The Aisha Prophecy (20 page)

“A race? It might be more like a cavalry charge. Most other Islamic regimes loathe the Saudis, especially the Shiite regimes. Sadik mentioned Iran. Good example. They’d love to get hold of this flight money list. And publish it. Embarrass them. Maybe start an uprising. For the Saudi Shiites, the eastern province Saudi Shiites, that list could be the last straw. It could make them all the more willing and eager to cast their lot with Iran and Iraq and form that Shiite crescent you’ve envisioned.”

Haskell shrugged. He said, “Good. We’re well positioned for that.”

“Maybe, but not for the totally unexpected. By that, I mean this prophecy. It could open the floodgates. Every Muslim regime will want to see it proved false as more of their women hear that ‘She’ is on the way. It’s very much in their interest to quash this thing before they find themselves facing their own revolution by a few hundred million Muslim women.”

Haskell sighed. “Okay. Is that all of it?”

“We left the building, made a dash for the airport. We got out while the getting was good.”

“Sadik didn’t try to stop you?”

“We thought he was about to. He did pull out his phone. I froze, but he wasn’t calling Saudi security. Too many digits. An overseas call. He asked to be put through to someone named Mansur who apparently wasn’t available. He said, ‘Tell Mansur it’s Rajib Sadik and ask him if he still has those girls.’ This wasn’t in Arabic. He was speaking in Farsi. He must have been calling Iran.”

“About this?”

“No, the weather,” snapped the banker. “Of course, about this. What’s more, although Mansur is a common enough name, there’s an Abbas Mansur who chairs the Guardian Council. He’s one of the most popular clerics in Iran and likely, I think, to be its next president if they ever hold an honest election. If it’s him…”

“Skip the guesswork. What else did you hear?”

“He waited until a voice came back on. He listened and seemed shocked by whatever he was hearing. He asked, ‘What girl? One of those who were arrested? And they’re torturing her? Does he know about this?’ He listened. He didn’t like what he was hearing. He said, ‘Find Mansur. Tell him I’m on my way. In the meantime, stop it. Do nothing further. Get her to a hospital now.’”

“Get who?”

“I don’t know. A girl. All he said was a girl. One who seems to be in need of his attention. And whoever he was talking to was giving him an argument. Sadik started cursing this person out. Really furious. Blindly furious. He no longer seemed to care that we were still in the office. It seemed a good time to slip away.”

“Iran, huh?” said Haskell. His expression had gone distant.

“What are you thinking?” asked the banker.

“Kessler has two girls who are sisters from Iran.”

“Sadik said girl, not girls. This time it was singular. And he was speaking of someone still there.”

“Someone he wants to talk to.”

“He’d be doing so by now. If she’s still able.”

“Some friend of those two sisters? Maybe someone who’s heard from them?”

“No idea,” said the banker. “But it’s obviously related. If not to the sisters, surely to this damned prophecy. And we can safely assume that he’s joining the hunt for the missing ten billion dollars.”

“Joining it? He’d be leading it. He’s way out in front. No one else knew about any of this until that shithead prince…” Haskell paused. He asked, “Where is the prince now?”

“Quarantined in his room with his good friend, Jack Daniels. I’ve left word that he’s not to be disturbed. You are… probably wondering why I brought him back.”

“You couldn’t leave him in Lisbon. I know that.”

“He’s asked to see Howard Leland. He wants to defect. Happily, Leland’s…”

“Off canoeing. All day.”

“Leland would have had him out of here in ten minutes. Whisked off to some army base. Exhaustively debriefed. The prince has become a liability, Charles.”

“So it seems.”

“If there are… adjustments that ought to be made, that sort of thing seems more up your alley.”

Haskell nodded. He said, “I’ll take care of it.”

The mogul approached, the laptop open in his hands. He spoke to the banker, his head cocked to one side. He said, “The language certainly seems adolescent. But that could be a ruse in itself. The strangled syntax as well.”

“We’ve discussed that,” said the banker. “We’re not sure it’s a ruse.”

“These so-called handmaidens. This exchange you had with them. What time of the day would that have been?”

“In Riyadh? Late afternoon. It was about four o’clock.”

“So let’s see. That would be eight in the morning in Washington. Roger Clew is in Washington. And it’s breakfast time there.”

Haskell folded his arms. “You’re point being?”

“This handmaiden. She said it. She wanted her breakfast. You don’t want to believe that it’s Stride who’s behind this. We’re told that the Nasreens don’t do such things either.”

“Speed it up. Tell us something we don’t know.”

“I don’t like to say it, but you might be right. If it isn’t Stride, it could still be Kessler. And Kessler could be working with Clew.”

Haskell curled his lip. “This is your big epiphany?”

“I’m trying to agree with you. You said it yourself.”

“I said I could feel it. You said I’m deluded. But here’s the reality. They’re all that we have. There’s no other place to start looking.”

“Leland swore that Stride and Kessler do not have the disk. He swore, Charles. I think he believes it.”

“He’s playing us.”

“Not Leland. He wouldn’t swear lightly.”

“Okay, then his man, Roger Clew, is playing him. Clew wants that disk for himself.”

The mogul nodded. “No doubt. And so will almost anyone else who happens to learn of its existence.”

“You think so?” asked Haskell. “You don’t know the half of it.” He said to the banker, “Fill him in about Sadik. Me, I’m going to take a shower. We’ll talk later.”

The banker said, “I will. But this is getting beyond us. Perhaps we should…”

“No. We’re not backing off.”

“I was going to suggest a more wait and see posture.”

“And leave that disk to Sadik? Or to God knows who else? We’ve got too much invested and the payoff will be huge. Not again. Not twice. I will not let that happen.”

“Twice?” asked the banker. He was looking at the mogul.

The mogul didn’t answer. He said to Haskell. “Take your shower.”

Haskell hesitated. He cocked his head to one side. He had the look of a man who’d just had an idea and who wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. The mogul saw it. He said, “A revelation? Care to share it?”

Haskell answered, “I’m thinking. Maybe we don’t need the disk. Maybe there’s another way to do this.”

“Do what, exactly, Charles?”

“Two birds with one stone.”

“The second bird being Kessler? I’m not sure I want to hear this. But let’s have it. What do you have in mind?”

“Later,” said Haskell. “I need time to think it through.” He turned and slowly walked off the jetty, rhythmically tapping the face of his racquet against the side of one leg. The mogul saw his head nodding as if in agreement with a voice that only Charles Haskell could hear. The mogul groaned within himself as he watched.

He heard the banker ask again, “What’s this twice?”

“Kessler again, thwarting Haskell, or he thinks so. The first, of course, was that business in Angola. You and I lost some skin on that one as well. You and I have moved on. Charles Haskell has not. It’s become a psychosis with him.”

“And another seems to be with… what was that name?”

“Elizabeth Stride. I’ll fill you in later. Suffice it to say that she’s sinned against Haskell by not realizing that she is intended for him.”

“How many psychoses are we dealing with here?”

“With Charles? Hard to say. Charles Haskell is more than one person, you know. It’s hereditary, probably. Gets it from his mother. Did you know she ended up in an asylum?”

The banker raised an eyebrow. “I did not.”

“Lost all touch with herself. She became other people. Charles does the same thing every now and again, depending, it seems, on who he thinks he needs to be. He says it’s deliberate, but I’m not so sure. Nor am I sure that he’s always aware of it.”

The banker didn’t understand. “Who does he become?”

“Oh, various film actors and characters from books. He was Fred Astaire when he wooed his first wife. Took a course in ballroom dancing and tap. Hard to picture, I know, but it’s true.”

“That… hardly suggests mental illness,” said the banker.

“For the next one, the pianist, he was Tom Hanks, I think. He felt the need to seem engagingly vulnerable. But you’re right. It’s role-playing. Not troubling in itself. But let’s hope that he’s never seen The Silence of the Lambs. Someone might end up as his dinner.”

The banker smiled at what he thought was a joke.

The mogul asked, “Ever talk to yourself?”

“I suppose we all think aloud on occasion.”

“We do, but Charles has discussions with himself. Perhaps they’re with his better nature, if he has one. Or perhaps an evil twin. I’m never sure.”

The banker frowned. He asked the mogul, “Why are you saying this?”

“So that you’ll understand him. Forewarned is forearmed. No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s unbalanced. But he has a touch of madness and you know the old saying. Nothing great has ever been accomplished without it. The man’s certainly driven. Takes the bit in his teeth. I’ve yet to see anyone else best him.”

“Other than this Kessler, you mean.”

The mogul rocked a hand. He said, “Well, not really. If I were to bother pinning the blame, I’d look more to Harry Whistler and to the Mossad. But they don’t have Stride. Martin Kessler has Stride. That is the long and the short of it.”

As the mogul spoke, he was still watching Haskell. Haskell, still nodding, had quickened his pace.

“Harry Whistler’s an American, is he not?” asked the banker.

“When it suits him. Why do you ask?”

“A citizen, but your government seems to take a blind eye…”

“To his activities? Yes, they leave him alone. It’s in their interest. He helps keep the oil flowing. No surprise. Look at Haskell. They leave him alone. And he’s indictable a hundred times over.”

Yes, look at him, thought the mogul. See that purposeful stride? The mogul paused to smile at his unintended pun. “Do you suppose he’s on his way to kill the prince?”

The banker stiffened. “You mean now?”

“Uh-huh. As we speak. He certainly can’t let him get to Leland.” Haskell was climbing the steps of their cabin, taking them two at a time. “As I’ve said, he takes the bit in his teeth.”

“Kill him here at the Grove? He wouldn’t think of it, would he?”

“Perhaps not. But never mind. And that’s a sensible ‘never mind.’ We’d have nothing to do with it, would we?”

The banker’s hands went to his cheeks. “Surely not.”

“We’d have nothing to do with any of this. If it should go badly. And unless it goes well. We are both prudent men, are we not?”

“To a fault.”

“Now tell me. What about this Sadik?”

TWENTY 

Tuesday morning. Qasr Prison. In the center of Tehran.

Sadik had rushed to Riyadh’s King Khalid airport where he grabbed the first flight to Tehran. As he’d feared, he was already too late. The young woman had been sentenced to eight hundred lashes to be meted out one hundred at a time. She would not survive eight hundred. No one ever had. Her name was Farah. She was nineteen years old. In her language, Farah meant joy.

She had barely survived the first two sets of one hundred. They had been spaced only three days apart. Her body was in shock, wracked by chills and convulsions. One more session. Sadik knew, and her mind would be gone, even if her heart went on beating.

The guard, a sergeant, who carried out the sentence had plenty of experience in these matters. He knew that this would be her last chance to talk. If she didn’t, or couldn’t, it was much the same to him. She was only getting what she deserved.

This was justice, thought the sergeant, because her mind had been poisoned. Too smart for her own good. Too many books. This one, he’d been told, was in her second year of college. She was learning about business and the use of computers. College for women? Look where it got her. She would never again see the sun.

The charge had been heresy and the spreading of that heresy. She’d been caught at one of those Internet cafes that the mullahs should have closed long ago. She’d been confronted with a message that she’d passed to many others. It began with the words, “She is coming.” Its source was believed to be a close friend of this one, a friend who had sneaked off to America. The friend spoke of the prophecy and swore to its truth. The friend said that she was with the one who was coming. She said the Lady of the Camel is reborn, flesh and blood, and soon the whole world will know it. This one, therefore, knows where the heresy had come from and where the false prophet whom it spoke of could be found.

Moreover, she’d been seen to take pleasure in her crime. A witness had testified that he saw her smiling as she typed words that had been forbidden. And she was giggling and whispering with other young women who were seated at other machines. All of those had been arrested and imprisoned as well. They’d been put in a pen a few steps down the hall from the room where the sentence was being carried out. This was so that they could listen to her sobs and her screams and know what they, too, might have in store for them.

The old mullah who judged her had tried to be merciful. He had given her the chance to recant and confess. She was told that if she did, her sentence might be suspended after only fifty lashes with a strap. The strap would be the soft one, made of wool, although with knots. It would not be the one that they showed her, made of wires. In return for that mercy, she must tell all she knows. Who first told her of the prophecy? Who did she tell in turn? She was to name every person to whom she had sent this, and not only those within the borders of Iran. Also those in America. Especially those. The ones she wrote to were thought to be as many as eight hundred. Give their names or the sentence would be one lash for each.

But this women had been obstinate. She was frightened. She wept. Even so, she said, “I will not betray my friend.”

So the lashes were administered one hundred at a time using the electrical cable. The first hundred were followed by three days of semi-healing, time to reflect on her error. She was then brought down again for one hundred more. For these, she was allowed to remain fully covered because the mullah who judged her had wished to be present. The old mullah had expected that she would relent within the first dozen or so strokes. But she did not, nor would she scream for the others to hear. When the first one hundred ended, she had gasped through gritted teeth, “It is true. It is true. She is coming.”

The sergeant who lashed her, in his long plastic apron, shook his head and pretended to be saddened. He had said to the mullah, “You have said it yourself. Too much learning ruins women. Give them books and they’re soon lost to God.”

The beaten woman cleared her throat. She rasped the words, “It is you.”

The mullah wasn’t sure what she’d said. He leaned closer.

She then raised her voice with effort. She croaked, “It is you. It is you who are lost. The angel Qaila will send you to hell.”

That earned her a caning on the soles of her feet. These blows were extra, not counted toward her sentence. She didn’t have so much to say after that. This morning, back on schedule, she would get her next one hundred. He sent two guards to fetch her. She was conscious, but barely. The guards strapped her, face down, to a long wooden bench. The sergeant dismissed them, closed the steel door behind them and slid its heavy bolt into place.

Her chador was torn, her clothing clotted with blood. Parts of her smelled like apples, a sign of gangrene. Her only words this time were like animal sounds. The old mullah had chosen not to attend. He said he saw no purpose in wasting his time if she is unlikely or unable to recant. In the mullah’s absence, the sergeant had decided that her modesty need no longer be considered. Left to him, all prisoners would always be naked. Naked prisoners are always more frightened.

And some you could have sex with if the mullahs weren’t watching. The sergeant would have liked a few minutes with this one before the first session began. She had a fine young body. Not so fine anymore. But he had no regrets because she had this coming. Heresy or not, she deserved what she was getting for being so full of herself with her schooling. All his life, her kind had turned their noses up at him. She was also too tall. Being tall makes women proud. Women shouldn’t be taller than men.

He tore off what remained of her chador and its cowl. Long brown hair, now matted, tumbled over her cheeks. He next peeled off two more blood-stiffened garments until her thighs and her buttocks were bared. She was heard to whimper softly as he did so. This is good, he thought. She still feels.

He raised the cable and was about to strike when there came a loud knock on the door. A familiar voice called, “Open up.” He threw back the bolt and to the sergeant’s dismay, the old mullah had returned, and with a visitor. The mullah saw her nakedness. He averted his eyes, but the visitor did not. The visitor made a hissing sound through his teeth. His look was not one of approval.

“This man has come,” said the mullah, his eyes still cast downward, “to question the heretic and those others. He is a guest of the Guardian Council.”

A guest of the Council? Not some minister; the Council. This man must be important indeed, thought the sergeant. Unlike the old mullah, he was dressed in western clothing. His dark suit fit him well and it didn’t look cheap. Middle aged, maybe fifty, but no middle aged belly. Eyes gray. Like his hair. Hair cut by a barber. Not Iranian probably. Not with a necktie. Here, you don’t see many neckties.

The mullah spoke as if reading his mind. “This is Doctor Sadik. He is a leader of Hamas. He is helping to stamp out the heresy.”

Hamas, thought the sergeant? Why should this concern Hamas? Their business should be killing Jews.

The man hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman. He asked, “Did Mansur know that this was being done?”

A high mullah, thought the sergeant, called by his last name? Does this man have so little respect? The old mullah answered, “He was not to be burdened. This is a small matter. Besides, he’s been away at a conference in Tabriz. He is not to return until tonight.”

“Still, I’d asked that no further injury be done. I didn’t come here to question a corpse. I had asked that she get medical attention.”

The mullah answered, “She is not here to be healed.” He asked the sergeant, “But why is she exposed?”

The sergeant quickly draped the torn chador over her. “It was only for a moment,” he said to the mullah. “It was to see if any of the cuts are too deep. She shouldn’t die from loss of blood before confessing.”

The Hamas man muttered an expression of doubt. It was in reference to the excrement of cows. The sergeant knew that his word was being impugned, but worse, that his skills had been doubted. He felt the need to show this man from Hamas that the use of the lash was an art. He reached to pull up the hem of her chador, revealing a portion of her lower back that remained almost free of cuts and of welts. He stepped back while flexing the cable.

“This whip is heavy,” he said to the visitor. “If you’re a doctor, you should know that it could crush the liver and also maybe rupture the spleen. This could cause much bleeding that is hidden. This is why,” he said, pointing, “I am careful where I strike. Upper back, her legs, the soles of her feet. These won’t kill her so quickly, but they are no less painful. Believe me, if they know, they will talk.”

Sadik could hear the voices of the others down the hall. They were weeping and praying for the one to be lashed. Some were calling her name, saying, “Farah, be brave.” Others were cursing and insulting her torturer, telling him that he is shit on a shoe. Such insults caused this runt of a sergeant to smile. He knew he’d change their tune soon enough.

Sadik stepped closer to the girl on the bench. Except for a slight rise and fall of her chest, she hadn’t stirred since he entered the chamber. The wire whip, he saw, had done far more damage than this imbecile jailor had supposed. True enough he’d focused on her upper back, but it had shattered several ribs and crushed her scapula. The flesh around those wounds was necrotic. So was the flesh of her buttocks and thighs. He wondered whether her mind was still capable of even understanding his words.

Sadik asked the Mullah, “That’s the question. Does she know?”

The mullah was dismissive. “She knows gossip. She knows lies. But when lies become heresy, hell awaits all who…”

Sadik raised a hand. “Let’s try a simple yes or no. This young woman believes that the wife of the Prophet is reborn and will come from the West, does she not?”

The mullah’s hands went to his ears. “This is heresy.”

“Well… yes. We all know that. Aisha’s not coming back, but…”

The mullah turned away, his hands still at his ears. He said, “You must not speak that name.”

Sadik closed his eyes. This mullah was a blockhead. It seemed useless to point out that million’s of Iran’s women were already speaking that name to each other.

He said to the old Mullah, “I must speak it one more time.” He gestured toward the young woman named Farah. “I’m told she’s been in contact with two girls, two sisters, who have fled your country and have claimed to be with Aisha. Two sisters named Darvi, correct?”

“Both like this one. Lost to God,” said the mullah.

“This young woman was their friend from early childhood, was she not? The older sister was her classmate all through school.”

“A friend does not lead you to go against God.”

“Whatever,” said Sadik. “The two sisters ran off some three months ago, correct? They’ve been keeping in touch by means of the internet. Have they told this one where they are now?”

“They are dead in our eyes,” said the mullah.

“Very well. They are dead. But where are they dead?”

“Where means nothing when one is lost to God.”

Sadik groaned. In his mind, he threw up his hands. He said, “It is my wish to question her privately. I will ask you both to please wait outside.”

The sergeant protested. “I must keep to my schedule.”

Sadik said to him, “Go. Leave the whip.”

The sergeant misunderstood his intention. “What, you want to use it? That is not how we do things.”

The old mullah said again, “He is here from the Council. If he wants to use the whip, it is permitted.”

The sergeant was pouting. He said, “At least let me demonstrate. I should show you the best way to do it.”

“I know the best way,” said the doctor.

He held out his hand and received the whip from the man who took such pleasure is using it. He lashed the air with it as if judging its effect. “Behind schedule for more whippings? Executions? Which is it?”

The sergeant said, “I have two hangings. First my lunch.”

Sadik spoke the words, “First his lunch,” to the mullah. He spoke them again, this time to himself. His face darkened; his mouth twisted; a growl rose from his throat. As it emerged, he swung the cable at the cheek of the sergeant. It opened his face, ear to chin. The sergeant’s scream was as much in surprise as in pain. He staggered backward; he cringed, both arms raised to his head. Sadik swung the heavy cable twice more. This time he struck at the elbows of the sergeant. He heard the dull pop of those bones being crushed. The sergeant, now shrieking, tried to run for the door. He tripped over tangled feet and he fell. Sadik stood over him. He struck again at both knees. The old Mullah, once again, had brought his hands to his ears and his eyes had gone wide in disbelief. Sadik approached him. He backed toward the door. Sadik seized one of his arms by the wrist and pulled it away from his ear.

“You damned fool,” he spat. “Do you think this will stop it? Whipping women to death? This is why so many hope that the prophecy is true. Some believe it; most don’t, but many hope.” He kicked at the legs of the blubbering sergeant. “Get out of here and drag this thing with you.”

Even as Sadik threw the bolt on the door, he knew that he’d gone much too far. Important or not, Hamas or not, he was still just a guest in this country. The old mullah would surely be summoning guards as soon as he recovered his wits.