The Aisha Prophecy (34 page)

THIRTY THREE 

Clew was waiting on the tarmac with his Lincoln stretch limo when Harry Whistler’s Gulfstream rolled to a stop near one of the more distant hangars. Clew stepped out of the limo, his briefcase in hand, drumming one finger against it.

There could be no mistaking Harry Whistler’s several aircraft. They all bore his initials in red trimmed with gold. On the Gulfstream they stood five feet high. Nor was there any mistaking Harry Whistler when he appeared in the hatchway. A great bear of a man with a Hemmingway beard. Wearing a blazer the same shade of red, monogrammed of course, blue pants, western boots. All this topped off with a Tyrolean hat that had a silver medallion on its side with a fan of feathers rising out of it. He’d worn that same hat all the years Clew had known him. Fifteen years now. Even then Harry Whistler had been larger than life. Deliberately and enjoyably so.

He was preceded down the stairway by one of the twins. Either Donald or Dennis. No way to tell which. Tweedledum and Tweedledee, always identically dressed, choosing clothing that would make them barely noticeable depending on where they were working. He knew that he probably would not see the other, or, if and when he did, he still wouldn’t know which. The other would probably stay out of sight and make his own way to Belle Haven. They seemed half Harry’s size. He’d heard people call them “cute.” But they were utterly devoted to Harry and just as utterly deadly. Especially the one who you always failed to see because you were watching the other.

The next man out, close behind Harry Whistler, had to be Rajib Sadik of Hamas. He had the look of a fifty-ish business executive except for a considerable stubble on his face that looked like about a week’s growth. No, not a businessman. Clew had almost forgotten. Sadik was a doctor, a surgeon. He’d emerged with his medical bag in one hand and only a toiletries case in the other. He must not have had much time to pack.

Clew had thought he looked familiar when he saw the photos his researcher had gathered. Now even more so, seeing him in the flesh. But Clew still couldn’t place where he’d seen him before. Most likely in some earlier briefing on Hamas.

Harry Whistler approached him, Sadik at his side. Harry did the introductions. Sadik offered his hand. As Clew took it, Harry was watching his eyes for some sign that he recognized Sadik. Harry’s look seemed one of amusement.

Harry settled the question. He said, “Yes, you’ve met. Dinner party. Geneva. Twelve years ago. Kessler knows him, too, even back before that. Stride met him later, but she wouldn’t remember. She was mostly in a coma at the time.” He touched a finger to two spots on his abdomen. “My friend here dug two bullets out of her.”

“Wait a minute,” said Clew. He was looking at Sadik. “Yes, I remember. Weren’t you Harry’s doctor?” The name was Emil something. It wasn’t Sadik. It was a Swiss name. Or German.

Harry said, “That’ll keep. We’ll get caught up soon enough.” He gestured toward Clew’s briefcase. “Done some homework?”

“Oh, indeed,” Clew told him. “I’ll have to go through this with Kessler and Stride, but we have forty minutes; let’s use them.”

He signaled his driver who was also his bodyguard. The driver opened the limousine door.

Harry and Sadik both sat facing forward. Clew took the seat opposite, facing the rear. The twin sat up front with the driver. Clew had opened the electronics-laden work table that folded out from under his seat. He drew a micro disk out of his briefcase and inserted it into the work table’s slot. He played both recordings that he’d made.

The first was the one he’d already sent to Harry, his first conversation with Leland. It was filled with speculation, short on hard information. He’d hesitated before playing the second, the one that gave the text of the suicide note, the one in which Leland said he’d have to resign. Harry told him, “No secrets from my friend here.”

“Well, he’s also a friend of Yitzhak Netanya, to say nothing of Abbas Mansur of Iran.”

“As for Netanya, this cat’s out of the bag. As for Mansur, we’ll deal with that later. Go ahead and play the tape, Roger.”

Clew did so. Harry listened. When they got to the wording of the suicide note, Harry had him back up and repeat it. Clew said, “I’ve transcribed it. I have several copies.” Harry said, “I still want to listen.”

He heard all the names of those accused by the prince. He asked, “No Elizabeth? Why no Elizabeth?”

“No idea,” said Clew. “But your friend here’s dead meat.”

“We’ll deal with that as well. Play the rest of the tape.”

Next came Leland’s recital of the names of the conspirators. He said to Clew, “I assume you have files on these three.” Clew patted his briefcase. “Right here.”

Harry took a moment to chide Sadik. These names were what Sadik had promised Netanya as the price of Netanya getting him to Belle Haven. Harry said to him, “See? We didn’t need you after all.” Sadik answered him, saying, “You will.”

Clew had already reached into his briefcase. He took out his Beretta and set it aside. Sadik eyed the weapon with distaste. Clew drew out three folders. “I have more than names. I have the whole lives of all three.”

In fact, he’d brought dossiers on more than the three. He also had a file on Rajib Sadik, but that one was considerably thinner. No reference to any past connection with Harry. No reference to him ever being… Emil… Emil…

Freundlisch? Yes, that was the name he’d heard in Geneva. Dr. Emil Freundlisch. He remembered.

He said to Sadik. “Aren’t you Dr. Freundlisch?”

“Sadik. Dr. Rajib Sadik.”

“So you’ve converted to Islam?”

Harry raised a hand before he could answer. Harry said, “Long story. I’ll fill you in later.” He tapped the work desk. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Clew set down the three folders facing Harry and Sadik. Each of them had photographs clipped to its cover. He said, “I didn’t have time to put these on a disk. Otherwise I could have shown them on the limo’s computer.”

“This is better,” said Harry. He spread them out side by side.

Harry touched the first of these with his finger. “Charles Haskell,” he said. He was talking to Sadik. Haskell was posing in a hardhat and jumpsuit on one of Trans-Global’s offshore rigs. It had been clipped from an annual report.

Clew told them, “That one’s the best we could find. These were pulled together quickly. We’re looking for more. I don’t think he likes to be photographed.”

Harry Whistler asked Clew, “Have you ever met him?”

“Not really. He’s shown up at a couple of receptions at State. He didn’t pay any attention to me. He was there to get his hooks into Leland.”

Sadik asked Harry, “You’ve not met him either?”

A shake of the head. “But I know his reputation. Let nothing surprise you with this one. He rewrites the book on abnormal psychology. Some say he’s bi-polar. Some say that’s too easy. Some say he’s not real. That he invented himself. And in doing so, he’s managed to purge himself of all ethical and moral restraint. Utterly dogged in pursuit of his goals, even those that he has little chance of achieving. I’m not sure what drives him. I don’t think it’s greed. I rather think… never mind. Let’s go on.”

Sadik said, “Wait. You have an insight? Please share it.”

Harry Whistler rocked a hand. “This is only my impression. I think he does what he thinks Charles Haskell would do. I think there’s still someone else in there someplace.” He paused. “But that’s no insight. We all do that, don’t we? We are what we’ve become, but we still have our longings. Forget it. Not helpful. Here’s the next one.”

He moved his finger to the photo on the second dossier. “Huntington Bentley, the media giant. His papers reach much of the literate world. His radio stations reach those who don’t read. Haskell uses him, but he also uses Haskell. Egocentric. Very much an elitist. Count on him to look to own interests first. He’ll follow Haskell, or not, as it suits him.”

“And this one,” said Sadik, pointing at the third photo, “is the banker who came to Riyadh with the prince. Sir Reginald Leeds. This one didn’t impress me. I’d say he’s the weak link of the three.”

Sadik spoke to Clew. “All three are now at the Bohemian Grove?”

Clew nodded. “And they’ll stay there, cloistered, while this thing blows.”

“Cloistered?”

“No communication with the outside, the better to disclaim any knowledge of what happens. We probably can’t get at them, if that’s why you’re asking. Not even on suspicion of murdering the prince. All we have on that is the suicide note and its wording exonerates Haskell.”

“And… your estimation of Haskell’s intentions?”

“My guess? Try a trade. The original for the disk.”

“And failing that?”

“Either way, he’ll still publish it. He hates Kessler. He hates Harry. He’ll tell Bentley to run it on every front page and most people who see it will believe it. If Bentley should balk for whatever reason, he can splash it all over the internet himself.”

Sadik nodded, agreeing. “To the whole Muslim world.”

“Sure,” said Clew, “but don’t think only Muslims. To all western governments, all intelligence agencies. It is in their urgent interest to find out if it’s true that we, all the people named in the note, are behind the social upheaval that’s happening where most of the world’s oil is. And that’s just about the prophecy. There’s also the ten billion. The Saudis are going to want their money.”

“Which Kessler has,” said Harry, “according to Yitzhak. Kessler only learned he had it this morning.”

“But on a disk,” said Clew. “On some sort of record. He doesn’t have the actual money.”

“The actual money’s a few key strokes away. The point is that, right now, only he can get at it. He could also, if he chooses, make the money disappear. Gone in a blink. Unrecoverable. You’ve heard the expression, a finger on the button? That’s a hell of an insurance policy.”

“And he’ll need it,” said Clew. “But don’t count on it buying more than a few days once Haskell releases that suicide note. Belle Haven will be swarming with reporters, federal agents, dozens more from foreign intelligence services, to say nothing of the curious who might come by the busload.”

Did he say the curious? How about the religious? A Blessed Virgin outline appears on some wall and hundreds of people flock to see it. How many would come to see Mohammed’s wife reborn? How many would call her a pretender, a heretic, and see it as their duty to kill her?

“Which reminds me,” said Clew. He reached again into his briefcase. He drew out State’s copy of the Bahrain Tribune. He opened it to a page that he’d marked with a post-it. There, in vivid color, centered on that page, was an artist’s impression of Aisha and Qaila with a heading that asked, “Is She Coming?” Aisha sat astride a camel that was pawing the ground like a bull getting ready to charge. She was clad all in white head to toe. There was Qaila, hair on fire, eyes on fire, sword on fire, hovering above and behind her. The rest of the page contained dozens of comments, pro or con, many heated, from the web sites.

Clew asked Harry Whistler, “See anyone you know?”

“I’ll be damned,” said Harry. “It’s them.”

He was looking at the faces of Elizabeth and Aisha. Not some artist’s impression.

Their actual faces. In Elizabeth’s case, it was a bit less precise. You’d have to catch her in one of her don’t-fuck-with-me moods to see the face shown in this drawing. That of Aisha, however, was near photographic. Those big eyes, those high cheekbones, the set of her mouth. Eyes looking right into your soul.

Harry seemed dumfounded. “How could this be?”

He touched a finger to one side of her face. He said, “See this dimple on her left cheek? The artist got her right down to that dimple. Wrap a white turban around our Aisha’s head, extend it under her chin; she’s dead-on.”

Sadik, yet to meet her, asked Roger, “This is true?”

Harry answered for him. “It’s true.”

Clew drew their attention to a small notation at the end of a column of comments. “This says that the drawing is based on descriptions by women who claim to have seen them.”

Harry seemed doubtful. “That would make these composites. These are way beyond composites. This would almost have me believing.”

“Can this car go any faster?” asked Sadik.

THIRTY FOUR 

On returning with Aisha, approaching the house, Elizabeth watched for the black pick-up truck. She didn’t see it, but she saw something else. A gray van, tinted windows, was coming from the opposite direction. It had a plumbing firm’s signage on its side. She thought that it was moving just a little too slowly, a few miles under the limit. Service vehicles usually move with dispatch when going from one call to the next. The two men in it were faced straight ahead, so they weren’t driving slowly to spot an address.

On the other hand, it probably meant nothing at all. It passed her. It kept going. No increase in speed. Jumpiness did not become her.

Two minutes later they were inside the gates, gathering their Lord & Taylor shopping bags. It was almost four o’clock. Harry would be arriving. She wanted to see what else Martin had learned.

To Aisha she said, “Honey, take these bags to your room. Try on some things. See what suits you.” They’d bought the black dress and the black high-heeled shoes. But Aisha seemed embarrassed when she saw herself in them. Wearing heels took a little getting used to as well. So she ended up with two alternate outfits. One a pretty yellow sheath that was much less revealing. The other was called a safari ensemble, with a belted beige jacket and brown slacks with patch pockets. Elizabeth would have bought that one for herself if Aisha hadn’t got to it first.

She said, “Bring Shahla with you. She’ll help you decide. When you’re ready, I’ll come in and fix your hair.”

Once inside, Shahla didn’t need to be asked. She saw the bags. She mouthed the words, “Did you buy it?” Elizabeth answered with a nod and then a shrug to convey that the issue was not yet resolved.

With that set in motion, she climbed the main staircase. She cleared her throat to let Martin know she was home if he hadn’t already heard the chime that rings when the front gate is opened. He hadn’t. Moreover, he was still in his robe. He and Rasha, who had dressed in a turtleneck and jeans, had pulled two chairs up to the computer.

“Hi,” they said in chorus without looking up.

“Hi, yourselves. Aisha’s done. What’s new here?”

Kessler touched a few keys. “Not much, I’m afraid. Rasha has been trying to identify those accounts that she knows to be legitimate Islamic charities. She was able to point out quite a few that she remembers, but there must be a hundred she’s not sure of.”

“So there’s no way to well which ones have been skimmed?”

“Assume all of them,” he told her. “Even Sadik’s. His clinics, by the way, aren’t lumped with Hamas. That way none of it goes to the militants.”

“Perhaps.”

Kessler turned in his chair. He seemed annoyed that she was doubtful. He glanced at Rasha in a way that suggested that he’d have more to say to her in private.

Elizabeth asked, “Any more about Niki?”

Rasha said, “She’s been crying on and off since you left. She’s in the library. She hasn’t stepped out. I brought her my kitten and the litter box, too. I hoped that you wouldn’t mind.”

Nice thing to do, but more than she deserved. Elizabeth didn’t say that, only thought it. “I was asking about all these emails she’s sent.”

“Nothing new there. A lot more of the same. Except…” He hit some keys. “Who is Bernice Barrow?”

“Bernice? She runs the office at the tennis academy. Niki’s been emailing Bernice?”

Kessler shook his head. “More the other way around. Bernice only wanted to send Aisha a gift. Had you given this Bernice our address?”

“Not the street address. Harry’s post office box. And only to Bernice. She’s reliable.”

“Even so…”

“Martin, I had to have a way to get mail. My house is being sold. There would be documents to sign. Then there’s bank statements, credit card bills and the like. I used to have a life down there, you know. All of your stuff can go through Harry’s system. Mine can’t.”

He raised his hands. “Easy. No argument from me. If Bernice sent a gift, we’ll have to pick it up tomorrow. The post office closes at five.”

She softened. “You’re right. That was a mistake. I could have rented a box a few towns away.”

“No harm done,” he told her. “How is Aisha?”

“Not as scared. Right now she’s got her new outfits on her mind. Shahla’s with her. She’s helping her decide.”

Kessler turned to Rasha. He said, “Would you please excuse us, my princess? I would like a few minutes with Elizabeth.”

He said to her, “Those bullets you took. That drive-by in Romania by those Hezbollah gunmen. You know how close you came to dying.”

Her hands, involuntarily, went to her abdomen. She said to him, “Martin, that was twelve years ago. Why would you bring that up now?”

“Do you know who saved your life?”

“You did. And you found them.” She folded her arms. “You threw their leader out of a hotel window. What is this? Have I never thanked you?”

“You have. In your fashion. In many ways. But I didn’t save you. All I did was get help. That help was provided by Harry Whistler. He flew down from Geneva with a surgical team.”

“I know that. I’ve thanked him as well.”

The chief surgeon’s name was Emil Freundlisch at the time. Do you remember anything about him?”

A shake of her head. Only drug-befogged images. She asked, “Martin, where is this going?”

“Emil Freundlisch, my darling, is now Rajib Sadik. At some point he decided that he’d done enough patching of Harry’s ever-widening circle of friends. He gave up his practice. He joined Doctors Without Borders. His work with them eventually took him to Jordan and from there to Hebron on the West Bank. That is where he decided that he was most needed. He and Maryam both. Maryam is his wife. She was part of your surgical team. Her field is obstetrics/gynecology.”

“Why…” She stopped herself. So many questions. “Why have you never told me?”

“Two reasons. First, there seemed to be no point. It wasn’t likely that you’d ever see him again. Second, when you were on your way to recovery, you were told that he had to remove more than bullets. You were told that you could never bear a child of your own. Your reaction to that was understandable, Elizabeth. It was also extremely ungenerous.”

She knew what he meant. She’d blamed the surgeon, not the shooters. She remembered that she’d called him a butcher. He had neutered her. He had defeminized her.

She said, “A good surgeon… should have put me together.”

“And you see,” said Kessler? “A third scar remains. I’ve wondered whether your altered condition led to your maternal behavior toward Aisha. Whether I’m right or wrong, that was only for the good. The two of you needed each other.”

“Was… Sadik a Muslim when he operated on me?”

“He was, and, yes, he knew who you were. He could have let the Black Angel die. No one would have been the wiser, even me; I was watching. Instead, he and Maryam worked for nine hours to save your life and to try to save the rest of you as well. If there was a way, they would have found it.”

She was silent for a moment. She still hadn’t quite absorbed this.

“By the way,” said Kessler, “What does Freundlisch mean in German?”

“In German? I believe it means friendly.”

Even as he spoke, she remembered her Arabic. “Sadik,” she said. “It means the same thing.”

“And perhaps that’s how you’ll treat him when he gets here,” said Kessler. “He is very much my friend. He should be yours.”

Elizabeth wanted to admit that he’s right. To assure him that none of those ill feelings remained. But she knew that she still was enough of a woman to ache inside for what might have been. She knew that Martin was right. The scar remains.

She said, “Isn’t it time you got dressed?”

Rasha was waiting near the top of the staircase. She said, “May I speak to you, Elizabeth?”

She looked at her watch. “Sweetie, I’ve got an awful lot on my mind. Could it wait until…”

“It’s important. Two minutes.”

Rasha sat down on the carpeted step. She gestured for Elizabeth to sit with her. She did. Rasha said, “I brought my kitten to Niki because I heard her crying. I heard her saying ‘I’m so worthless, I wish I could die.’ She’s really very sorry, Elizabeth.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Not this time.”

Rasha picked at some cat hairs that had clung to her turtleneck. She asked, “Do you think Shahla’s pretty?”

“What’s that got to do with…? Never mind. Yes, I do. I think she’s a handsome young lady. And bright.”

“Niki isn’t as bright. And she isn’t as pretty. I mean, she’s not homely; don’t mistake me. She would have a nice face if she could manage to soften it. And she’ll lose the weight. She’s still growing.”

Elizabeth sighed. She started to rise. Rasha reached for her hand to keep her in place. “When she was only twelve she heard her father tell her mother that he would never find a good husband for her. If he did, the payment would be very small and the husband would be of no importance. The father never spoke to her except to belittle her. He made it clear that she was unwanted and that no one else would ever want her either. He’d say that Shahla was at least worth her keep.”

“Worth her keep because…?”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“You’re right. We needn’t. Go on.”

“It was more than that,” said Rasha. “He’d demean her to everyone. And I heard this from Shahla, not from Niki. If you grow up believing that you have no value, you do things… I don’t know… to get attention. It’s sort of like it is with those suicide bombers.”

“Um… that’s apples and oranges. Rasha.”

“Yes, but okay… I’m just making a point. Not many of them do it for those seventy-two virgins or whatever silly things some clerics promise. Muslims aren’t all stupid. We know bullshit when we hear it. Excuse me, I should not have used such language.”

“You’re excused. What does this have to do with Niki Darvi?”

“Believing that you’re nothing. That you’ll never be anything. The people who recruit the suicide bombers understand this feeling and they use it. They’ll say you’ll be remembered. You will have mattered. They’ll hang posters with your picture all over your village saying what a hero and martyr you are. They’ll tell you that people will brag about knowing you. They’ll name children after you. They’ll name a street after you. And you want that. You want to have mattered.”

“Yes, I know. We see the same thing over here. That’s why some kids walk into their schools and start shooting. It’s not just that they snap. A lot of hatred builds up.”

“Yes, of course,” Rasha answered, “but hatred of whom? Of everyone who has more? Or is it hatred of themselves for not amounting to more. That’s what my mother thinks. I’ve seen it myself. No one ever forgets even small humiliations. But most, even you, don’t go out looking for revenge. Certainly not against the innocent.”

“Glad you added that last part,” said Elizabeth.

“We’re not shits. It’s because we’re not shits.”

“Um… Rasha.”

“That one’s okay to say, is it not? Isn’t it one of your slogans?”

“I wouldn’t call it slogan. It depends on the context.”

“Well, the context in this case is not holding grudges. My own father never wanted a daughter either, but I had my mother and I had friends in school and then I had Aisha and the Nasreens.”

That, and being a princess, thought Elizabeth. A princess rates quite a few perks.

Rasha read her mind. She said, “I know what you’re thinking. But my title was my only value to him. He was giving me in marriage to a cleric of some influence who had promised, in return, to get his income increased. Niki Darvi wasn’t worth even that. Not even the Nasreens wanted Niki.”

Elizabeth said, “Granted. She’s had a tough time. A lot of us have. We get over it. Didn’t you?”

“No, but I’m trying. So is Niki. Aren’t you?”

Great kid, thought Elizabeth. With a very big heart. But there such a thing as being too damned perceptive. She took her hand back from Rasha. She rose to her feet. She said, “I haven’t decided about Niki.”

“There’s one other thing that I’ve wanted to say to you.” Rasha pushed herself up as well. “It’s about Muslims in general.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“They’re not all like my father. They’re not all like Niki’s father. Most are very decent. Most love their families dearly. And most of them believe, or want to believe, that there is one God who cares about them. Do we understand everything? No, Elizabeth, we don’t. We just live our faith the best we know how.”

Elizabeth said to her, “There’s one thing I’ve wondered. I assume that your mother’s marriage was arranged.”

“At fourteen. A year younger than I am.”

“To a prince. Her family must have gotten a deal.”

“There is always a contract in such cases.”

“Fourteen, though,” said Elizabeth. “Only a schoolgirl. How did she manage to get educated? How did she become so fluent in English that she later went on to teach it?”

“Because she too had a family. It was all in the contract. Her family believed in education for women. Her family saw to my education was well. My father had no choice but to permit it.”