The Aisha Prophecy (28 page)

He knew he ought to call Harry. Lay this out for him. Even if there’s nothing to it, a heads-up couldn’t hurt. But he’d wait to hear what Kessler has to say.

“Appearances,” he muttered. “Even where there is no substance.”

Netanya, in his mind, could see all the meetings if this prophecy should be traced to Belle Haven. Not only among the intelligence services. Not only among all the Muslim regimes and a hundred or so groups like Islamic Jihad. He saw meetings in Big Oil boardrooms as well. One theory after another being put forward as to Harry’s reasons for doing this. Assignments handed out. Task forces put together. Whatever his reasons, he’s got to be stopped because whatever he’s doing is surely contrary to this or that national interest. Or corporate interest. Or religious interest. In most countries, all three are the same. And in all those meetings not one single person will raise a hand and say, “Why don’t we just ask him?”

And this brings us to a question that is all the more basic. Is Harry even aware of this prophecy? Possibly no, but just as possibly yes. He avoids the Middle East, but he keeps up to date. He’s probably wondered where it came from himself, never dreaming that the source might be under his nose.

And that Aisha might not live to reach sixteen.

He picked up his phone and punched out a number. It rang only once. Harry’s voice came on.

He said, “Yitzhak, you just caught me. I’m on my way out. But I bet I can guess why you’re calling.”

TWENTY SIX 

It was nine in the morning before Haskell realized that the mogul and the banker had betrayed him. The mogul had the trots. Couldn’t come down to breakfast. That was the story that the banker had returned with.

He’d asked the banker, “Any sign of Howard Leland?”

The banker answered that the mogul said he’d gone jogging.

“He saw Leland go out?”

“About an hour ago, yes.”

The mogul said he’d gone for an early stroll himself and he saw Howard Leland come down the front steps dressed in his old Princeton sweatshirt and shorts. He was heading toward the old logging road.

Gone jogging? Really? With a head that must be pounding? He’d been over served, as they say, last night while laughing it up with that canoe group.

The banker said that the mogul was surprised as well. The banker stifled a belch as he spoke. He said the mogul could see that Leland was hurting. As Leland went by him Leland smiled a rueful smile and said to the mogul, “Never again.” He didn’t stop to explain. The mogul said there was no need. He knew a hangover when he saw one. Death warmed over. Pallid even with his sunburn. Hair askew, unshaven, well, you’ll see for yourself. He should be back before long. The banker said, “If I were Leland, I’d stop at the fitness center and try to sweat it off in the sauna.”

The banker belched again. It was followed by a fart. The banker said, “Oh, my. I hope I’m not getting it.” He asked, “Last night, did you have the oyster stew? No you didn’t. But we did. That must have been it.” The banker was squirming. “You’ll have to excuse me. Oh, my. I hope I make it up the stairs.”

Haskell had to hand it to him. It was a good performance. The logging road was one nice touch to his story. It formed a loop. One could jog it and be back within an hour and a half. An hour had passed. Half an hour to go. The idea was to get him to sit for that long waiting for Leland to return. He’s still not here? He’s running late? Perhaps he did stop at the fitness center. That was another nice touch.

Haskell did get restless. He did take a walk. He walked to a point where he was able to see both the logging road and the fitness center. No sign of Leland. He turned back toward the cabin. The lobby was empty; there was no one at the desk. The clerk who was normally there at all times must have eaten the oyster stew as well. He climbed the stairs and, moving quietly on the carpeting, he approached the door of Howard Leland’s Room 3. He listened, heard nothing. He knocked lightly. No answer. He turned the knob and stepped in.

And there was nothing. No Leland. No befouled Saudi prince. And, of course, no suicide note. No bent shower head, no damage to the plaster. He touched his thumbnail to the plaster. It was still soft. No luggage, no clothing, the bed freshly made, fresh linen, fresh towels, the scent of pine disinfectant. The roll of toilet paper folded neatly to a point. A fresh terry robe on its hanger. He felt sure that there would be no fingerprints either. Only his own on the doorknob.

He took a single Kleenex from its dispenser. He used it to wipe the door’s outer knob after he had closed it behind him. He stepped from Room 3 to Room 5 farther down, the room of the missing Saudi prince. He used the Kleenex again to open the door, but he already knew what he’d find there. Not a thing. Another freshly cleaned room. No bottles of Jack Daniels sitting on the wet bar. No sign that there had been a recent occupant.

He went on to Room 7, that of the mogul. This time he didn’t bother with the Kleenex. No mogul, but his personal effects seemed all there. The room hadn’t been tidied: the maid hadn’t come, yet the bathroom smelled fresh as a daisy. Some trots. He tried the banker’s room next. No banker there either. His clothing and wherewithal were still where they should be. Except for his laptop. No laptop.

He recalled the banker’s story of one of the workers who got himself hung from eave. The mogul had seen him, found the vision indecorous, and placed a call to the maintenance chief. No more worker. He was never seen again.

Good man. Well done. Haskell made a mental note. Go meet that chief before this is done with. Just the sort of man he needs on his payroll.

But the banker and the mogul. Where would they be right now? They’d be outside the gate where Leland’s Lincoln was parked and where Leland’s security team has been housed. Leland wouldn’t have called his two agents just yet. He’d still be listening to whatever proposition the mogul and the banker were presenting to him. Would they have shown him the note? Almost certainly, yes. And they would be saying, “This was all Haskell’s doing. We are your friends. He is not.”

See here? It’s the prince’s suicide note. Read it. You can see what Charles tried to do. See this lighter? Watch. I am now going to burn it. There. Nothing left if it. It never existed.

Except that it’s a copy that they would have burned. They would not have destroyed the original. They’d have made a color copy off the banker’s laptop, then folded it and crinkled it where the sash would have crushed it. They’d have added some facsimile of the prince’s sweat and drool stains plus some approximation of his smell. Not hard to do. Simply wipe your ass with it. Further dampen it with bourbon and voila!

They’d say go home now, back to Washington; none of this ever happened. Today’s Wednesday; this was to be your last day here anyway. You have our word that this episode will leave you untouched. Where is the prince? You have no idea. The last time you saw him was when he drove past you. As far as you know, he never came back. He ran off in Lisbon as the banker’s plane refueled or perhaps he made his dash when it reached Sacramento. Troubled man. That’s the last that’s been seen of him.

So you see? It never happened. We’ve seen to that for you. We’ll expect, however, a small favor in return. Only one. Just that disk. Then we’re out of your life. Unless, of course, you’re still interested in becoming a Bohemian. No, strike that. Bad timing. Put it on the back burner. Your comfort level isn’t what it might be.

Well, there you have it, thought Haskell. Outsmarted again.

“Or so it would seem.”

Yes, it certainly would.

“Well?

Well, what?

“What’s your next move?”

Mine? None at all. The ball’s in their court. The mogul and the banker will now come back and say, “Yes, Charles, we’ve done this and it’s for your own good. We still need each other; we can still work together, but from now on we’re doing things our way. You’ve lost it over this whole Kessler business and you don’t understand men like Leland.”

He’ll let them talk. He might even let them try it their way. It won’t work, of course. They’ll get nothing from Leland. Howard Leland now has a five-hour plane ride during which to gather his thoughts. Will he be grateful to the mogul and the banker? Perhaps just a bit. For the first fifteen minutes. Then he’ll realize that those two would have at least made a copy. It will sink in that he can now expect to be blackmailed for as long as he is of the slightest value. He’ll get back to Washington at around dinner time and will probably run straight to Roger Clew.

He’ll unburden himself. He’ll tell Clew all that happened. He’ll recite the contents of the prince’s note, especially the part that threatens to bring the wrath of Islam down on Belle Haven, Virginia. Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that conversation.

Will Clew alert Kessler? Of course. He will have to. What will Kessler do? Come after Charles Haskell? No, not for another ten days at least. Not while the Bohemian Club is in session. He’ll wait. But well before these ten days are up, he’s going to have much bigger problem than this. Whistler’s house is likely to have gone up in flames.

But how will that happen if the damning document is now in the hands of Leland’s protectors? The mogul and the banker will keep it for themselves. They’ll say, “Charles, you can’t have it. You’re out of control.” They’ll say, “Look at you, standing there talking to yourself, reciting our lines, putting words in our mouths. No fair. You must try to listen.”

Well, no. They won’t say that. Do they know that he does that? No matter. They’ll have plenty more to say.

And, indeed, he will listen. Very calmly and politely. The mogul will say, “Howard Leland will play ball. He’ll get us the disk and wash his hands of the matter. He’ll do so because I have won his trust, which is something that you could never do.”

The banker will say, “He really has no alternative. It’s the price of our silence and a small price to pay. If this became front page news, humiliation aside, he would have to resign in disgrace.”

The mogul would add, “I know that you don’t understand this, but a man like Leland would never permit his family name to be stained. He’d no longer be welcome at his clubs.”

Would the mogul actually say that? Yes, he probably would. Yada yada yada yada yada.

He, Charles Haskell, will be hard pressed not to say to them, “Guess what? That note? The one you let him see you burn? The one whose original you’ve stashed away someplace? Well, you saw what a mess the prince made as he was writing it. If you think that one’s bad, you should see the first draft. Yup, he wrote it twice. I kept the first one.”

They won’t believe it, so he’ll show them. “See all the scratch-outs? Twice as many on that one. More words misspelled. More gauges through the paper. I wanted something more legible, but now that I think of it, this one looks even more like a suicide note written by a desperate drunk.”

Well, he won’t show them all of it. Perhaps just a glimpse. The first one did go a bit over the top. While he was dictating that one to the prince, he was extremely pissed off at Elizabeth Stride. He’d promoted her to Nasreen-in-Chief. He named her as first among the lesbian whores who corrupted and then murdered nice Muslim girls so that they’d be her sex slaves in hell when she got there.

But even the prince had trouble with that one. He’d asked, “Who is this Elizabeth Stride?”

“Never mind. Just write it. She deserves it.”

The prince said, “This is true if she’s a lesbian whore. But you say that in hell there are sex slaves?”

“It’s in the hadiths. Volume three, I believe.”

“In my life,” said the prince, “I have never heard this.”

“Your clergy has been keeping it quiet.”

“So in hell, whores have whores? This means women for women?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, they’re all ugly and diseased.” He could have added, “You’ll see for yourself in ten minutes,” but that would have ruined the surprise. The prince started to write what he’d said about Stride. Haskell stopped him. “Scratch that out. We’ll take care of her later.”

Pissed though he was, one ought to be fair. Yes, she’s fucking Kessler or at least one assumes so. Making bad choices doesn’t make her a whore. And maybe what’s between them isn’t sexual at all. More of a partnership. A union of convenience. Perhaps they even have separate rooms. Perhaps Kessler doesn’t sleep in the main house at all. Perhaps she has him sleep over the garage.

“Charles… get a grip.”

“This is none of your business.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to listen to it either.”

“But you see what she does to me? How she gets into my head?”

“Take a deep breath and focus. Keep your eye on the prize. Let’s get back to your two friends who betrayed you.”

Yes. You’re right. Where was I? Oh, yes. After he’s shown them parts of the note, he’ll show them all the pictures that go with it. Yes, he has photos. About fifty in all. Yes, he broke the rules. He brought a camera to the Grove. Couldn’t help it. It’s part of his cell phone.

Yes, still again. He’d brought a cell phone to the Grove. Rolled up in a pair of white socks just in case. Hundreds of members must have done the same thing. Just be sure it doesn’t ring and don’t be seen using it. The prince did and look where it got him.

Stupid shit.

What was it Leland said? “You’ve insulted a prince.” That shows how much Leland knows about princes. This turkey was a prince because his father was a prince. No intrinsic merit there. It’s an accident. Six thousand Saudi princes, but let’s break that down. Take any group of six thousand men. Take their average I.Q. and fully half, minus one, must be below average in intelligence. The lowest tenth will be functional illiterates. If they weren’t princes they’d be sweeping the streets.

Another tenth of any group, especially this one, will have serious personality disorders. The full range of sociopathic behavior. Pathological liars. Inveterate sneaks. Sexual predators of every stripe. The full range of all the other perversions.

No big surprise there, but how about this? Another tenth will be atheists. Twice that number, agnostics. All day long over there it’s Allah this and Prophet that and kneeling on their prayer rugs five times a day while many don’t believe a damned word of it. It’s not hypocrisy, though. It’s called going with the flow. When in Rome and all that. Another tenth or so are going to be gay although none, of course, will come out; they’d be beheaded. Most of the rest will jack off watching re-runs of Baywatch except when they’re flying up to Cairo or Marbella to bang every blond hooker in sight.

How did he get on this?

Oh, yes. The dead prince. Lowest tenth.

One wouldn’t think that it would have been so hard to starve a brain that small of its oxygen. Haskell thought he’d never stop bucking and kicking. On the other hand, we mustn’t be too hard on ourselves. It was, after all, our first strangulation. The sash wasn’t doing it. He’d needed a lever. He’d looked around for something to insert in the loop. He saw that dumb little trophy that Leland had won for blasting away at clay pigeons. He dragged the prince within reach of it. Not the ideal shape, but it did the job. The prince’s sounds were reduced to a squeak.