name Aisha specifically, but there was no need. Most Muslims who weren’t illiterate would know and half of the rest would have heard of her. The Lady of the Camel was Aisha.

This prophecy was what, almost a thousand years old? And pretty much ignored all that time. But here it is, resurrected, just a few months ago. And it came back to life at about the same time when Stride’s Aisha relocated to Virginia.

“She will be of the East but turn your eyes to the West because that is where her banner will unfurl.”

Of the East, thought Netanya. Cairo is East. And Bella Haven is definitely West.

“She will have grown up among you, dressed in white, pure of heart.”

Among you fits with Cairo. Dressed in white is all that tennis.

No, wait, thought Netanya. Get hold of yourself. Next you’ll look at this angel named Qaila and say that she sounds like Elizabeth Stride.

As for Aisha, herself, it says she’ll soon be of age. Is sixteen of age? Sure it is. Why not? In some countries, sixteen is a spinster. The original Aisha was a child of six when Mohammed took her as a wife. In fairness, however, he was no pedophile. It was an arrangement, uniting two families. Even popes married children that young. And most were willing to wait a few years before consummating the marriage. So how old was this Aisha when her maidenhood ended? Sixteen? That would sound about right.

Netanya growled at himself. Look at me, he thought. I’m sitting here trying to make pieces fit that are probably in no way connected. All roads do not lead to Belle Haven. But what about Sadik? Has he done the same thing? Has he decided that Stride’s Aisha is the Aisha of the prophecy?

Impossible, thought Netanya. Sadik is no boob. He would assume from the get-go that the prophecy was dredged up just to see how much trouble it could cause. He also knows Kessler well enough to be sure that Kessler would never go near this. Nor would Stride. Not in ten million years. They would both know that this could be nothing but trouble if this prophecy were laid at their door.

No, thought Netanya. They’re no boobs either. But this part of the world has no shortage of boobs. Have some of them done what he caught himself doing? Have some decided – on the flimsiest of evidence – that these two Aishas are one and the same?

Yes, thought Netanya. Some very well might. Even if they don’t believe it, they can’t dismiss it because so many women seem to want to believe it. They’ll want it ended. They’ll want it exposed. Still others – and now we’re not just talking Muslims – will see, not some hoax, but a deep, dark conspiracy.

To what end? They don’t know, but it must involve oil. Why oil? What else? What else here is worth having? And how do you get it? You either buy it or take it. Take means invade and that makes you unpopular. Unless you’re invited, but invited by whom? Muslim wives and Muslim daughters? The whole female population? You shouldn’t hold your breath until that happens.

Or unless the invasion… go slow on this… wait. Unless it’s thought to be sanctioned by Allah himself. Through the Lady of the Camel. Through Aisha, reborn.

Now there, thought Netanya, is one hell of a conspiracy. He ought to call Kessler. Ask him outright. He’d say, “Hi, Martin, what’s new? Any interesting projects? Has anyone hired you to seize the world’s oil? Just asking. No reason. How’s Elizabeth?”

He leaned back in his chair. He muttered. “Yitzhak, get a grip. Too many years in intelligence work. A cigar is sometimes just a cigar.”

If he had to make a bet on what’s going on here, he’d go with the hoax option first. A bit of mischief by someone who’d had no idea how fast and how far it would spread. Who started it? Who knows? Maybe those Darvi girls. Or maybe that young Saudi princess if she’s with them. All they’d need is too much time on their hands and access to an on-line computer.

Their motive? That’s easy. It’s payback time. Stick it to all the men whose treatment of women was why they wanted out in the first place. Or maybe it’s simpler. They’re just having some fun. What’s that song his own daughter would burst into when he told her she couldn’t stay out after ten? Ah, yes. Cyndi Lauper. He’d even catch himself humming it. The song? Girls Just Want To Have Fun.

The telephone rings in the middle of the night.

My father yells, what you gonna do with your life.

Oh daddy dear, you know you’re still number one,

But girls, they want to have fuh-un.

Oh, girls, they want to have fun.

So they do, thought Netanya. So they should, thought Netanya. But fun gets you killed in some places.

If this did start in Belle Haven… and that’s still far from certain…it’s sure to be seen as a Harry Whistler scheme by some intelligence service or other. Why? Because it’s happening in Harry’s house. And not just a house, another fortified house that is immune to electronic spyware. What’s he up to? They don’t know, but it must be big because plots are always presumed to be big and always international in scope.